Tag: SimonDenegripoetry

Old Boy (Hamish)

Old Boy
I shall miss your snores 
From beneath the dining room table, 
Between the larder and the front door. 
Their low mumble through the wall -
The sound of a continuity announcer on Radio 4. 

Old Boy
I shall miss your meet
And greet, with wagging tail. 
Your dolphin nose nudging my thigh, 
Leading me away from the open sea, 
To calmer waters, the safety of the shore.

Old Boy
I shall miss that long 
Sigh and those puppy eyes,
Your shoulders slumped and head hung low,
As if you have never been less loved in your life,
While loitering near to where the treats are kept. 

Old Boy
I shall miss you lying
In the middle of the kitchen floor, 
Immovable, inconvenient, oblivious, 
To the humans stepping over you, 
Like clumsy astronauts walking on your moon.

Old Boy
I shall miss that noble,
Gentle, heart of yours, 
In that lumpy, bumpy body
Held aloft by those stiff old joints, 
Trembling with every step.

Yes, old boy, I shall miss you. 
It’s been the best of walks. 


May 2022

As it should


A little before 
Half-past five on a Sunday morning,
The nursing home phoned to tell me 
My father had died at precisely 5.13am.

I remember thinking, 
Is it still ok to send him my love?
But it was a short conversation
And there was no more to be said.

As I lay back in bed,
The rain fell.
A short, sharp, Spring, shower. 

I remember thinking,
I wonder if the soul 
Is like the rain in reverse, 
Pixelated silver drops rising.

Then the rain stopped  
And the dawn chorus resumed. 

I remember thinking,
I wonder if that is the angels
Singing for my Dad as he arrives
At the pearly gates. 

But it was simply the 
World turning,
As it should.

May 2022

Rock Steady

A shoogly table. 

I look to see if the floor is uneven
Or one table leg shorter than the others.

While you place your soft, grey, leather glasses case
Under one foot.

To steady us both.


May 2022

Winchelsea Beach

Setting off down the beach 
We slip and slide, 
On the slow, ancient tide of shells and stones
That shifts beneath our feet.

While puppet-string gulls
Dance on the wind, 
And rod-and-arm ships line up astern against 
An early sky.

Then hit our stride, piston legs
Perfectly in time,
The shingle making the sound of pulsing steam
With every tread.

Soon it is time to sit and eat,
Catch our breath, 
While lazy teenage squalls skulk, late home
From a night offshore.

Each of us coveting the smooth
Marbled pebbles, 
In our pockets, now cherished memories set free 
From here, for evermore.


May 2022

Kent and Sussex Poetry, local poetry, winchelsea

, , , ,

Truth

This was written at the time of the first lockdown in March. Somehow still seemed relevant.

For once, it was true,
We could see as far as the eye could see.
Further than the all too familiar roofs, to the ridge
Beyond, and the one beyond that.
Like waves waiting their turn at the beach.

And the scent of spring flowers and
Cherry blossom was carried with ease,
On a gentle breeze and settled on our clothes.
Where it stayed until we reached our front door,
And the stale smell of a life spent indoors.

And we realised that all the things that we
Had said then, had been lies. And that how we
Had said them, had also been lies. To ourselves,
To our loved-ones, and to our friends.
Because we had not known life like we do now.

So who has been more unmasked, I ask?
Is it mother nature freed from the greasy man-made haze,
Her breathing unobstructed by our grime.
Or is it our lives and how we have chosen to
Pretend, pretend, pretend.


	

	
	



				
					


	
	

		
On Bidborough Ridge
	


		

		

Another poem inspired by my local area with references to Bidborough, Southborough, the Downs and A21!





On Bidborough Ridge

My heart lies in the hammock of this green valley
It’s gentle sides I pull about me on my return,
Grateful for its soft embrace and the chance at last,
To rest, far from the world I once devoured,
Before it turned on me and then took chase.

The field where I fumbled through my teenage years
In golden nests amongst the hay -I heard not long ago, 
she had passed away – 
The white bell-tower of my old school
From whose negligence I made a full recovery.

But today, when I climbed to the high ridge
And looked below, at the remnants of that
Which I used to know, beneath this sky
That silk screens the clouds, I saw
Nothing beyond the road that slips
Beyond the dusty evening Downs.

An unknown future beckons and I am reluctant,
To follow, an old dog dragging behind its master,
Beneath St Peter’s clock which has been three minutes late,
Ever since they bound and gagged,
Our churches with black tape
And the birds became our evensong
In a clear cathedral sky.

This land
My comfortI shall gladly take
But I am no fool, this is my end
There are no pastures new.


July 2021















	

	
	



				
					


	
	

		
The art of sweeping leaves
	


		

		
Some fetch a rake and broom,

A rusty dustpan and old brush,

Two wooden boards of equal length,

And choose a frosty afternoon

To gather the harvest’s golden blooms.


Others make mounds of good intent

But lazily leave them to brood

All winter in the corner of their yard,

A flat black patch of mulch and mould

The crumpled cloak of a stricken villain.


My Dad would make a bonfire

And let me stoke the flames with questions

As numerous as the autumn colours,

Together we would watch them climb

Through the empty trees unanswered.


Now I find myself sweeping

All before me, with one hope only,

That the wind will catch these leaves

Until their blades are spinning free

Like Latin dancers, and with them me.


Simon Denegri

January 2020