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Category Archives: Childhood Memories

Rainbow Fin

22 Friday Sep 2017

Posted by in childhood, Childhood Memories, Children's poetry, Poetry

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I had a fish called Rainbow,

the ugliest you’ve seen,

he was almost transparent,

showing heart, and spine, and spleen.

 

He seemed to live forever,

a hoopla prize, most fair,

he grew quite big and chunky,

and swam without a care.

 

He wasn’t a rare beauty,

neither rainbow,  nor a jewel,

but my little girl’s heart loved him,

he was strange, and bold, and cool!

 

He swam around in circles,

gliding through his castle scene,

and he didn’t seem to mind much,

when neglect turned his bowl green.

 

Then, one day, to my distraught cries,

and my childhood at an end,

I found him quite lopsided,

my poorly rainbow friend.

 

He’d lasted ‘til his teen years,

it was a sad old day,

when I said a few old holy words,

and flushed him clean away.

 

Goodbye! my quirky rainbow friend,

I loved you ‘til the last,

‘tis fondly I remember thee,

you remind me of my past.

 

© Rainbow Fin 10.01.2012

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

fish bowl (Photo credit: Dean McCoy Photography)

fish bowl

 

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I Am Doing This For You

15 Saturday Jul 2017

Posted by in Childhood Memories, Death, Poetry

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St Paul's

I remember you…

Your tiny frame full of fearlessness,

teaching the universe,

the ways of the warrior.

 

We met in the church choir;

I was eight and you were six.

I am white and you were black,

already born to fight life’s prejudice.

 

Even then I was frightened;

cancer had claimed so many,

but they were old,

and you were six.

 

Do you remember the wedding?

Suited and booted, in cassock and gown,

you lifted your wig,

and the horror it caused.

 

I was only eight,

but I prayed for days and nights,

that God would give me your cancer,

and let you live…

He never did.

 

I heard your story, at the end,

it hurt for you to be held,

your mummy and daddy wept

whilst you comforted them.

 

You asked them not to cry,

and you said you’d be alright.

You never came back to choir.

Not long after, you died.

 

It was at this very time,

I stopped believing in God,

he never answered my prayer,

your prayer, or theirs.

 

I still remember you…

your tiny frame full of fearlessness,

and how we giggled as girls,

when you doffed your wig to the world.

 

© I am doing this for you 16.06.2014

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Photo Credit: Dave Bevishttp://www.drbevis.demon.co.uk/CILAAA01.htm

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Absentia

28 Friday Apr 2017

Posted by in Childhood Memories, NaPoWriMo17, Poetry

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It took two bus rides to get to Matlock.

 

Panda eyed from stress and tears,

sofa surfing for days on end,

dirty, tacky, no baths,

just a lick and a spit at a strange sink.

 

Sat in a faceless office,

corporate men in their three piece suits,

reeking of gout, and blue with smoke,

lascivious, avuncular, pat on the hand.

 

You are sitting on a goldmine, one smirks.

Find yourself a rich sugar daddy.

Janis Joplin sings Summertime in my head,

as the fluorescent tubes buzz in harmony.

 

Parents in absentia,

humiliation and fear sting,

all this to get an education,

no give and take – no grant.

 

Decades on – I got my education,

 

With two kids in tow,

all off my own back, not needing

honey traps or gold spider’s webs,

I look back – I want to say –

 

I pity your wives and daughters!

Did you make them turn tricks,

to pay their way?

Or did you prey on school girls

to make your day?

 

Absentia by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

2016

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Bedknobs

03 Monday Apr 2017

Posted by in Childhood Memories, NaPoWriMo17, Poetry

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Perched one on each post,

their shifting shadows,

creeping ever closer,

along the plucked camberwick bedspread.

Four Carrion eyes –

catching my breath,

the silence before the scream,

breaks the precocious dream.

 

 

Bedknobs – March 2017

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Picture credit: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/441493569708322678/

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We Three

28 Wednesday Dec 2016

Posted by in Childhood Memories, Death, Grief, Loss, Poetry

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I originally wrote this poem for a project I am working on at the moment. Last week I found out a good friend had passed away, and this poem seemed a fitting tribute to a gentle, kind, and dear friend. Go well good friend – go well.

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We walked on the beach,

my friend, the dog, and me;

looked out to the seas,

and plotted our dreams,

my friend, the dog, and me.

