Just sitting…

Just sitting on this mat,

my mind like a Cat.

Is herding cats quite possible?

I ponder; be philosophical!

Just sitting…

Just sitting on this mat,

my mind like a Puma.

Sleek and slick and lurking,

my fantasies still flirting!

Just sitting…

Just sitting on this mat,

my mind like a Tiger.

Hunting prey and stalking,

when do the thoughts stop talking?

Just sitting…

Just sitting on this mat,

my mind like an Ocelot.

No reason to this rhyme,

but to highlight I cough a lot!

Just sitting…

Just sitting on this mat,

my mind like a Lion.

Ferocious and unstoppable,

Enlightenment quite possible!

© The Cat sat on the Mat 12/03/2012

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Tick tock, tick tock,

my mother’s watch,

upon my arm,

tick tock, tick tock.

It shouldn’t be here,

it should be there,

I have her face,

I have her hair,

tick tock, tick tock.

The time flies by,

I grieve each day,

bequeathed to me,

time slips away,

tick tock, tick tock.

I smell the strap,

for scent of her,

but ‘tis long gone,

no trace is there,

tick tock, tick tock.

Our hands the same,

as time moves on,

just memories,

her voice is gone,

tick tock, tick tock.

The days slide by,

my treasured piece,

reminds of times,

and death’s release,

tick tock, tick tock.

Each tick from you,

I further slip,

each tock to you,

a step I skip,

tick tock, tick tock.

Tick tock, tick tock,

my mother’s watch,

upon my arm,

tick tock, tick tock.

© Mother’s Watch  07.02.2013

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Britannic Ladies Watch…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A lady of a certain age,

adjusts her wardrobe,

to engage.

According to her needs;

to please her comport,

and ease discomfort.

That’s why I am,

wearing big pants today;

in order that I can,

Keep warm my back,

and show no crack –

the days long gone,

of scanty clad,

and frilly frills,

dressed to thrill,

send passionate pulses

palpitating – No!

I’m wearing big pants today,

and – just in case…

Of what, I know not,

I’ve packed two extra pairs!

 

© Big Pants 2012

By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

English: Drawing of cat wearing pants (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Escher de carbón y caramelo (Photo credit: Greg Planchuelo)

I do not like this place.

I don’t belong here,

the stench of death pervades,

yet outside the sun beats down,

hotter than the promised hell.

I do not like this place.

Relics of a bygone day,

guilt and blame pave the way,

to salvation,

but only if you are too weak.

Enough, to believe as

fear holds tight,

demanding allegiance,

to blame and sin;

dragged screaming from within,

without compassion,

or mercy,

for the weak –

End.

I do not like this place,

I do not belong here,

for the stench of death,

offends my soul.

© I do not belong here 2012

By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Church (Photo credit: Balaji.B)

I cry to the universe –

You decide!

Should I live,

or should I die?

It gives me an answer,

I can’t ignore;

so I pick up my pen,

and write some more.

With this decision,

comes peace and oneness,

acceptance of life,

which hurts none the less.

The die is cast,

but with that said,

I patiently wait,

for the day of the dead.

© Day of the Dead 2012

By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

She was a terrier of a woman,

sharp and quick;

just a bit shabby around the edges.

Always practical,

not fashionable,

but more than capable.

She wanted to be Vivien Leigh,

and in her head,

she was…

the mirror says different,

but her eyes are kind.

Make do and mend,

scuffed shoes,

and split ends,

overlooked,

a drab wall-

flower

but her eyes,

are kind…

© Being Vivien 13.03.2013

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Hollywood Gallery ~ Vivien Leigh, 1913-1967 (Photo credit: erjkprunczýk)

YORKSHIRE
by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

My love affair with Yorkshire,
is strange to the extreme,
the rain comes down in stair rods,
and puddles turn to streams.

Flint faced buildings stand proud,
the natives just the same;
hard with a directness,
reflecting poverty’s pain.

“Aye up love,” and “Ta duck,”
a mantra of the North,
a warmth and loyal passion,
found around the hearth.

Depleted coal face scenery,
ghost towns from the past,
mine the depths of politics,
betrayed by bluest lass.

Coal-dust mottled snowscapes,
contrast the wuthering heights,
bleak outstanding wilderness,
the slag heap moors by night.

My soul belongs in Yorkshire,
with Brontë, Hughes, and Moore,
this northern heart keeps beating,
‘til death doeth close the door.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I grew up in and around coal mining communities. My Grandfather, uncle, and cousins worked as miners. I saw the devastation caused in the 1980s when the coal…

Slowly, slowly, creeps the dawn,

with monstrous shapes,

and shifting form,

‘tween death and sleep,

my soul doeth lie,

this never world,

where hope does die.

Alas my sense,

it leaves me cold,

splintered spine,

as I’ve grown old

and weary of

this mortal world,

a waiting hell,

backdrop

unfurled.

The antidote

to death

is sleep –

where

Daemons

sneer, and

angels

weep.

© Hades  02.05.2013

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Hades. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Iconic charming history,

repeats the sad refrain,

as, once more, we get screwed over,

we sing along again;

the blues echo a doleful tune,

and strike the same discord,

man mines the depths of misery,

bank on, fools, gold reward!

We steel ourselves with loyalty,

patriotic to the ends,

whilst red skies scream solemnity,

we bend our plastic friends.

Ironic charnel history,

repeats the shame, refrain,

prepare to get screwed over,

as we sing along in vain.

© Striking the Blues 08.01.2013

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Pit head silhouette (Photo credit: alastairb)