Tipping Sheep (the right way)

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Tipping Sheep (the right way) was inspired by my son – in celebration of his 18th birthday today, here it is again! If you would like to purchase a paperback copy of my first anthology by the same name, please contact me on worldlywinds@mail.com

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With face of delight,

my son runs to me –

I’ve tipped up a sheep,

he shouted with glee.

 

My face drops with horror.

Well how could this be?

Am I the worst mother,

has he learned nothing from me?

 

“Calm down Mother!”

my son reassures.

“It’s not as you think,”

with derision he snorts.

 

“We walked in a field,

(in the group we were five,)

saw a sheep on its back,

with legs waving at sky.

 

It soon came apparent,

from what we could see,

that the sheep was so stuck,

‘twas a strange sight to see.

 

We tried hard to lift her,

but to no avail,

she was fat, wet, and smelly,

the weight of a whale.

 

Then out of the blue,

an idea did occur,

we spread out our groundsheet,

to roll her on there.

 

With one mighty tug,

we pulled the sheet up,

and the sheep it did tip,

(the right way up!)

 

So, off with a wobble,

and a, ‘baa,’ of delight,

the sheep she then trotted –

it was quite a sight!

 

So you see Mum, it’s true,

the things I did say,

we tipped up a sheep.”

(Thankfully – the right way!)

 

 

©Tipping Sheep (the right way) 2012

By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

 

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Rumi

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Tara

I said what about my eyes?

“Keep them on the road”

I said what about my passion?

“Keep it burning”

I said what about my heart?

“Tell me what you hold inside it?”

I said pain and sorrow

He said:

“Stay with it”

 

by Rumi

Picture Credit

Green Tara – Painting by Devendra Man Sinkhwal, Nepal

http://www.tibetanart.com

Call for Submissions: My Perfect Vacation Poetry/Flash Fiction Series

Originally posted on Silver Birch Press:

journey Summer is here and people are hitting the road to enjoy some rest and relaxation — and maybe even some cultural enrichment. What’s your idea of a perfect vacation? If you’ve experienced one — tell us about it in a poem or flash fiction (100 words or fewer). Or if you’re still waiting for your dream sojourn, let us know what you envision — in a poem or flash fiction.

PROMPT: In a poem or flash fiction (100 words or fewer), tell us about your perfect vacation — real or imagined.  Please send a photo of yourself — at any age — to accompany the poem, and provide a caption for the photo (when, where). (If possible, send a vacation photo.)

WHAT: Submissions can be original or previously published poems or flash fiction. You retain all rights to your work and give Silver Birch Press permission to publish on social…

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Eight Lilies

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It has been ten years since the death of my mother. This is one of my favourite poems dedicated to her. Not a day goes by when she isn’t missed and mourned.

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Eight Lilies of remembrance,

stand to mark the way.

Eight lilies, one for each of you,

respect and honour the day;

to show that I still think of you,

though that day is done,

each lily marks a bygone past,

from a lifetime that is gone.

 

I smell their sweet thick lily scent,

It makes me think of you;

with fondest memories in my heart,

and tears that are now few.

No longer living in my world,

It is as though you’re dead.

The lilies are memorial,

to words still left unsaid.

 

© Eight Lilies 2012

By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

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Pioneers

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Pioneers

 

All the past we leave behind,

yet we carry it in our heart,

St Helena girls through and through,

as the years swiftly depart.

 

Fat knotted ties and skinny ones too,

berets and gingham, dress code rules,

regulation skirts as we kneel on the floor,

cast off our cares as we escape through the door.

 

Dungeons and turrets, paradise road,

galleries and balcony, put on a show,

keep to the right, single file on the stairs,

spiral up to the library, for she who dares.

 

Physics and chemistry, biology labs,

bunsens and tripods, asbestos slabs,

the chemical stench and old parquet floors,

roller blackboards and the fume cupboard doors.

 

Windows that stretched for miles on end,

bring new horizons, a chance to transcend,

safe haven sanctuary for those with an art,

still part of the school, yet worlds apart.

 

Art school boys installed on walls,

language labs and netball courts,

red brick history commemorates the day,

air raid shelters for those who would stray.

 

Toilets and cloakrooms, chequerboard tiles,

lurk in the smoke room and hide for a while.

Graffiti on lockers, who loves who?

