#52weeksofnaturepoetry, Poetry

Bluebells, bluebells! (Nature poetry to raise money for the RSPB – #52weeksofnaturepoetry Week 28)

Striking violet-blue, a rich carpet

of fairy flowers

(or perhaps you’d call them witches’ thimbles)

nodding to one side,

snoozing throughout the day;

brush past

and you might smell sweet puffs

of their snores.

Take care not to remain in range

of the bells’ delicate peal –

that playful tinkling

might bring an untimely death

(at least, that’s what fairies advise).

And should you pick a bluebell,

well, those devilish forest sprites

might have you trekking eternally

through woodland groves.

If you evade such a fate, however,

you could try

turning a bloom inside out;

manage without a tear,

and there’s a chance of enticing

the one you love

deeper into your life.

Beware, though, if lies and deceit

are your native tongue:

should a bluebell wreath

be placed upon your head,

truth will become the only language

to spill from your lips.

So take heed and be mindful

around anyone you’ve ever wronged.

This poem is part of a project I’m doing to raise money for the RSPB, a UK wildlife conservation and protection charity. Being autistic, nature is often my only place of solace, and I want to do all I can to protect it. As I’m not very comfortable around other people, most of the standard ways of helping out (volunteering, social fundraisers etc) were not a good fit for me, so I came up with #52weeksofnaturepoetry, where I have to post a nature poem here on this blog each week for an entire year without fail.

If you’d like to help, please share this poem to encourage others to take joy in nature, and if you have the time and means to donate, you can do so here. Let’s help keep our wildlife wild!

(You can also become a member of the RSPB and support them month to month. Members receive Nature’s Home magazine and seasonal guides for what to look out for when out and about. Details are on their website.)

Poetry

An old witch grows a servant from a potato

Wash it roughly, no grit needed,

sprinkle the powder over, cover it all,

boil up the water, fill the room with steam

stand back while the sprouts start to spring.

 

Hands first, arms, then shoulders,

torso covered with dark eyes,

legs sturdy but knobbly knees

and the head – ah, where is it?

 

Splash here, splash there

shower it all over

finally out it pops: warm, mashy grin.

See it walk, not roll or hobble.

Good! Set it to work. Clean the cauldron,

let the chores begin!

Poetry

The Long March

One, two, one two.

 

Line by line,

side by side,

up the steep mountain path

following the piper’s march.

 

One, two, one, two.

 

Rock and stone,

wind and rain.

Soon we’ll reach the river,

He doesn’t care if we shiver.

 

One, two, one, two.

 

Unable to stop.

Unable to think.

Unable to breathe.

 

One, two, one, two.

 

All because the villagers;

our family, our kin;

refused to pay the price

that was owed

to him.

Poetry

Grey

If you’re grey on the outside,

are you grey on the inside, too?

 

Forever a colour

that is not a colour?

Neither bright, nor dull

but a fluffy, half-formed

substance in-between?

 

A blur of identity,

an endless game of cat

and mouse,

see-sawing up and down,

with the fear of staying

who you are

at one end,

and the fear of

becoming someone new

at the other.

 

If you’re grey on the inside,

are you grey on the outside, too?

 

Poetry

Mechanical Lungs (draft)

I gave you my voice

once. You had me

caught and caged,

ready to sing for

you and any audience.

To perform until my lungs

were spent, my fragile

frame shaking, but it made you happy;

I could see.

So I persevered, even though

my head would droop and my

light chest was gripped

with tightness.

Then you were gifted a metallic me.

It astounded you and every

beat

of

your

heart

was ensnared

by the grinding inner workings

as it chirped out

a charming replica of song.

You cast me aside,

I was free to fly again.

Free

to sing when I pleased or sing

not at all.

But eventually, as all things

do, the grinding of fake me

ground to a halt.

And your heart was released

to beat on its own.

The beat was weak.

You realised that it was starting

to break apart.

The cracks had appeared when you first

pushed me aside,

yet the pain was masked by false joy.

I can fix you,

bandage you up will warm trills

filled with spring flowers and

gentle breezes, the chorus of dusk and of dawn.

I can heal you.

Will you ask?