I remember the daily grind through the Peaks;

from Hillsborough to hospice.

Morphine induced twilight hours,

brittle brown heather hair,

cascading watery cataracts,

crashing, weeping, winding.

I know each bend like the veins in my hand;

the outcrops and falling rocks.

Spray from the lorries,

thrown up, muddy teardrops,

sliding down the windscreen,

breaking limits, breaking hearts.

This is the road to hell.

© Death of a Minor 24.05.2014

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Photo credit : photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/romeo66/2101025633/”>Romeo66</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a>

They called you ‘big Dot’,

and I was ‘little Dot’,

you hated that.

Remember when,

on Christmas Eve,

chickenpox struck

with great malaise?

Granddad came to visit me,

and how he laughed,

and how he teased,

‘spotty Dotty’, he would say.

Remember the day, he came to play,

in his best green polka dot shirt?

‘Who’s spotty now?’

I shouted out loud.

You hit me,

it hurt.

© Dorothy 14.11.2013

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

In the midst of life

we are in death

clinging to tracts

as we let go of breath

Moros by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

2016

Picture Credit: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/381820874641860209/

I fill the world with words

so you can’t find me

in a tangle of text

hiding in lex-

-ical tom

foolery

silently

spoken, yet

shards in the heart

worlds far apart from

where I retreat to sanctuary

© Tomfooleries 14.07.2013

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Good news!

The paperback version of Counting Magpies is imminent! I will also be releasing a limited edition edition. The limited edition will contain three bonus poems and will be signed by my own fair hand. If you choose, I will also hand write one of my poems of your choice inside the book.

In the meantime here is a poem from Counting Magpies – a sneak preview!

Click on the picture of the book to take you to Amazon.

War Child

War child, far child,

not in my back yard child,

foul flies, infesting eyes,

freely grief is advertised.

Blasé news, propaganda views,

stretchered to the blues and twos.

Feuding plans, dividing clans,

charity absolving man.

Splitting heads, landmines, legs,

rubberneck, the child who begs,

behind the eyes, traumatized,

rape and murder legitimized.

Arms and gear, year on year,

dealers, spreadsheets, profiteer,

bankers, warlords, politician,

making schisms, capitalism.

War…

Sat here writing,

drinking a brew;

weaving words,

for a poem, or two.

Feel my craft,

a magical spell,

casting its net,

as you sample my hell.

I’ll spin you a line,

to make you feel good,

a twist at the end,

to chill the blood.

© Friday Night 2012

By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Betwixt and between,

the poem and the dream,

the light and the night,

flows the unconscious stream.

Words play in my head,

from the land of the dead,

the stars and the moon,

hold the gossamer thread.

© Gossamer Dreams 11.02.2013

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Photo Credit – unknown – if this is your picture and you want it removed or credited to you, please do not hesitate to contact me.

This is the final piece from the poetry workshop. The final piece was inspired by Maitreyabandhu’s ‘The Bond’

The idea was to give a feel of anticipation of an impending visit, and use Maitreyabandhu’s closing phrase of, ‘Just the air’, within the poem.

Just the Air

All is still…

and I am present,

caught between two worlds,

just the air as our witness,

and a pillow of dreams

as darkest night unfurls.

I smell your sickly lily scent,

of cigarettes and light Chanel.

Why do you come?

What do you want?

Forgiveness or

remembrance,

from your little girl?

You left in anger

not once, but twice.

So why return

in darkest night,

when you’ve been gone,

these eight years long?

© Just the Air 22.03.2013

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

English: Moon (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The next few poems were written on a poetry day. The first poem is inspired from R.S.V.P. by Beverley Nadin. The task was to write a list of items that we packed to take on our last retreat, and then include some of them in a poem. This was my attempt 🙂

Three books,

one red, one blue, one black,

Poetry, Dharma and Drama.

A pencil and pen,

backed up with a spare,

(thank God for my Kindle!)

and a brush for my hair.

My potions and pills,

(no nightie with frills)

Just good solid thermals!

Pyjamas and socks

squashed in a bag,

and no need for locks,

as I’m escaping to freedom;

leave humdrum at home.

I’m longing for space,

and a room of one’s own.

©Three Books 10.03.2013

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Bell, Virginia Woolf (Photo credit: Wikipedia)