Monday, 10 February 2014

BRING ME NOT FLOWERS...







BRING ME NOT FLOWERS...

.....when I am gone,
for I will not know their fragrance..
Weep not at my grave
for I can not wipe away your tears.
Say no kind words for I will not hear.
Come now, hold my hand,
let me see your smile..
hear your voice and share your laughter,
for still I breathe, still I'm here.
Be not afraid of my passing,
it's just another journey
I'll not go alone
for your love will be with me
and I will be in the arms of all who have gone before.

 (c) Crissouli Feb 2013

Thursday, 6 February 2014

CAN YOU HEAR ME, SWEETHEART?





CAN YOU HEAR ME, SWEETHEART?



Can you hear me sweetheart as I lie here in the mud

The birds so sweetly singing as they wander in my blood

All around me smoke is rising and I fear I shall not see

Golden hair upon my chest again, as you snuggle close to me.

Weep not for what we will not have, but please, my love, rejoice

I would not want your tears to fall or hear quivers in your voice.

Sing to me my darling, it will help to ease my pain

Call to me, my loved one, let me hear you once again.

Soft kisses to our baby girl, may she grow to be like you

Please tell her Daddy loves her, and loves her Mummy too.

Take my heart within you, as you live for you and me

Do not dwell in sadness for what can never be.

Know that I will always love you, wherever you may go

Rejoice for we had one year of happiness, and we loved each other so.

Chris Goopy (c)  April 2009


The first two lines were from a poem by my friend, Frank Cassidy...
I wrote the rest without ever having read his entire poem.





image

IS ANYBODY LISTENING?









IS ANYBODY LISTENING?


Can you hear me, are you listening?

I know I'm still the same inside
I get muddled and confused 
and I know I remember everything
sometimes, on some days, somehow…
So, I don't know whether I've taken my tablet,
nor can I remember having breakfast
but I remember the soft, still light of dawn.. 
I remember greeting you for the first time
holding you in my arms, it was you, wasn't it
born on a still autumn morn, 
dark haired and with the tiniest fingers..
It was you, your mother cradling you in her arms
looking even more beautiful than ever..
and crying, I remember the tears, 
her tears, for her own mother would never hold you, 
never share her dreams for you.

I'm sorry I asked you that same thing so many times
but I can't remember your answer 
for more than a moment, maybe two
… will you be home for dinner? 
What time did you say, when… when will you be home?
Have I taken my tablet? I can't remember…
But I do remember your mother's beautiful voice
as she sang an Irish Lullaby
was that to you or one of the others…
maybe to all of you, each of you, others.
What will I cook for dinner, when will you be home?
Please don't get angry, I can't remember
When will you be home?


What's for dinner? Is it ready, am I cooking?
Who cooked dinner, when will you be home…
I can hear my voice, I know I can't remember
but I haven't forgotten the laughter
that wonderful, gentle laughter that ended in a burst of sound, 
then tears rolling down her cheeks when she couldn't stop.
Where's your mother, I can't find her
Please bring her home, where's your mother now?
I need to talk to her, where is she? 
tell her I'm waiting for her… will she be back soon?
I need her… 
is anybody listening?


© Crissouli 2013

OUTSIDE, LOOKING IN






OUTSIDE, LOOKING IN

Peer as I might, I cannot see
I cannot enter that distant world
There are glimpses now and then
That beckon me
They come to tease me
They taunt and pester.
"I am not gone
I am not going
I am here. 
Do I not look the same
Am I not talking to you
Sitting with you
Can I not ask you questions?"
And then you do, again and again
Wanting answers, not hearing
Not accepting, ask again.
I mourn, I curse the silent thief
That takes you day by day
But, not yet, you still are mine.
I'm outside, but I'm looking in.

© Crissouli 2013




Wednesday, 29 January 2014

FOOTSTEPS OF MY PAST






(c) John Mayer





FOOTSTEPS OF MY PAST


'tis the green hills of Ireland that call me home
for they hold the footsteps of my past.
They protect the very souls of my ancestors
the essence of my being, my Mother's family.
She so longed to visit the land she called home
to feel the mists upon her face
and the wind in her hair.
She longed to walk the lanes her Mother did
as a young girl growing up in Clare..
to hear the laughter and the songs
the brogue that sweetens the very air.
She dreamt of peat burning in the hearth..
family she never knew, welcoming Biddy's girl.
She wanted to tell them her Mam never forgot
and that she was happy in her new land she called home…
that she and her sister, Molly, kept the old stories alive
that they sang the songs of their birthplace…
But it wasn't to be, my Mother left us too soon 
as her Mother had left her.
I will go home for you, my dear Mother
home to the green hills of Ireland you loved to call home.

 © Crissouli Jan 2014

Monday, 11 November 2013

THOSE WITH NO TOMORROWS

Frank Hurley
29 Oct 1917 copyright expired




THOSE WITH NO TOMORROWS

Can you hear the footsteps
of all those weary souls
traipsing over sodden fields
with worn boots and socks with holes...
Can you feel their heartache
so far from hearth and home
many looking for adventure
as foreign lands they were to roam.
One by one, they ventured forth
at first, their heads held high.
One by one, their mates did fall
they knew their time was nigh.
On and on, they fought so brave
for freedom was their goal.
Those with no tomorrows
did give their very soul.

(c) Crissouli 2013


LEST WE FORGET




Sunday, 22 September 2013

BEAUTIFUL MEMORIES


BEAUTIFUL MEMORIES

Artie's... Artie Shaw's band
evoking memories of a bygone era…
was life really so simple then?
"Blowing bubbles… in the air…"
The melodious warble of a clarinet
the rise and fall of perfect notes
swirling skirts of crepe - de - chine
tantalising snatches of fragrance
from bruised corsages
and perfumed hair…
carefully pinned and rolled, 
or gently waved
with the help of sugar and water.
Bulky suits, double breasted,
wide lapels,
pleated and cuffed trousers
and always, shining shoes.
Greasy palms, partly from anxiety
partly from pushing back brylcreemed hair.
Sawdust on the floor
fresh flowers mingling with half filled ashtrays..
huge bowls of punch
secretly laced with alcohol
by foolhardy, fancy free boys…
A furtive embrace
on moonlight swathed balconies…
The young, trying so hard
to look sophisticated -
the sophisticated -
 trying so hard to look young.
Cars with running boards,
lamp lit avenues, lined with trees,
and shadows…
the beckoning welcome of a light
shining through velvet draped windows.

Beautiful notes, beautiful music
beautiful memories.

© Crissouli



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