Hands off! Keep out! Music allegiances too.

 

Wait at the staffroom, hover at the door,

how long do I wait before knocking once more?

Skulk to the sickroom to skive off P.E.

feigning bad cramps of our weekly monthly.

 

Boy’s Grammar hockey, excited flirting,

navy blue knickers, unflattering skirting,

frost bitten toes, don’t kick up a fuss,

changing our kit on the P.E. bus.

 

Home economics and schoolgirl cookery,

who stole the cakes? Antics, skulduggery!

Brown wicker baskets, raise a toast all around,

we never succeeded to burn the place down.

 

Stoic St Helena with her stained glass stare,

Venus de Milo by the piano chair,

red velvet curtains setting the stage,

assembly lectern for a self-righteous rage.

 

The corridor of doom led to her lair,

hand on your knee and that inimitable glare.

The end of the lesson, by bell or by gong,

ubiquitous memories of days long gone.

 

All the past we leave behind

yet we carry it in our heart

St Helena girls through and through

as the years swiftly depart.

 

© Pioneers 20.06.2015

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Photo Credit: school building and St Helena stained glass window – Claire Jones

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Cuthbert Bank

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Cuthbert bank

I am delighted that Dagda Publishing have featured one of my poems on their site, cue *happy dance*

To see the full poem follow the link below

Cuthbert Bank

 

I’d like to say a big thank you to them as they have been supportive of my work. Why not pay their site a visit, they feature some talented writers :)

http://dagdapublishing.co.uk/

Scrabble

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shattered life
thrown down in letters
spelled disaster

 

©Scrabble 01.06.2015

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Picture Credit:https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/456271005970022686/

found on downgraf.com

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Karen by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm (All About My Name Poetry Series)

Originally posted on Silver Birch Press:

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Karen
by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

She wore it and bore it,
like an ill-fitting coat,
a name duly bestowed,
from his mistress’s throat.

Obsessed by the curse,
not her familial name,
an unfortunate victim,
of his clandestine game.

Dad told her a story,
again and again,
she should have been Phillip,
not a girl, shy, and plain.

This was cold comfort,
to be given this news,
as he’d also died young,
singing the sugar blues.

The Carpenter’s coat –
she wore that one too,
a mismatched fit,
she shrank from view.

She pondered a name,
ambiguous, and strong,
a spiritual death,
yearning to belong.
As she grew older and wiser,
and tired of this fate,
tipping the scales,
the deed sealed her fate.

The mistress was smug,
as her mother boohooed,
to use her new name,
they still staunchly refused.

Karen’s long gone now,
victim, weak, and lame,
too scared of…

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Fair Days and Foul

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My tummy feels like summer,

or a giggle just set free,

like a flitter of lairy butterflies,

or a swarm of buzzy bees.

 

My heart beats to the rhythm,

of girls who jump the rope,

bouncing like a bright beach ball,

shown on some Oscilloscope.

 

My mind spins like the waltzer,

at a gaily lit up fair.

My head is full of candy floss,

and kites that surf the air.

 

If I could catch the essence,

and save a jar or two,

I’d keep them in my cupboard,

for when I’m feeling blue.

 

© Fair Days and Foul 2012

By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Picture Credit:https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/503347695827272788/

 

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My Boy

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That is my boy.

 

The one you shot,

the one you smote,

the Bactrian one

whose back you broke.

 

That is my boy.

 

The one you left

for dead in a cell,

who jerked and seized,

you thought he signed well.

 

That is my boy.

 

The one who is Deaf,

frogmarched and chained,

not understood,

his language restrained.

 

That is my boy.

 

The one who is ill,

as you bore down on his chest,

you broke his heart,

along with the rest.

 

That is my boy.

 

The one who is black,

the one who is white,

the one left hanging,

in a cell out of sight.

 

That is my boy.

 

The one you shot,

the one you smote,

the Bactrian one

whose back you broke.

 

That is my boy,

and it is your boy too.

 

© My Boy 18.05.2015

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Picture Credit:https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/306667055852311916/

Picture Credit: Found on sliptalk.com

This art installation was erected by South African artist Marco Cianfanelli, stands on the spot where Nelson Mandela was arrested 50 years ago. The monument is constructed out of 50 separate steel bars to represent 50 years since the capture.

 

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