Poetry is a Performance Art

A poem can change your life.

If you can dream

and in the dreaming hold your vision,

allow yourself belief,

be not afraid

All you imagine can be made reality.

Choose from your dreams

with wisdom what in life to hold

and having chosen

carefully

never let your passion for the dream

grow cold.

A poem can change your life but although I would love to see books of poetry in every household, I do firmly believe that poetry is a performance art and, ideally, the poem should be recited by its creator.

The poem above is available on a poetry card. Please check out my other lenses to see where you can buy it.

I have decided to publish some of the poems I have written over the last 40 years in a Squidoo lens and may at some point in the future combine some of my poetry with the images I use on my greeting cards in order to publish a book.

Squidoo readers will be the first to know when this comes about, until then, I welcome your feedback.

I will add to this lens over time to build up a collection here. Poems may appear in any order and I will probably change the order at times depending on the poems I add. Don't just look at the last entry for the new poems ... they might sprout anywhere in the list :-)

All poetry and images included in the modules on this lens (except any in the guest book area) are the copyright material of Katherine Carington Smith (also known as 0ctavias0fferings) and may not be copied, stored or reproduced in any form without the prior written permission of the author.

You'll also find some more of my poetry and the poetry of others here.

I love Squidoo lenses. I think they're a great way not only to advertise your wares but also to give readers a deeper insight into what goes into creating everything I do.

Poetry is a Performance Art by Katherine Carington Smith is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 UK: Scotland License.
Based on a work at www.squidoo.com.

Clouds

... completion of a circle

Eternally joined
Two flowing together,
become one.

Stream becomes Ocean.
Clouds rise.

And somewhere on a distant hillside
I am falling
once again
with you.

Beyond

... for those who go before us

A low sun striking through the trees,
casts bar-code patterns,
spindly birch, stout sycamore,
ford the air across the path,
scattering themselves,
mottled images in a peaty burn
where fallen leaves,
streams of golden pennies
chased by blood-red hands,
confront the sky
sunk beneath.

Fish swim through mud coloured clouds,
brown fish in brown water,
but I have seen you on a clearer day
without the dirty wash
imposed on you by storms,
refracting rainbow shimmers
my eye almost caught,
saw you fly, meeting swallows,
crossing the barrier of two worlds
with ease.

I still see you, cloudless
beauty untroubled, undiminished
by the year's decay.

You swim in all our muddied depths,
shrouded by the torments
sinking us beneath our own surfaces
where clarity is thickened
by the colour of our fears,
but when air stills
in the warmth of a benevolent sun,
you fly, arching skyward
in half-glimpsed silent brilliance.

You are all our souls.

Dawn Thought

... Midsummer morning, early

Summer dawn whispers
pales eastern stars sighing
on the air
the year turns.

Wednesday Isn't Baking Day Anymore.

... a monologue.

I wonder who knows the British actress Patricia Routledge (probably best known for her portrayal of Hyacinth Bucket - pronounced Bouquet), it's her voice I imagine delivering this poem as a short monologue ...the scene - a prim and proper older lady, sitting on a park-bench style seat, with her tweedy coat (brooch on the collar), neat hat, gloves, scarf, court shoes (all complementing each other perfectly) and a small wicker shopping basket ...

Wednesday Isn't Baking Day Anymore.

Remember my steak and kidney?
You always liked them best, you said,
Looked forward to Wednesdays.
Your little pie girl, you called me.
I can't recall the reason ...
it was always baking day, Wednesday,
regulated life ... gas mark seven.
Habit? Leftovers to be used up?
So long ago, so many years,
memories scrimped and saved.
If I could have them in a pie,
one slice a day to eat,
I'd be living forever to finish it.

One potato, four ounces of steak, minced,
a French Fancy from the baker's, tea-time treat.
I still look up at half-past five
but it's been a long time since
the pastry-warm kitchen opened its door,
pie-crust gold, to welcome you.
Never mastered the art of pies for one.
I looked in there the other day.
The oven's full of dust, you'd never think!
Where's it all come from?
I'll be here again tomorrow.
Dust to dust. They'll put me in a pie,
one day.

