“Welcome to my home on the internet!”
The World is Crying.
Sadness fills our streets our beautiful places
it invades our innermost thoughts
it soaks through our clothes
it permeates our skin
it floods our eyes with salty tears
the warm balmy air carried that special aroma
of sun-kissed bodies and laughter
of garlicky rich delicious food
from smart hotels and cafes along
the Promenade des Anglais
such evilness invaded
marred and tried to spoil
occupying and seizing us
when lost so many souls
too much sadness in that evening air
memories now spoilt
imbued with different visions
they must be redeemed
yes they must be redeemed
or ‘you’ have won with your evilness
the world is crying…
Hedgerows sweet and heavily pungent,
drooping their white may-flower blossoms
falling like drifting snow, as on the gentle breeze
scented air, carries to eager senses.
Minute petals form the flowers of
Gods perfect creations.
Such are the delights of
these sweet scents of Summer.
Light tawny bricked cottages,
row on cobbled row,
the dark gothic mullioned windows,
their secret beauties contained within.
As hanging adorned, heavily
decked the lavender blues
of stringy wisteria, its dripping faded beauty
a Summer feast for weary eyes.
Curling petals, shedding blooms surround
old doors, sills, abundant heavy and wayward
‘Shakespeare’ roses weighty in beauty, itself
the sweetest scent of summer…
Awaits you here…
Susie Hemingway @copyright 2016
Come into the garden Maud,
An open day of gardens galore,
some long, some short, some thin, some broad
all I’m sure deserve awards.
June came round double quick
as we tried to make our lawns lush and thick,
to coax and water blooms to show
the magic as our gardens grow.
A little tweak here and there,
a rake, a broom, a weather prayer!
Come on Roses, show your faces
we need some colour, some perfect Acer’s.
Poppies, Geraniums, Lavender blue,
delight at every corner anew,
hanging baskets lend their hues,
as birds sing to add to pretty views,
of twinkling ponds and water features
the bubbles of the little creatures,
that swim beneath the lush green creepers.
Hosta plants with waiting blooms
to lift our spirits from Winter gloom.
Hydrangeas, Rhododendrons, tomatoes in pots,
delight our eyes and produce a lot!
Trellis’s of Sweet-peas reach our noses
their pretty faces in tangled motion…
Tall fir trees sway in breezes, good
not to have hay-fever sneezes.
These beautiful gardens, prepared for you
with care and love, I must applaud.
So come into the garden Maud!
Dark these recent stormy skies
battleship grey, gloom filled days
entangled with tears…
Blood spills in joyous places from
young music revellers, flows warmly away
amongst coffee loving gentle souls.
In quiet bistros filled with amore,
mixes in delicious smells of Paris…
Wickedness pours forth, from crazy minds
to mar this beautiful city of France.
It will not happen,
it will not be changed.
Not by YOU!
Your souls are damaged
by promises of a utopian heaven
for this is NOT the teaching of Islam
your minds are radicalised,
soaked from poison dripped evil,
do you not understand what is happening,
listen and STOP,
this corruption of your spoilt young minds,
brain-washed by evil despots
who are themselves the infidels.
Who are themselves the infidels…
Written for my Daughter-in-Law Sandrine – whose sadness for her country I can feel.💔
@ Copyright – Susie Hemingway 2015
Adrift, swooping swallows our only shade
ends indolent inert day,
laying naked in sun warmed ‘muddle’
the gentle sway of bobbing boat
reveals this sleepy scene,
the postprandial glass in hand,
a passage, a chasm,
this hiatus, this pause in time,
adrift, at mercy of our circumstances.
“Up Where We Belong”
plays loudly in my mind as
swallows break this torpid air
serenading their mating call
and this evening song…
@copyright Susie Hemingway.
photo: courtesy of Anne Manning.
Swallows are able to produce many songs, which are used to express excitement, to communicate with others of the same species, during courtship. The songs of males are related to the body condition of the bird and are presumably used by females to judge the physical condition and suitability for mating of males. The typical song of swallows is a simple,sometimes musical twittering.
The sunlight crept over the wall slowly
pulling itself as if tugging a tank
the heavy night seemed distant
the dreams seemed real…
With heavy heart I looked at the sky
the soft blue of a summer’s day
was nearly upon me,
light puffy wisps of pearly white clouds
pushed into my vision,
as this voice inside vibrates,
a heart bleeds and dissolves.
This circle goes round forever
this wall withers my needs
as I look above…
Difficult heart cutting days.
The wall that holds me back.
The wall, tall, dark and brutally gloomy,
this barrier to a new life,
this wall so near my face,
this wall that snaps and breaks me
and withers my heart…
This wall so heavily built against me
this block of bricks
returns its view…
@ copyright Susie Hemingway.
A poem…begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness… It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.
ROBERT FROST, The letters of Robert Frost to Louis Untermeyer.
So slowly this morning the dawn greeted me with a suitably golden sunrise creeping up and across the pale green pastures of this early Easter. A natural perfect beauty of a new day. Walking to the village hall I thought that at last I detected the smell of Spring or perhaps as I approached it was the delicious smell of bacon cooking? It is tradition in this little village to serve a cooked breakfast to those who like to join in a companible social setting. The full works is served, cereal, fruit juices, white and brown toast, marmalades, various jams and of course a magnificently cooked breakfast of sausage, egg, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes and beans. The tables are perfectly laid with chintzy red clothes, vases of daffodils and shining cutlery, even I may add little dishes of chocolate eggs.
This morning we served about forty-five people, they chatted happily with joyous greetings of “Happy Easter”. It is good to take stock every now and then and appreciate how very lucky we are in this pleasant rural life of ours, where friendships flourish and folk care about those who are becoming older. Gentleness is the source of all caring, a smile, a kind considered word or two, go a long way in making those who days are slower now and for those that could, if care was not taken, lead lonely lives.
I have lived here in this little Village nestling at the foot of the Lincolnshire Wolds since 2004. No it’s not the prettiest village but its beauty shines in its ability to retain this special character of friendliness and tranquility which elsewhere may be impossible to find. Many happy faces left the village hall this morning, long may it last. “Happy Easter” dear readers, may this Easter find you with peace and a joyous heart.