Endless Summers

This is the second of two poems submitted for my Creative Writing course. The poem was conceived as an elegy to childhood addressed to a youthful playmate, now a lover. I didn't set out to deal with theme in my poems, however, I now realise this piece together with The Cinder Path form the beginning of a sequence about growing up.

Endless Summers

What happened to the endless summers,

of playing hard and running through the wood,

The dappled sun on mossy banks,

and cooling shade of fern.

Where you'd be my Marion, and I...

I'd be Robin in the Hood!

We had no need for merry men,

just played each one in turn.

Those long forgotten days of summer,

of joy and laughter, and galloping through the dust,

to capture the picnic table Alamo,

We'd ride on bronco steeds of air.

We'd fight and die and spoil our clothes,

Oh how our mothers fussed!

They never could quite understand,

That we redskins didn't care.

Such long, hot days of endless summer,

of Barbary pirates on the log pile,

With jacaranda¹ pods for gleaming swords,

we'd brave the Spanish Maine.

You grazed your knee and cried and...

You said I was an imbecile!

That's the trouble playing with girls I said,

The captain always gets the blame.

¹ Jacaranda is a flowering tree native to tropical and subtropical regions. Some species produce a long, flat woody seed pod, reminiscent in size and shape to machete or kukri knife.

The Cinder Path

This is one of two poems which I submitted for my Open University Creative Writing Course. A couple of people who've read it have mentioned that the metre is quite difficult. However, when I read it aloud it makes perfect sense. So I'm going to say that the fault lies with the readers and not the poem! Haha.

The Cinder Path

There is a cinder path that leads to a pebble shore, where

Daddy taught me how to skim flat stones, when I was only four.

Where he sat me on his strong knee and said I must be very brave,

then told me he was leaving. That he was going away to war.

There is a cinder path that leads to a village school, where

I first kissed Jacquie on the lips, and thought I was so cool.

Panting hand in hand to her front door, not feeling very brave,

we dashed upstairs to her room. Giggling at her parent’s "no boys" rule.

There is a cinder path that leads to a cancer ward, where

my mother's shrivelled husk lay weeping, clutching my get-well card.

She said I have to go my darling boy, you must be very brave,

then a nurse drew the curtain. Like some tawdry peppermint green shroud.

There is a cinder path that leads to a factory wall, where

I puffed my last cigarette and realised, like latter day Saint Paul.

I must forsake these indolent grey boondocks, I would be very brave,

head for the Bright Lights, Big City. Or stay and achieve sweet sod all.