Sometimes poetry comes to me in that way. A scene pops into my head and the poem comes, almost fully formed, along with it.

The same could be said of the poem below, Water of Life. It also arrived more or less fully evolved into its dark depths.

Life itself is a poisoned chalice. None of us knows what it holds and it can take the strangest twists and turns. But even in its worst moments we may learn more, grow more if we have the will to persevere.

The extent to which our pain can hurt us is limited by our own determination.

Water of Life

Water of Life

Now question not the logic
nor pause to think
but take this poisoned chalice to your lips and drink,
in its depths all pleasure
and all pain
will burn through stomach, heart and brain,
illusions, dreams and hopes
meet with despair
and fears of every kind encounter there,
yet knowledge, strength and wisdom
here are gained
and from its darkness flowing unrestrained
a light more brilliant
in the contrast clear,
the tree which bore the fruit still growing there.
Life's quintessential essence
here contained,
so cup the chalice 'til the drink be drained.

Anything can inspire poetry. Whatever is influencing my life at any time may find itself the subject of a poem.

Moving house overtakes the thoughts to such an extent the boundaries become blurred and concerns about all those dumb details intertwine with the creative urge.

The Moving Writer Writes.

... written in 1996 while moving house

The Moving Writer Writes.

I'm not really writing,
Instead my notebook is full
Of room measurements,
Drops and widths of curtains,
Reminders of what to do,
Who to meet or 'phone,
Four letter curses, exclamation marks,
Underlined, double underlined
In order of importance,
Ticked off.

And I am moving house,
It's wearing my pen out,
DIY diagrams,
Words I don't normally employ,
rawl plugs, masking tape
Not usually paid homage by me,
Skills I must learn to use
Differently.

Everything needs to be done
And I haven't moved yet
But in my wordsmith's imagination
Chaos has already turned to beauty,
Perfectly formed, mahogany, Lapis blue,
Crushed strawberry, gold,
Music gently dancing in firelight,
Crudeness transformed to poetry.
I'm not really writing,
I'm too busy living the words

New to Me

And then just after moving in.

New to Me

A place for everything,
everything in its place,
- this could take years
to become reality.

Room by room
rearranging, recreating
images from my mind,
a little straightening,
the house and I adjusting
to each other.

It's beginning to like
my taste in décor,
the way I do things.
It gives me peace in return.

It's a good house,
it and I will get on well
together.

Poetry is often very personal, what happens in our everyday life inspires us and, yet, at times we may find ourselves struggling to express the emotions.

The first poem below took 14 years to write, the two which follow took minutes.

What the poet hopes is that the expression we find meets recognition in the heart of the listener / reader.

For Rosie. For Love.

... written for someone very special to me but may touch the feelings of anyone who has lost a special someone.

For Rosie. For Love.

Time doesn't heal,
the scars remain,
thin self-deception covering
a chasm, an abyss
waiting the unexpected
enforced moment's weakness.
Inevitable reminders cast
unanticipated,
striking like lightning,
repetitions of the past.

Time doesn't heal.
We tolerate the pain
until one morning
with life's bitter kiss
we wake, senses unwound.
That which, untended, festered,
suppurates distress,
deepest passions with cold clay
unreconciled.
How can so many years have passed since yesterday.

Time does not conceal.
Let me explain;
it's not all sorrowing,
there are times I miss
the beauty of our bond,
laughter unrestricted,
sparks of tenderness,
yet time's passing cannot harm
memories harvested
Where seeds of love were sown.
Still only yesterday you were in my arms.

The End of Term Concert

... first written 1994 ... a bit of fun and aren't most children's elementary school plays a bit like this

The End of Term Concert

I was proud of you, my little pirate,
strutting up and down the stage,
pretending you were Captain Jack
in his terrible, fearsome rage,

although the singing was quite awful
and percussion out of time
and someone introduced new wording
when they forgot the magic rhyme,

and we weren't supposed to laugh at Andrew
when he tripped over on the 'deck',
causing, slightly prematurely,
a spectacular, if unplanned, shipwreck,

and we all felt for little Katie
when, struck with panic, dumb with fear,
she, quite deserted by her memory,
exited stage left in running tears,

never mind, she'll have all Summer
to get over her distress,
and every one of us, proud parents,
enjoyed the concert neverthless.

