gerry-sykes - Hello Poetry

In Gledholt wood the chirping song of birdlife gives me space to hear the quiet chant of nature’s plainsong– Kyrie eleison. This world of fake news, false but strong, needs truthful places through the year where seasons ring with nature’s plainsong– Christe eleison. This forest nave is built of long and gothic branches that appear to make a kirk for nature’s plainsong– Kyrie eleison.

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Dec 28, 2025

Dec 28, 2025 at 12:27 PM UTC

gerry-sykes

Kyrie eleison

In Gledholt wood the chirping song of birdlife gives me space to hear the quiet chant of nature’s plainsong– Kyrie eleison. This world of fake news, false but strong, needs truthful places through the year where seasons ring with nature’s plainsong– Christe eleison. This forest nave is built of long and gothic branches that appear to make a kirk for nature’s plainsong– Kyrie eleison.

12

I was sat at the front of the cast iron horse and with Tom and his sister and Nicky behind we had rocked till the plaything went hight as we could when it smacked on my jaw with its hard metal head. An incisors had cut through my lip, and so blood freely flowed from my mouth to my chin, where it paused, and then dropped on the crown of the dangerous nag, dripping sticky and red on the skull of our steed. Soon my daddy had lifted me up from that mount and we drove to the doctor’s to suture my lip where a needle was painfully pulled through my skin and it felt as though cables were stitching my gob. ––– Did our play in my youth, though unsafe, have more thrill than does zipping on wires over bark covered ground or the climbing of ropes that are hung from a pole and of swaying with swings that don’t go all around? Every age has its dangers, unique to itself, and so children will always find dangerous fun, though as parents we worry as much as ours did, now the playgrounds are safer whatever we fear.

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Sep 28, 2025

Sep 28, 2025 at 12:32 PM UTC

gerry-sykes

Hobby Horse

I was sat at the front of the cast iron horse and with Tom and his sister and Nicky behind we had rocked till the plaything went hight as we could when it smacked on my jaw with its hard metal head. An incisors had cut through my lip, and so blood freely flowed from my mouth to my chin, where it paused, and then dropped on the crown of the dangerous nag, dripping sticky and red on the skull of our steed. Soon my daddy had lifted me up from that mount and we drove to the doctor’s to suture my lip where a needle was painfully pulled through my skin and it felt as though cables were stitching my gob. ––– Did our play in my youth, though unsafe, have more thrill than does zipping on wires over bark covered ground or the climbing of ropes that are hung from a pole and of swaying with swings that don’t go all around? Every age has its dangers, unique to itself, and so children will always find dangerous fun, though as parents we worry as much as ours did, now the playgrounds are safer whatever we fear.

21

Lurking in the corner of Greenhead park’s playground balancing on a fifteen-foot pole – the precarious witch’s hat. Tom and I grab the iron bars that descend from the wicked cap’s conical apex, run round fast as we can and jump onto the centrifugal circular oak brim of the whirling witch’s hat. Tom, two years braver than me, climbs up the Satanic bonnet’s metal ribs. He stands akimbo with his feet on the crossbar and arms grasping the spinning steel triangle at the top of the bucking witch’s hat. A couple of seasons less assured, I see danger in the motion of this malevolent millinery, and cautiously cling to the ferrous frame and solid wooden base of the gyrating witch’s hat. Rapidly revolving, seesawing and spinning, the heinous headpiece tries to crush our legs against the pole or fling us up into the air to fall onto a black, hard and sharp cinder surface; victim of the venomous witch’s hat. We spring off the slowing death cap, safe and exhilarated by the swirling danger of Greenhead park’s wild witch’s hat.

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Sep 20, 2025

Sep 20, 2025 at 1:28 PM UTC

gerry-sykes

Witches Hat

Lurking in the corner of Greenhead park’s playground balancing on a fifteen-foot pole – the precarious witch’s hat. Tom and I grab the iron bars that descend from the wicked cap’s conical apex, run round fast as we can and jump onto the centrifugal circular oak brim of the whirling witch’s hat. Tom, two years braver than me, climbs up the Satanic bonnet’s metal ribs. He stands akimbo with his feet on the crossbar and arms grasping the spinning steel triangle at the top of the bucking witch’s hat. A couple of seasons less assured, I see danger in the motion of this malevolent millinery, and cautiously cling to the ferrous frame and solid wooden base of the gyrating witch’s hat. Rapidly revolving, seesawing and spinning, the heinous headpiece tries to crush our legs against the pole or fling us up into the air to fall onto a black, hard and sharp cinder surface; victim of the venomous witch’s hat. We spring off the slowing death cap, safe and exhilarated by the swirling danger of Greenhead park’s wild witch’s hat.

