Every year the snowdrop comes.
Only one,
beside the tree
that stands close by my window.
By this I know that spring is here.
Along the river, far away,
I’ve seen them grow in swathes and banks.
They stand in crowds,
in shivering ranks beside the waters margins.
I don’t walk there anymore
but I do remember,
when I see the single flower
that stands beneath my window.
© A.Chakir 2023
Breathe deep the gathering gloom,
Watch lights fade from every room.
Bedsitter people look back and lament,
Another day’s useless energy spent.
Impassioned lovers wrestle as one,
Lonely man cries for love and has none.
New mother picks up and suckles her son,
Senior citizens wish they were young.
Cold hearted orb that rules the night,
Removes the colours from our sight.
Red is grey and yellow white.
But we decide which is right.
And which is an illusion?
Penelope Prichard planned a grand party
she pondered upon who best to invite
‘only the best of the gentry delight me’
she thought to herself as she pottered about
and there must be pies of impressive proportions
plumped up with partridge, pheasants and phish
(spelled p-h- plus ish)
(Penelope never learned to spell anything totally right!)
she wanted to make an impact in her own social class,
and make it quite fast,
whilst denying the fact she was lonely
plenty of party food must be procured
there must be beer, and wine,
champagne and cider
something to suit every visitors taste
apples and artichokes, custards and cakes
delicious delicacies
edibable sculptures of jelly and ice
fancies and folderols,
grapes and …. oh,
to avoid a whole alphabet,
or a preponderance of p’s,
lets just say, everything nice !
so she collected her purse
and wore her best hat
bustled about
said farewell to her cat
and without further ado
trotted off to the shops
on her way she passed Peter
who lived by the docks
i have to admit
he wasn’t well dressed
his hair was a mess
he played a good flute
but to own a good suit
was beyond his reach
to tell you quite frankly
he resembled a person
who sleeps in a ditch
suffice it to say
Peter, quite simply,
had never been rich
he had a liking for Penny
he thought she might be
the sort of woman
he hoped she might be
the sort of woman
he probably needed,
one he could love,
but their eyes never met
he knew she was older
there was nothing from her
he expected to get
but he liked her walk
he liked her hair
he just wanted to know her
to meet her and talk
to get to know how she thought
she wasn’t playing hard to get
to her he didn’t exist at all
he was zero, nada, nothing, nought
he wasn’t a man who could pass her inspection
he wasn’t the type to invite to her house
she’d think his manners were sure to be bad
she never one glanced in his direction
this made Peter feel sad
her disregard made him feel small
he thought he had nothing to offer
nothing she’d want, nothing at all
but on her way back from the shops
Penelope suffered a terrible fall
she tripped on the curb
her shopping was scattered
she couldn’t get up
everyone passing by just ignored her
one of two stared but walked straight by
peoples reaction left her shattered
she couldn’t believe that nobody cared
but Peter rushed forward
and held out his hand
pulled her up
helped her to stand
gathered her shopping
spoke to her kindly
brushed her down
she looked in his eyes
he was smiling at her
he had held her hand
she couldn’t remember
the last time
she’d been touched
she found her self
not wanting to leave very much
she looked at him then
she didn’t look at his clothes
or his hair,
or his youth
she suddenly found
she didn’t care
he carried her shopping
back to her house
she canceled the party
she made him a meal
and now Miss Penelope
Miss Quiet as a Mouse
sings in the kitchen
and dances with him
and she’s learned how to feel
and less how to grieve
and Peters her lover
and he’s not going to leave
when a wolf howls it’s answered
answered by many wolves
the voices of many wolves
repeating back from the hills
but you,
poor fool,
poor human
you can howl
and howl
no answer
echoing back to you
it’s you
and the empty hills
you and the moon
that’s all
silent as the inside of a turtles shell
lost on an island, washed by no wave
the question is how to swim back
when you’re cut off, alone and adrift
you might think its lonely,
you could say that it is,
but if it was wouldn’t I speak
not sit here sadly quietly withdrawn
don’t reach your hand inside my armour
i have waited far too long to be touched
nothing’s within todays carapace
you won’t find me there, so try not to look
Four cottages stood in a silent row
out on the windswept lonely moor.
People came and people went
but no one came to the old mans door.
The old mans home stood empty now
autumn leaves littered the floor
a smell of must hung in the air,
winters damp and lack of care.
Seeking a home I entered in
Knowing nothing at all of him.
Like an intruder i climbed the stair
to a room, quiet, stark and bare.
An empty bed, the covers pulled back
an empty chair, a water glass
half full, a film of tired dust.
A hollow, a dip at the pillows heart,
round imprint of a sleeping head,
all that is left of the old man, dead.
He lay alone for two long weeks
abandoned in his silent bed
the wood is dark with threatening trees
every time i look they are closer
though i never see them moving
i have been trying to find the path now
for a long lonely week or longer
i lost count of all time and direction
if the breadcrumbs we dropped ever existed
they are not to be found any where now
eaten by hungry birds for survival
does the witch of the wood really exist
she may have been killed long long ago
or is her house in the next clearing
is the cage baited with sweet delights
is the clang of the trap waiting ready
are her fires well stoked for the roasting
in the dark i stumble over ancient roots
twigs snatch at my hair like gnarled fingers
in darkness there is only despair
The Dreaming Path 