Mother's Pride

... or Through the Crack in the Door

This poem was written in 1993 for / about my son.

Mother's Pride.

This snooker table, fiver at a car boot sale,
hosted the hush-toned final
of your first major tournament.
The battered tin tray prize hung
on this last pot. Hendry to play.
Cue struck ball, breaking slow silence,
the soft-toy crowd's hissed breath intake
betrayed his miss.
In muted crescendo of anticipation
your mesmeric commentator's voice
portrayed near impossibility.
You stepped up,
opening the wardrobe door to line up the pot,
executed your winning shot to cheers.
Hendry shook your hand, the glory yours.

As sunset gilded you I watched you score
the winning goal for Scotland (against England)
against the pebbled wall while I sewed patches
over the holes in your dreams
where poverty wore them thin.
But you never seemed to mind,
never complained if you did.

Not understanding, accepting disappointments,
my fallibillity couldn't always provide.
your imagination covered shortfalls.
found fun making new of second-hand,
you never asked for more,
when there wasn't enough to eat
magically weren't hungry anyway.

Your strength, self-sacrifice,
unselfish self-sufficiency,
eight magnificent, vulnerable years of age,
how much you could teach (and did).

Pride is a knot in my neck
where love meets tears.
You deserve better prizes
than battered tin trophies.

Here Somewhere

... written c 1978

Tattered notebooks with ripped out pages
stretching back across the years,
scribblings of youth.
Too many dog-eared lines to read again,
too many faded words forgotten.

There was hope here once of a future,
love and pride, eagerness,
a basic instinct
etched on table napkins, driving forward
regardless, meeting life head on.

Raw anger at humanity's injustice,
paper protests charred with fear,
how little I knew.
What is the cost of lost innocence -
innocence lost too soon?

Memories sparkle effervescent,
darkness shrouds others
best forgotten
but they never can be - too painful
either to recall or neglect.

Misery extinguished all my fires,
too many sleepless nights alone
spent in the dark.
Nights to be torn up, thrown away,
if only I could.

Oh, how the hot coals of youth,
passion and pride, smouldering,
age to embers,
glow then succumb, smothered in ash.
I think mine burnt out long ago.

Lost thoughts on cigarette packets, beermats,
lost innocence gone up in smoke
or was it just mislaid?
I hope I gave it to my children,
at least, that could be where it went.

And here am I, searching my mind's wanderings,
scratchings on scraps of paper,
backs of envelopes.
What was I looking for? Oh, yes, my sanity.
Has anyone seen the matches?

A Crown of Rubies

... I guess that those of us who remember the half-crown are becoming a rare breed. When I was young, Christmas cards would arrive from unknown Aunts with small sums of money enclosed, usually sellotaped to the card itself.

A Crown of Rubies.

Half-a-crown
used to buy a three course meal,
with coffee or tea,
on holiday in a seaside town.
Half-a-crown,
Aunt Ruby used to send me
every birthday,
every Christmas without fail.
She was frail.
Twelve and a half pence
doesn't sound the same somehow,
not half as regal,
doesn't ring with authority.
She's not there now.
Aunt Ruby died with her endless supply
of half-crowns.

Saturday Youth

Neon
Brain stabbing
Red-eye ripples
Flash flooding
Fluorescent sense glow
Belly-up in the flow
Guttered again
Drain.

Many poems are more abstract in nature - Blackmailer Met at the Gate was written after watching rooks picking apart black plastic bags (in the pre wheelie-bin era) to examine the contents. Not for them the competition with all the gulls at the landfill, no, they want first choice LOL

Blackmailer Met At The Gate

... scavenging a poem out of a common scene

Black rook scratching,
stabbing at black plastic
scattering the leftovers,
our hidden lives.
Cabbage stalks, carcasses,
polystyrene packages,
personal-care containers,
meals half-eaten,
hygienic wrappers
only slightly bloodied.

