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Cara McKee Jan 2016
And you are new!
In pink, in blue,
and sleep and dreams
I do eschew;
our days in play
at keekaboo,
and cows say moo
and cats go mew,
and my task to
clean up the poo;
the unknown goo,
and find the shoe,
and gaze at you.

You change my view.

Completely you,
but who?
And where's your shoe?
Cara McKee Jan 2016
This is not my land.
This waterlogged clay soil is not my rich loam.
I am the incomer, comeover, the offcomeden;
not from 'round these parts.
We do not share a history,
I do not know your tales,
and you are unprejudiced, but
I don't fit in.
And yet, I find, on returning
to the green-grey valleys of God's own county
this now too, is not my home.
Not my land.
Cara McKee Jan 2016
Colours written on the body;
stories told inside the skin.
The ink-ed creature recreates herself.

Inchoate markings clothe in colour:
carnation blooms within the skin.
A crimson kiss comes carmine, but is kept.
Cara McKee Oct 2015
First the boy.
Bursting into life,
filling his space.

Then a girl.
Quiet, calm assurance.
She will not.

Last came Ivy.
Wild and wonderful,
turning upside down.
A Magi poem on my children.
Cara McKee Jun 2015
He turned up late; cravat askew,
with gleaming teeth, champagne for two,
and all of this I would eschew.
I've waited all the day for you.
Cara McKee Mar 2015
Cara McKee
is the name on me.
Writer in chief
at the 'Ohwedo' fief.
Inspired by Abraham Lincoln's poem, Abraham Lincoln, and referring to my blog at
Cara McKee Jan 2015
His look is wolflike; hunter in the dark.
“You come with me,” he said, “don't be a wife.”
He lifts his leathers, ready to depart:
“You come with me, and leave your boring life.
“Come ride with me, and see the edge of doom.”
The edge? I follow him where he would go.
And gentle him, and watch his glamour bloom.
I raise him up. A man whom all would know.
And I, remaining there, upon the edge,
Find I have, unbeknownst, become a wife.
And while he wins high praise upon the ledge,
I live my unremarkable own life.
And yet I have seen o'er the edge of doom,
and bear remembrance here within my womb.
Inspired by Shakespeare's Sonnet 116. My first attempt at iambic pentameter and sonnets. This won me a competition!
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