35

When my dad came home from driving ambulances, we always had dinner, but when we visited auntie Beaty, it was tea. I think Beaty was my dad’s aunt though the title is often honorific so I'm not sure how they were really related. Conversation over tea was on many topics; one sticks in my mind. "My cousin Albert’s teacher asked the class to write an essay for homework. Albert came home with pencil and paper ready to do his assignment. He positioned himself by the back window, and whenever anyone went down the garden path, he moved so he could get a better view. After a pause he would scribble a few words on his notepad. A couple of hours later, Albert’s parents became intrigued and asked Albert what his homework was. He replied he was writing "a nessy”. In his Yorkshire dialect, a nessy was the name for the outdoor privy. Albert had been watching people go down the garden path to the outdoor toilet and writing." My Auntie Beaty ended her story, “Heaven alone knows what he wrote”. word path to the cold outhouse– nessy

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Sep 20, 2025

Sep 20, 2025 at 1:22 PM UTC

gerry-sykes

Haibun #1

When my dad came home from driving ambulances, we always had dinner, but when we visited auntie Beaty, it was tea. I think Beaty was my dad’s aunt though the title is often honorific so I'm not sure how they were really related. Conversation over tea was on many topics; one sticks in my mind. "My cousin Albert’s teacher asked the class to write an essay for homework. Albert came home with pencil and paper ready to do his assignment. He positioned himself by the back window, and whenever anyone went down the garden path, he moved so he could get a better view. After a pause he would scribble a few words on his notepad. A couple of hours later, Albert’s parents became intrigued and asked Albert what his homework was. He replied he was writing "a nessy”. In his Yorkshire dialect, a nessy was the name for the outdoor privy. Albert had been watching people go down the garden path to the outdoor toilet and writing." My Auntie Beaty ended her story, “Heaven alone knows what he wrote”. word path to the cold outhouse– nessy

5

my mother in law lies on a gurney in a corridor waiting for a bed a limbo between treatment and death either way the corridor clears for the next contestant

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gerry-sykes

Aug 30, 2025

Aug 30, 2025 at 12:32 PM UTC

nigdaw

limbo

my mother in law lies on a gurney in a corridor waiting for a bed a limbo between treatment and death either way the corridor clears for the next contestant

8

#10 golden sunrise after the morning mist a gilded path reverse a gilded path after the morning mist golden sunrise #11 a squirrel’s hope on a warm winter day the hazelnut store reverse the hazelnut store on a warm winter day a squirrel’s hope

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Aug 30, 2025

Aug 30, 2025 at 12:28 PM UTC

gerry-sykes

Haiku 10 and 11

#10 golden sunrise after the morning mist a gilded path reverse a gilded path after the morning mist golden sunrise #11 a squirrel’s hope on a warm winter day the hazelnut store reverse the hazelnut store on a warm winter day a squirrel’s hope

16

crisp brown leaves on white ground– pristine cinnamon fox chasing red squirrels– hazel bolthole holy icons on my study wall– prayers at work patient crow watching intently– sharp eyes [The original of haiku 4 was: patient crow watching intensely– sharp eyes thanks to JimH for the suggested change]

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Aug 10, 2025

Aug 10, 2025 at 12:48 PM UTC

gerry-sykes

Haiku #6-9

crisp brown leaves on white ground– pristine cinnamon fox chasing red squirrels– hazel bolthole holy icons on my study wall– prayers at work patient crow watching intently– sharp eyes [The original of haiku 4 was: patient crow watching intensely– sharp eyes thanks to JimH for the suggested change]

17

I fell for the ocean, Knowing he loves everyone. But every wave that touched my skin Felt like a promise—until it was done. I watched others play in the same tide, And smiled, pretending I was fine inside. It was a mistake, I won’t forget... But one I carry With no regret.

0

gerry-sykes

Jun 29, 2025

Jun 29, 2025 at 9:55 AM UTC

Red

My First Love

I fell for the ocean, Knowing he loves everyone. But every wave that touched my skin Felt like a promise—until it was done. I watched others play in the same tide, And smiled, pretending I was fine inside. It was a mistake, I won’t forget... But one I carry With no regret.

9