Scavenging your living
exposing our remains,
secrets of our privacy
meticulously tied
for intimate concealment,
for anonymous disposal,
naked on the pavement
in rustling tatters,
kicked into the gutter
by strangers passing.

Black rook scratching scavenging your living,
stabbing at black plastic exposing our remains,
scattering the leftover secrets of our privacy.
Our hidden lives meticulously tied.
Cabbage stalks, carcasses for anonymous disposal,
personal-care containers naked on the pavement.
Meals half-eaten in rustling tatters,
hygienic wrappers, kicked into the gutter.
Only slightly bloodied by strangers passing.

Word Weft

... some of my poems have previously been published. This one appeared in 'The Haunting Muse' anthology published by Siren Books.

Word Weft

Deft fingers
coax tangled air
tease life-light
ethereal spidersilk
of half-caught dreams
fish dances
bird synchronies
rainbow dew visions
spun together
starlight interwoven
to carry us from hand
through heart, soul.
Journey's end -
the thread cut off
silent we suspend.

All manner of events find their way into poems which are reflections of life. If once in a while a reader comes along who finds the echo of experience in the words then perhaps the poet has given form to feeling.

Removals

... written c 1991

Do you remember how naked,
emptied of all but marks
where pictures hung,
carpets shabby without furniture
bridging gaps between fade and wear.
We walked through hollow rooms,
opening wardrobes, cupboards
ensuring nothing left behind.

It was 'home' no more
just a house,
a series of compartments.

So with our marriage,
suspicion, mistrust seeped in,
discoloured our walls,
we couldn't clean it away.
Barbed endearments
echoed emptily, 'darling'
come to sound threatening.
No residue in our closets,
no store of love,
even tolerance quite used up.

Stripped of habit
born from years existing
in darkening shadows
where unfocussed memories hung,
we never spanned the gulf
when our colours bleached out
and time wore us down.

You filled the space with anger.
I left nothing behind.

Leaving

... because sometimes there is no other choice for sanity

Too many straws to grasp at
looking for hope
while I am drowning
I dare not look into your eyes
afraid and knowing
there is no future there.

Already gone within me, dying
day by day hope
deserted, sinking
lost, sand-sifted through my hands
my world is turning
I see no future there.

These fragile straws I grasp at
sighs, words longed for
when I still love you
though emptiness is in your eyes
and I am drowning
with all my reason gone.

Give me a future, something
I could work for
but I won't ask you
tears fall softly through my hands
and I am leaving
slowly, straw by straw, gone.

And then there is the poetry of love ...

Blocks

An unwritten page stays blank too long,
thoughts of you circle my instincts
with a melody, a love song, annoying me,
only one line, tantalising, unforgotten,
'love won't let me down'.

'I want to believe' struggles against experience
when nothing lasted, half-truths and lies
distanced any chance of hope for reality.
Fear rises from the quagmire of the past,
it tries to drag me down.

A shadow-wraith hangs in the mist,
whichever way I turn its cold breath catches
shivers on my spine but still the love song haunts me
playing one more time, as you might whistle,
walking through the dark,
alone

Letter to an Exile

... doing my bit for the tourist industry :-)

If I could write to you each day,
ten thousand words would come your way,
pictures of mountains and the River,
songs from this valley, mine to give.
I'd send the sparkling frost and Winter sun,
pale and weak across the short day gone
and starry nights, sharp and clear which follow
with crisp and brilliant moonlight on the snow.

The great Scots Pine, stark against the icy blue,
would leave an imprint on the pages sent to you,
midnight's velvet canopy, my ink would be
to write of all the wonders which I see.
Aurora Borealis, strange Northern Lights,
keeps us watching, spellbound through the night,
its glowing colours dance across the sky
I'd bring you in my writings every day.

Long nights of Winter soon would pass
but words could only be poor second class,
brief glimpses of the beauty all around
when frost hangs on the trees, snow on the ground.
You'd see so little of this land
on the paper you hold in your hand,
yet I would try to impart it all,
this valley, through my words, your heart would call.

