Wednesday, September 04, 2019

Sadly I lost my old boy back in April.   I wrote this poem about him ages ago.



               I KNEW YOU WERE WAITING


Some were loud and noisy, standing
with paws gripped to wire,
noses forced through mesh.
Strange miaows from Snowshoes
“please get me outta here”

All endearing, all homeless,
but something lured me to the end of the aisle.
I stopped but couldn’t see you,
yet knew you were there.

I entered your pen where you snoozed, nose into tail.
Had you given up on life, or were you simply exhausted?
You raised your kind head, sniffed my hand
and stole my heart, the old boy, found by the dustbins,
with an “estimated” age.

For four months you rested and slept,
until you blinked at the warming sun
and took a tentative step into the garden,
your haven, where a ridiculous friendship
has been formed with an enormous bird of the sea,
who treats you with respect, 
as you feign the stalk of a predator,
before rolling over and pretending he isn’t there.

When you sit by the window, the sun filters through
your pink, translucent ears, and your grey and white coat
bristles like frosted fir trees.
No more rescue centres for you, my little friend, my confidante
and all because I stopped that day and looked for the one
I couldn’t see.

I knew you were waiting.




Patsy Goodsir




Tuesday, August 18, 2015

THE OLD HOUSE.

I can't believe it's more than a year since I last posted on here.



THE OLD HOUSE
How did you end up without your clothes
on a quiet back road where nobody goes.
Choirs of daffodils, are singing out loud,
remembering the days, you once stood proud.
A click of the shutter, your beauty shines through,
Oh how I wonder, what happened to you?


Tuesday, February 18, 2014

FLIGHT OF THE PHOENIX





FLIGHT OF THE PHOENIX

Without you, there is no magic

in the shadows any more.

I don’t see the cruise ship

whisking us to Madeira,

or the dozing bird of prey,

head turned into chest


but occasionally an ebony panther

creeps stealthily across the curtains

before melting to the floor,

chased by the hunters’ gun.


When our hands intertwined

a phoenix rose

soaring across the ceiling

with our hopes and dreams,

sometimes chased  by spiders,

eagles’ wings or a bobbing rabbit,

that made us chuckle with delight.


I can still make the rabbit

but the phoenix has gone,

broken, incomplete,

leaving an emotional void

to cast a heavy shadow across my heart.





SHORELINE SOLACE



 SHORELINE SOLACE 


 Let the soft breeze kiss my face
and whisper secrets through my hair
as silver sand blots falling tears and
whisks between bare toes
tempted by the ebbing tide
that snatches pastel pebbles
with a sharp intake of breath .

They clash like castanets
with rhythmic percussion
punctuated by shrieking terns,
dashing to and fro,
protecting secret nests
leaving me to my thoughts
and whimsical dreams drifting
far beyond the horizon.



A poem written about a difficult time in my life which was helped very much by the solace at a very special place : The Bothy.




LUNCH AT LOSSIE



LUNCH AT LOSSIE

One in red,
one in blue,
chitter chatter, chitter chatter,
friends forever,
no uncomfortable silence,
just relaxing chat,
neatly coiffed hair and
delight that they’ve done their bit
and retired to a life of
nice little lunches,
with neatly pressed creases
in coloured slacks and
sensible flat shoes
that don’t stress aching ankles.
Sharing the bill
til the next time
same time, same place.

A table of four makes less noise,
two generations, awkward silent,
hotching in seats, staring out windows,
watching the rigging dance in the breeze.

Between the two tables I sit and listen,
pretend to be deep in my scrawls across
a battered notepad as I
anticipate succulent white fish
cooked with butter and feel relieved that
I am as I am, alone and able to leave when
it suits,  go where I want and do as I please.