 

We danced on the beach,

my friend, the dog, and me;

we thanked lucky stars,

couldn’t believe where we are,

my friend, the dog, and me.

 

We strolled on the beach,

my friend, the dog, and me,

we sat in the dunes,

reflecting on tunes,

my friend, the dog, and me.

 

We stood on the beach,

my friend, and me;

wondering where the time had gone,

and how life had moved on,

my friend, and me.

 

Looking back at the beach,

just me;

the gulls mourn the song,

of where it all went wrong,

just me — and my memories.

 

© We Three October 2016

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Pioneers

20 Saturday Jun 2015

Posted by in Childhood Memories, Poetry

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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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Sisterhood

13 Wednesday May 2015

Posted by in Childhood Memories, Love, Poetry

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Six sisters sailed into the world,

wide eyed and Brodie primed,

each on a quest and unprepared,

Pioneers before their time.

 

Some went in search of a rare red rose,

and others, too soon, gone;

they failed to find their mustard seed,

that would take them safely home.

 

Watched over by St Helena,

throughout their autumn years,

past lives and loves, and trials above,

spring cherry blossom tears.

 

Procrustean lives, we onward strive,

to be the crème de la crème,

through all the tears and ebbing years,

we’d do it all again.

 

Decades gone as life moves on,

has it been for the greater good?

The Cardinal flight, with the Spire in sight,

where we seal our sisterhood.

 

© Sisterhood 13.05.2015

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Picture Credit:https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/340373684311568750/

Puzzlewarehouse.com

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This poem is inspired by and dedicated to Ann Proctor, Belinda Foncree, Rebecca Hewitt, Josie Davies and Lynn Ankrett – Five amazing ladies, we weather the worldly winds together ❤

Heirloom

25 Saturday Oct 2014

Posted by in Childhood Memories, Poetry

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There it sat, in all its hideous glory,

a bulbous, iridescent, purple pimple,

with burnished orange tongues licking,

lasciviously savouring the purpleness.

 

It was a product of the swinging sixties,

and T. Rex glam rock seventies.

An affront to pottery, a frivolous folly;

a vase of distinction, all in the worst possible taste.

 

Not Spode, Wedgewood or even Pearsons,

She bought it from the market,

proudly placed on top of the mdf bookcase

with glass sliding doors.

 

They  laughed, teased, insulted

the garish, gaudy, clay monstrosity.

Moved from shelf to side, hidden,

it was always restored to centre stage.

 

Too overpowering to hold delicate blooms,

too selfish, not wanting to be outshone,

it beamed and blinked on the mantle,

in the flickering light of the TV.

 

House move to house move it survived,

always her pride – in the room left for best,

until she died,

then wrapped in yesterday’s old yellow news;

locked away, denied, a taboo.

 

One day – somehow, remembered fondly,

revived, the story of Grandma’s vase,

unlocked, unpacked, grieving done, decades gone,

it sees the light of day, and has its place in the sun.

 

Handed to me, a keepsake, a memory,

an heirloom from Chesterfield market,

it now sits comfortably – retro;

proudly wearing its purple and orange coat,

a model of perfection – ahead of its time.

 

© Heirloom 06.10.2014

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

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I Am Doing This For You

15 Friday Aug 2014

Posted by in Childhood Memories, Death, Poetry

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I remember you…
Your tiny frame full of fearlessness,
teaching the universe,
the ways of the warrior

To see the full poem click on this link

Photo credit: courtesy of Ancestral Archives of Derbyshire

Hazelhurst

27 Sunday Apr 2014

Posted by in Childhood Memories, NaPoWriMo, Poetry

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hazlehurst

 

 

 

 

 

 

I could never live,

in a red brick house,

with frilly nets,

that pucker and flounce.

 

With rooms so square,

shaped like a box;

oh no! not me,

give me stone and rocks.

 

Victorian aged,

with features so old

flag stone floors,

that strike up the cold.

 

Stone inglenook fires,

glowing embers and coal,

black basalt hearth,

to bear my soles.

 

Mullioned windows,

shutters and sash,

transom light, stained,

carved fine mountain ash.

 

A long sweeping drive,

to a panelled oak door,

proud portico porch,

chequerboard floor.

 

Orchard and lawns,

domed topiary box,

walled kitchen garden,

growing herbs, veg, and stocks.

 

That’s my dream house,

from my sepia past,

how I long to be there,

and remain everlast.

 

 

© Hazelhurst 04.12.2012

By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

 

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