Over mountains I'd carry you in sunset's clouds
far from the hustle of your city crowds,
together in my words we two could walk
and through the forests, shy deer we'd stalk.
If all my love for this I tried to send,
my writings for you could find no end.
This timeless landscape fills my heart so full,
all who have seen must surely feel its pull.

No-matter what the season of the year,
each day calls to the eye a tear.
If all Mankind could only share my sight
the woes of this World must surely be set right.
The riches of this land, jewels of peace,
the quality of our lives but can increase.
The joy dawn at my window brings,
I know why birds of morning sing.

I hope the message in these lines I write
may bring a little closer here tonight
and hasten ever nearer now the day
you will come home to beautiful Strathspey.
In writing to you so far away from this,
I touch my hand and blow my fondest kiss.
Over the horizon I'll watch it swiftly sail,
mist from the River, sent to you by mail.

We Are

We are the River
rolling, tumbling over stones,
eddying in pools,
bright bubbles chasing fish,
prisms of the spray
rocks cool.
We are the breeze,
the morning mist which plays
around the trees.
We are the leaves which fall
like butterflies
swirling, floating
to the forest floor,
wind sighs.
We are the birds
dancing in the air,
chasing May to June.
The music of their wings are we
catching sunlight's
irridescent tune.
And in the night
we are moonlight
on meadow grass,
wisps of cloud,
intertwined.
The Aurora's fire
and all the stars
we are.

Blank Volume

... daydreaming one afternoon, I wrote this

Days without you are days
without punctuation,
as statements of themselves
they make no sense,
drifting disconnected hours
across my pages,
no thread of continuity,
my present tense
is lost to thoughts of past,
dreams of futures,
disjointed moments, touches,
isolated looks.

Time without you lacks one
vital dimension,
you pull my words together,
make me a book.

Glimpses of past lives, memories from the cradle, times and places experienced ... whether you believe in a spiritual life or not and about half the World's people expect to be reincarnated ...

Life-Time Continuum

... another of my poems which has been previously published in an anthology.

1. Rain lashes my tearless dignity
on the moorside by the windswept gash
where we cut into Rhiannon's breast
to lay you in coarse linen and serenity,
robed with the dark days of a ragged life.

2. In a pillared courtyard we fought,
fountains of reality rippling between us
marbled white and gold your eyes,
veined beauty, perfect Adonis, murder caught
as I drowned into another waking.

3. Astral high I watch my sweet triumph,
trained dedication of a priest-king
by whose shoulders borne, the altar stone,
achievement of ultimate faith,
ascends heaven's steps, apex of my sacrifice.

Still I return to infinity,
recalled to forgetfulness and peace,
dispassionate completion renews me.
In the Universe of my Eternity
I am Feeling remembering Experience.

Day Old

What's your earliest memory?

Day Old

Spears of crystal light
spin through the room
refracting rainbows glimmer
across a mellow gloom
of floating tranquil shadows,
cocooned, astral serene,
a distant baby cries
as I consume the scene.

Count Them

... written 2008

Count them,
number carefully
dawns, rainbows, sunsets,
cherry blossoms,
sweet-scented May.
Too few, the Golden Days,
count them.
Where are they gone?
Slipped away?

Pause then.
take time to make time,
beauty beyond price
or value.
Don't throw away
silences, long moments.
Note them,
memories to
share today.

A Distant Haze

In the shimmer heat
figures moving
shades in the sunwave moisture,
stains on the low sand cast sky,
half seen,
half imagination,
flowing liquid
through the horizon desert,
when I look at them
are gone.

Past images call,
memories spark,
dust, light refracted corners,
edges, not quite strangers to the eye,
half caught,
half escaping
moments scattered,
jewelled fragments of life,
when the focus narrows
too strong.

You Sleep

... 2008

You sleep
the night is mine
for dreaming
the day has no time
to spare.

At the moment I have three poetry cards available and hope to bring some more into production soon.

I guess technically I have four but I regard the card named Fairy Town as having more of a rhyme than a poem on it LOL

Click on the picture to see my lens in the shopping category promoting my cards and prints. There are still more cards to add.

