places

*Presents Under The Tree*

December.24.2000 @ 11:55am 
Trisha M Barrek Hopkins


Waking up on christmas day 
Seeing presents under the tree 
Thank you santa is what I say 
Bringing presents for you and me 
That is how you show your love that way

 

Smiles on peoples faces 
The shine in their eyes 
On christmas there is love in different places 
Seeing decorations up so high 

 

Presents under the tree 
They are brought with love 
It sends spirits free 
Knowing on the roof santa is above 

 

People buy gifts from the heart 
Giving and sharing 
Christmas is my favorite from the start 
Knowing they're people caring 

 

Presents under the tree 
Snow outside is falling 
Even people give presents to people who can't see 
Knowing the presents are calling 


Copyright

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This Old House

This old house is alone

Dark and damp

Where there used to be sunshine

Now is gloom

 

There are a lot of rooms

Plenty of places to hide

But you hear nor see any children

Just the quiet

 

The walls whisper

In the deep night

Mirrors watch you

Everywhere you go

 

There used to be laughter

Now only tears

Someone died

Deep inside

 

This old house

Has been through storms

Hail and snow

Thunder and lightning

 

Yet came out strong

Has many memories

Of past and future

Just another home

 

Open the window

Let out the dust

Mop the floors

Let them shine

 

The spider on the wall

Has been here too long

A beautiful web

She has weaved

 

But this old house

Needs to let her go

It needs lots of work

People to come and go

 

 

 

 

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Trying to Re-Create the Dodo

Trying to re-create the past piece by piece

Putting on the same music

Talking about the same moments

Drinking the same brand of beer

Same people

Sitting in the same places

Pulling out personalities from back then

But when attempting this impossible trick

Nothing ever feels quite the same

And it’s not

The air is not the air

The memories are memories and not the moments

The music is not fresh but dusty and stale

The people are formed

The places set 

Personalities past and shaped

There is always an uneasiness when the trick inevitably fails

A failure on the part of all involved

Unable to conjure preferred past

It happens eveytime

All around the world

In living rooms

In Bars

In Attics

In Basements

At Kitchen Tables

In Backyards

In Fields

Try to hang on

It is slippery

It is a ghost

It is gone

Only to exist in memory

And when memory starts to fade

It will vanish

Like the dodo

 

 

 

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Dylan's City

 

The serpentine chain of terraced houses

With their congregation of chimneys

Cloak the hills

Below the City Centre thrives

On tearooms and cafés

With free Wi-Fi and cookies on trays

People live in the cyber world of smart phones

Some pause to drop pennies for songs of praise

Especially those who have nothing more to lose

Life moves at a fast pace

But the past exerts itself

Resists change

Poetry still echoes in the streets

Of Swansea

Verses glow in Brunswick

Or the Uplands Tavern

Poets still meet at the DTC*

They read

To keep the ghost of Dylan alive

And not far

The bay caresses the oyster mouth road

Gently.

 

Dr Shehzad Latif

 

*Dylan Thomas Centre

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I was invited to the Lord Mayors Mansion house by personal invitation to attend the centenary celebrations of Dylan Thomas. The poem was based on the theme.

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Within My Own

A being sewn with fine broken lace and without any eyes

Worn and torn, thus broken and weathered by years of many lies

Clings onto the forgotten but once noticed shelf just once more

Before the time comes to be shattered by the reality and the floor

 

I dare not speak of the past and the tunes played

But to mention the emotions that filled up this now empty room ,and warmed the hearts of many, once important but now meaningless

Comes now the cold and wicked air of the fallen and betrayed

 

She begs me now not to go back,

But I must travel the past once more

The confidence was there but now today I lack

because I fail to recognize when to shut the door

 

What was now alive is long gone, and dead

As we sing for another day, while someone else loses their head

The unspeakable and unmentionable becomes now our vision

We ignore and feign ignorance to proceed with our own decision

 

Greed is right behind my shoulders

I say that I must not become like the rest of the world

I try to kill the dark behind me but wait another day once more

I ripped the happiest moments from the book of memories

to hold it dearly, but it blocks my path today as huge boulders

 

As you try to lock the door

Something whispers faintly but ever so determined to your ear

"Do not dare forget, but do not be sore."

"The present dies, but a future born does not represent fear"

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NoWhere

Ever been no where?
I just came from there. You should have gone I had a blast, can't stay long the feeling won't last. You wanna go, let me know, we'll take a trip. Just hang on tight careful not to slip you'll know when we get there, when they ask where you are just simply say no where. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

<3

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A 483

It is arterial, the road
Constructed long ago
At places curving
And at others running
Straight as an arrow

It weaves through fields
Carpeted in shimmering light
Flowing beneath a cerulean sky
As it twists and turns
Like the sulci* and gyri* of my mind

The road is a myriad joy
Musical, scented with lovely memories
Of winding roads,
I befriended as a boy

Every twist and turn, every ascent and descent
Set my hormones raging
Joyfully
I gasp at the surrounding beauty, swirling

Like clouds from my cup of tea
I listen to the chattering brook
Bearing its fleet of twigs and leaves
In the distance, serene the cuckoo sings

And the song, the road and I are one
I see the music, I hear the light
The ensemble of the forest and infinite
Spinning wheels

Homeward bound

The road

Leading me on

Author's Notes/Comments: 

The A483 runs through Mid Wales and links north and south. It is 149 miles long and has the most scenic run. Surrounded by Nature at its best, I fell in love on the very first journey. This poem is a tribute to an extraordinary route.
* Sulcus (singular, Sulci (pleural) is a depression or fissure in the surface of the brain. It surrounds the gyri, creating the characteristic appearance of the brain in humans

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