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Thread: Submitted for your criticism

  1. #1
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    Submitted for your criticism

    A smell, a spell of weather
    Just the same
    And there she lies.
    My mother, withered
    Shrivelled in her bed.
    Though long years lost,
    I see her still

    At cricket with the kids.
    In crosswords sunk.
    Exchanging cross words
    With some old drunk.
    Indomitably defending what she held
    Most dear. Unending
    Stacks of books and no clear
    Space to sit or swing a cat.
    Cheerful, brave, alert
    And independent. Fat
    As butter, fit as a cricket.
    At seventy, relegated
    To wicket-keeper.
    Lack-of- sleep-er
    Through the World Cup season.
    November makes me sad.
    She’s the reason.

  2. #2
    Maybe YesNo's Avatar
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    Nice remembrance of your mother. The rhyme held it together.

  3. #3
    Registered User prendrelemick's Avatar
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    That's my mother.
    ay up

  4. #4
    It wasn't me Jerrybaldy's Avatar
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    It's a good poem I enjoyed it but there is no need for the last line. You have shown us that all the way through. No need to tell us at the end.
    Best wishes
    JB

    For those who believe,
    no explanation is necessary.
    For those who do not,
    none will suffice.

  5. #5
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    Quote Originally Posted by prendrelemick View Post
    That's my mother.
    Then I make you a gift of the poem.

    I don't think my mother was unique in her attitudes though there aren't so many women who sit up for weeks watching the soccer from Europe and drag themselves off to work getting blearier eyed every day.

    Quote Originally Posted by Jerrybaldy View Post
    It's a good poem I enjoyed it but there is no need for the last line. You have shown us that all the way through. No need to tell us at the end.
    Best wishes
    JB
    I appreciate the feedback. It feels unrounded without, and I have never been good at the cliff edge ending. But I see what you are saying, and I will tinker.

  6. #6
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    I used to send my heart across the sea.
    Notional fragment of me
    Flapping wildly against gales
    To light in your dovecote.
    Safe. Warm. Welcome.

    Today I sat beside the silver sea,
    Next to the raging waves and felt
    My heart sit leaden, lumpen within me.
    Imprisoned where the wind won't find it.

    Kinship bond with the Mutton Bird
    Who, isolated from his kind,
    Exhausted from a flight too long
    Dropped to earth to end his time.
    Lucky wee sheerwater, being dead,
    You never felt your heart pecked from your breast.

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