At the moment I am only selling on eBid.net

Oh! The Changes

... clicking on the picture will take you to my card store

Oh! The Changes.
Strange how Nature re-arranges
all our lives on Love, a whim,
such bright attractions soon grow dim
as we all know
but still we follow Nature's flow,
still seeking an Eternal Truth,
that in a state of Love lies Youth
and Youth is Beauty, now, my Lover,
make me Beautiful,
forever.

This poem is available as a hand finished and signed card, blank inside for your own message.

Whisper

... written in the 1970s

I whisper your name
in Indian clouds to the sky.

Showers of satin light
wash moonwards.

The stars answer me
distant through my senses
echoing
and your arms close.

Night cocoons me
gently.

This poem is available as a hand finished and signed card, blank inside for your own message.

Dream

... and there is also 'Dream', which is shown in the introductory module to this lens

If you can dream
and in the dreaming hold your vision,
allow yourself belief,
be not afraid
All you imagine can be made reality.
Choose from your dreams
with wisdom what in life to hold
and having chosen
carefully
never let your passion for the dream
grow cold.

The card 'Dream', as seen at the top of this lens, is available as a hand finished and signed card, blank inside for your own message.

A few poems born from simple observations in public places ...

Making the Connection

... some things are, perhaps, easier to convey in poetry than any other media.

Got off at my station,
man without a suitcase,
newspaper folded neatly,
raincoated just in case.

Watched, I hope discreetly,
man without expression,
watched his mouth lift, curling,
defiantly unbeaten.
Saw the small child huddling,
cuddling to his mother,
exchanged between cold glances,
connections come together.

Saw how the woman dances,
she can't let spirits flag,
it's of far too much importance
to the child with an overnight bag.

Poor You

... written 14.10.07

What does it say
when you hide
round corners,
down alleyways,
avoiding your consequences,
afraid you might meet
yourself.

What does it say
when your lies
ensnare you,
tangle you around,
blurring a compartmented life,
boundaries dissolve
to one.

Lies must not touch,
find themselves,
each other,
intermingling,
tangible in contradiction
of any truth held,
long gone.

What does it say,
wasted life
hid in shades
hearing voices
drowning in your darkness' sorrows,
a nightmare World mined
for shame.

What does it say?
You are sick
my lovely,
no-one sees how
paranoia fevers your brain
as fairytales
collapse.

Which do you hear?
Time to run?
Run and hide?
Cry to the wind?
Time to stop, face the fear, find Truth?
What it does not say,
"Poor you".

Discussion on reflection

... some mirrors can catch us by surprise

I see the shades of time across your face
And hear its march against the wall,
I watch its shadowy fingers trace
More shapes, and then erase
Them all.

The innocent outline of the past,
Beneath the shadow of the pen
Dipped in experience' murky glass,
Is hid, an inky mask
Is drawn.

As a bit of a discipline building exercise, I used to enter poetry competitions. Having to work with a set subject, a specific length and to a deadline is never easy but it does become easier with time.

Old Maisie and A Guid Crack were both written for competitions run by large commercial businesses, presumably it's a publicity opportunity for such big businesses, demonstrating that they support the Arts.

The prize money is usually well worth chasing LOL

Old Maisie

I particularly wanted to write a poem with a bit of a twist in the tale ... just a bit of fun but still, younger Squids and Squidettes may like to bear this in mind, I hope it raises a snigger or three :-)

Old Maisie

Old Maisie is a happy soul,
a smile on her face for the World as a whole
as she goes shopping or brings in the coal.

So many years since her children have grown,
far from the nest her little birds flown
and Maisie, Old Maisie, left all alone.

She waves to neighbours, the strangers next door,
she dusts and polishes, hoovers the floor,
makes herself tea when she can't do more.

Sits by the window on a sunny day
watching the children at Summer's play
thinks of her grandkids far away.

This year they're in Spain - sunny Marbella,
they didn't have time to come and see her,
last Summer was France, the Riviera.

If a letter arrives with a couple of photos
she'll write back 'I'm amazed how they've grown so'
they've a wonderful life, Old Maisie knows.

At night with her room in darkness, she lies
and nobody - nobody knows how she cries.
There's a smile on her face the night she dies.

