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Ioan Hazell Nov 2020
Gelliwen in static night.
The whistling scribble of pine on the hill
Whining while the spilled milk moon
Soaks Boars Head;
the highest house and the emptiest.
Seeping into stoney-wall
And silent-home,
An orange lamp on wind-beaten post.
Afon Cynin, slow and cunning,
Missing mill and slyly running
Into tangle-valley depth.
The wooden night
In the time-slump valley,
Ticking by on grandfather clocks.
Afon is the Welsh word for river, afon Cynin meaning the river Cynin.
I’d not ask a life that’s easy,
Gold and pearls so little mean,
Rather seek a heart that’s joyful,
Heart that’s honest, heart that’s clean.
So many Welsh songs, poems, are not translated for the world to enjoy:(
Sam Oct 2019
It's raining outside like buckets
                                  - - - like hard and fast and almost even
                                   - - - like rain you'd best not be caught in
                                    - - - like the beginnings of a terrible storm
except there's no thunder, no lightning.

It's just rain, and you are inside, safe with a soft blanket
(you are not scared and shuddering
  you are not crying and wishing not to be alone
  you are not holding in choked breaths, hugging yourself tight.
)

it is raining, and it rains most days, here.
the trees around you are so green, like nothing you're used to.
you have a room to yourself, and no one who loves you who lives close.
(and you think you might love it here.)

this, where you reside, this is not a place you can call home.
(not when your heart still yearns for the place you grew up, so long ago.
  not when most of the people that make up your family live oceans away.
  not when you have just barely lived here a month, not quite yet.)
but -- but -- this place, it feels safe.

you can't remember living anywhere where all you felt was safe, before.
you - really - don't want to let that go.
Steve Oct 2018
I wonder what you see
When you think of us
Red boxes, dead foxes
The flag of St George
Or a shiny red bus

Yes I wonder what you see
When you think of us
Scotch pies, och ayes
A white cross on a blue sky
Unruly Scots - treasonous!

I wonder what you see
When you think of us
Bore da, nos da
Green valleys and red dragons
Welsh words to discuss

Yes I wonder what you see
When you think of us
The mountains of Mourne, a leprechaun
Peace between orange and green
Or the troubles between us

What do you see?

Shamrock, glam rock, God save the Queen
Daffodils, leeks, tartan breeks, a red haired colleen
Better together, miles apart, kissing cousins or time for a fresh start?
Never before has the moment felt so close.
Nigel Finn Jul 2018
Breeze flowing gently;
The waterfall cascades down;
I feel at peace here.
A haiku about a place of natural beauty in north Wales.
les ombres s’allongent sur la colline
et mon esprit se met à songer
à un monde que je ne connais plus

--

The shadows lengthen on the hill
and my mind gets to dreaming
of a world I know no longer.
Nostalgia upon arriving in north Wales from Paris.
Southampton, Liverpool, Bournemouth and Hull
Places in England that give you the pull
going by ****** or National Express
Wherever you want it can cost you less
booking in 3 or more months in advance
lets you see scenery takes only a glance
from down south and London and places above
get into Scotland you'll need to wear glove
Cross the border and hear the sound of the pipes
or get into wales - a choir - ooh cripes
a sound that gives you goosebumps
a sound that makes you cringe
keep going north my friend
and watch the Edinburgh Fringe
I went on a date with Abigail from Wales,
now real housewife of Harleston this Belle of Bridgend,
who vacated the valleys for marriage that failed.
Via loveless POF we met in Diss, Betjeman's
'dimmest place of all'.  From her suitor's clammitt
mushroomed blooming cliche from Norwich Market,
which had strived in stuffy, sunny carriage for survival,
but doughty purple gerberas shed not a petal.

Darkeyed Abs was selfproclaimed ditzy witterer
(as schorl as pupils were her carbonado irises).
Selfeffacing, totes Taffy, wellfit witty ditherer;
modest, mumsy, Celtic sexkitten. From Diss,
she drove us in circles to areas even remoter,
cutely got us lost. Upon backseat of her Toyota
gerberas juddered, lost the odd purple petal,
but all my attention was on this anhygoel gal.

Fave date since my old love crashed 'n' burned,
Cupid's evangelism made a lame heart leap!
Attraction and rapport in equal measure earned
a second, no less romantic for being cheap!
We held hands like oldies down the aisle (at Aldi's),
tender tonsil hockey over bigspender coffees
on bench by the mere. Love's pink spark as blatant
as gerberas' purpleness we purred in liplockt agreement.

X-tailed texts from dawn to dusk to discover
something we'd both waited for between Abs & I.
Floodgate touch of third date felt fate to be lovers,
tremulous tryst gushed torrid for the rusty and shy.
With selfconsciousness she'd sometimes squeak in bed
like the springs, and got undressed beneath the duvet,
but as if purple petals coming-storm-shorn, her Red
Dragon-tatted, lemniscate chassis blew me away.

Horizontal hourglass a galactoid goad to caress
- looker like Liz, but with the boyo brio of Burton,
tho' retro 90s vernacular winning quirk less
'Under Milk Wood' and more the orange-Zorro'd turtle,
Michelangelo. Dropboxed me her ******* keys,
elegant lilac-varnished luppers smashed 'Fur Elise'.
Cruciverbalist teachingassistant was my Welsh ****,
but no cryptic clue when gerberas started to wilt.

Abs baked her boy a birthday choco hedgehog,
'Puddington Boar' pun we laboured in flantery email.
But gooey privetpig not main course of our dialogue,
no, I learned she was a Dadi's girl who went off the rails
when his cancer came back for good. Last 'nos da cariad'
haunted her like hiraeth; Abs swore she'd bags a stepdad
for lil' leekeaters, spare them same sense of loss. Green shoots
stalks in vase resembled, save for ditched petals, no roots.

She didn't see offthepeg patriarch to patch a family
in me, dressinggowned putz Diazepampering broken
calon now. No Ant to her Cleo, Gavin to her Stacey
- wherefore the chirpsing 'bout cwtching, softlyspoken
soul-selfies swapped in aprication of darkling embrace?
Abigail just blanks my calls; messages soliloquise in cyberspace.
To so much heart-mulch I bet binned bouquet now rots.
Purple gerbera wheel of fortune landed on she-loves-me-not.
Hayley Siebert Dec 2016
God did not intend you to die
He intended you to live

For all the abuses
For all the suffering
For each and every wound
God gave you a gift

This weaponry, this arsenal, this armour
Of talents, arts, voice
is a fire to the demons in your head

Purge the monsters
Purify them with your fire
God is always with you
God did not let you suffer in vain
He did so, so, you may learn
learn to survive, to fight, to win

Survival is in your family
It is in your *blood

Your Mother, Grandfathers
Great Grandparents

You are of the land of the dragon
You are of the land of God
Your blood of warriors Celtic born
Your blood is of Moses and Abraham

Your blood will pass onto your daughter
In your womb, lies the power of creation
The gift of life, to forge a soul

In your womb is the blood of Ariel
In your womb is the blood of Cymru
God did not intend you to die
He intended you to live
To live, to survive, to fight
Is in your *
blood
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