The children come home now Old Maisie is gone.
like old times again, an arguments on,
who's having what, daughter or son.

But a lawyer comes, the tidings are ill,
her children get nothing from Old Maisie's will -
she had years alone to construct it with skill.

Everything gone, her children are stunned,
for the lonely and old, a holiday fund,
all carefully catalogued, the process begun.

They shout - 'She must have been quite crazy.'
No, it's just that they were too lazy,
no room in their lives for dear Old Maisie.

A note to them both speaks of care,
a heart which is always warm to share
and wishes their ageing better fare.

They think how they left her alone to grow old,
regretting inheritance lost and sold
because of affection allowed to turn cold

... but Old Maisie is a happy soul.

A Guid Crack

... I thought it was time for some more humour ...

Oh, spirits of the earth which grew,
your charms embodied in this brew,
your mirth and merriment aglow
welcome us in from Winter's snow.

A greeting from the landlord's dog,
the lively crackle from the logs,
already is the scene prepared
for natter and for laughter shared.

Friends seeking shelter from the gale
gather around the barrel of ale,
while Geordie's collie by the door
sleeps fast as his master decides ... one more.

At the end of a day of honest toil
what better reward for a son of the soil
than a glass of the best as his eye roves
to the lass at the fireside, his fantasy loves.

If only he were fifty years younger.
Oh, imps of the barrel display your wonder.
Sparkling eyes fall on his face, years fade,
oh, spirits, a fire in his bosom you've laid.

But Geordie's a character known in the bar
to all the young lasses as 'dear old Granpa'.
It seems he came with the fixtures and fittings
like 'sober' May-Ann over there with her knitting.

We all still guess what the garment will be
and how many years 'til its finish we see
for the stitches May-Ann's best known to provide
are the sort constant laughter brings to your sides.

My eyes glide around the room with ease
'til the landlord calls out 'Time gentlemen please'
and into the snow our merriment pours
in a flood of friends from the open doors.

And old Geordie's dog sees him up the road home
where in dreams as a young man his heart ever roams.
His auld wife awaiting her rover's return
tells him 'one of these days you'll wake drowned in the burn.

And she sets on the table beside his old chair
his favourite tankard with his favourite beer.
The thatch on the roof may be covered with snow
but the hearth and the hearts hold a wonderful glow.

A Halloween Verse

... my kids found this easy to remember

It's the Halloween night, trick or treat for the children
we knock on your door just for fun
in the hope you might give us an apple or sweets,
a cake or a big sticky bun.
You can laugh at the vampires and devils and witches
but mind that you don't get a fright
from the ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties
and things that go bump in the night.

Fishtales

Fishing on the River Spey,
hoping salmon come their way,
clothed in green, assorted men
wish tight lines on the banks again.
A nip of whisky warms the blood
when sitting by the Spey in flood,
a nip in the air ... and one nip more,
what an excuse this fishing's for.

All along our River now,
fishing rods in homage bow,
they pray for a salmon of such size
their tales may never be called lies
but none could ever match, they say,
that elusive 'one that got away'.
The whisky ta'en against the cold
has tainted their vision a wee bit, I scold.

Light Through Dark

... written for a competition c 1989

Crying emptiness into the night,
salt tears to sour the wine,
Loneliness sits by candlelight
for no-one came to dine.

A flame which flickers, sputters, dims,
for lack of warmth it dies.
A landscape iced by Winter grim,
a barren waste of lies.

A heart still bleeds beneath the frost,
hope waits a touch of Spring,
the heart whose love was never lost
a greater joy may bring.

Hope strains to see through veils of pain
but shadows cast too deep.
The pillow, tear tide-marked, salt-stained,
invites Eternal sleep.

To never cry into the night
of emptiness again,
yet love still glows, a gentle light,
the power of an "Amen".

So thank you, Lord, for each new day
the passion in me grows,
for always Love will find a way
to thaw the Winter snows.

One day I will look back and see
salt tears turned into wine,
when all life's trials have fitted me
and at Your side I'll dine.

... written for a poetry competition in the 1980's

A poem for you?

... or for someone special

Have you ever thought of having your own poem written especially for you?

Perhaps you would like a poem written for someone special or for a special occasion.

Anyone is welcome to contact me and I will see what I can do for you but please allow plenty of time (absolute minimum of 6 weeks) if the poem is required for a particular date or event.

Lens of the Day

I want to say a special thank you to all the wonderful people who visited, rated and commented so kindly on this lens when it received Lens of the Day on 17th November 2008.

Not only is it a great surprise and honour to receive LotD but the comments you have left are truly humbling.

Thank you all.

Please feel free ...

... to leave your comment, an opinion or share a poem of your own.

submit

Reply

LizMac60 LizMac60 Oct 19, 2009 @ 10:16 am

Why oh why have I taken so long to get around to reading your poetry Katherine. I've only just begun. Such rich fare should not be gobbled up quickly. I see I have more treats in store. Thanks for all your encouragement in the last few months.

Reply

KathyMcGraw KathyMcGraw Oct 12, 2009 @ 12:17 pm

I read almost all the poems, but need to come back to digest a few. I enjoyed seeing the different sides of Katherine Carington Smith :)

Reply

Heather426 Heather426 Oct 9, 2009 @ 11:23 am

really astounding poetry! Love the lens! 5*

Reply

Laniann Laniann Jul 22, 2009 @ 7:34 am

Beautiful! Very moving.I liked Old Maisie. 5*s

Reply

24websurf 24websurf Jul 18, 2009 @ 11:26 am

I am astounded at the depth of emotion I feel in these poems. Just beautiful and in many ways, healing to the soul and heart. Thank you for opening your heart to let us in.

Reply

BuffaloKid BuffaloKid Apr 15, 2009 @ 12:40 pm

I've enjoyed reading your poetry. You write beautifully. Years ago, before many of my old high school friends moved away, we'd started an annual poetry-reading event we called The Butterfly Net. At first it was a small group, but it grew and grew, to the point where word spread and we had well over 100 people attending. We even made up a booklet afterwards with all the poems that were read. I miss that tradition.

Reply

Feb 22, 2009 @ 6:51 pm

Really terrific writing. 5*.

Reply

sabredog sabredog Dec 27, 2008 @ 11:45 pm

great lens, love your poetry.... definitely worth the 5 stars!! You're welcome to visit my poetry lens at http://www.squidoo.com/sabredog

Reply

AndyPo AndyPo Dec 8, 2008 @ 7:55 am

Excellent lens

Reply

allinfoisfree allinfoisfree Dec 1, 2008 @ 8:01 pm

Awesome lens. Thank you for sharing! 5 *'s.

Reply

KesiaLynn KesiaLynn Nov 27, 2008 @ 11:16 am

Loving your gift of the Written Word! Thanks for sharing the Muse!

Reply

nycelady13 nycelady13 Nov 19, 2008 @ 7:18 pm

Best Lense! I really believe poetry is one best way to express your feelings..and that could make you feel calm and refreshed just like expressing your thoughts to a friend.. More Power! I give you 5 *****

Reply

Pastiche Pastiche Nov 18, 2008 @ 6:24 pm

Poetry truly is a performance art. Alan Wilbar is both - actor and poet - as well as a TBI survivor. Congrats on LOTD!

Reply

Joan4 Joan4 Nov 18, 2008 @ 6:14 pm

Beautiful lens! Congratulations on lens of the day!

Reply

EaglePress22 EaglePress22 Nov 18, 2008 @ 4:22 pm

Exquisite, Awesome, and Sublime.

Aberjhani
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Pictures in the Sand

Life's a Beach

In foam-kissed sand, a glint, a treasure hint,
Pebbles carried from the hills to mix with shells,
Sea-gems ebb and flow, between my toes.
Each new tide may leave behind that precious find
And time is almost out of reach - on my beach.
Where does the water meet the land?
Deep in my heart - you understand.

Each of the first 5 lines is inscribed on the reverse of one of five sand Art Cards I have for sale on eBid.net, lines 6 and 7 are on the reverse of a similar Art Card which will remain in my possession.

Art cards ACEO

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Poetry on eBid