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  Jun 2018 sheila sharpe
Jay 1988
I sit in a fire lit room
Listening to the sound of grandfather sleep
Every Sunday, with my brother I would walk to church
And hear the choir sing
Walk home down the lanes
Pull flowers, make daisy chains
I’d look up at my mother and smile
She would bend right down on one knee
Pull me close, so there was just her and me
And whisper One day, all of these old people will go
She said it’s just a fact of life
Listen, so one day you too will be wise
Because one day, all of the old people will go

Then I heard the Doctor speak
“There was no pain, now he’s at peace”
From the corner, my grandmother cried
He was all, she’d ever had in her life
I glanced across at my mother and sighed
she, came over to me
Said grandpa passed last night in his sleep
And whispered
Remember, one day all of the old people will go!
all of the old people will go

The black, in mother’s hair turned grey
The blue in her eyes now washed away
I no longer fit on her knee
Those arms that cradled me now frail and weak
What was happening all around me ?
The world was aging at my feet!
She kissed me on the forehead and before she found her peace
Said remember those words I told you
Back when you were young and sweet
And it happened again, and again, and again
One minute I was young and carefree playing with my friends
But then I turned around, and realise I was all alone
And the words echo in my head
One day all the old people will go

Walking through the town I grew up
Cars, where once was cart and horse
Walk on past the church, where mother and grandfather lay
And now it collects my friends too
Every waking day, my bones more tired
and in this world more change
But I don’t know what I’m to do
Sometimes when I’m home all alone
I sit by the fire, amidst the embers glow
And wonder where did all the old people go?
Faded photo’s so their face I still see
In my dreams, they still talk to me
And whisper one day, all the old people will go
All the old people will go

My Brothers obituary lands at my feet
He was born when I was fourteen
Placed it neatly on the side
Stare at myself in the mirror and cried
Pull the black hat from its box
The smell of lily’s fill the air
Pull his shirt to my face, close my eyes and he is here
Open them again but there was nobody there  
And it happens again, and again and again
One minute you’re surrounded by loved ones, family and friends
Gathered in the church yard, still surrounded by loved ones, but all alone
Remembering the fact that one day all of the old people will go!
  Jun 2018 sheila sharpe
forestfaith
Shot Guns.
Lives gone.
Touched.
Trust is gone.
Verbal swords,
love gone.
We are not safe anymore.
Hard to trust.
Hard to feel safe.
Hard to feel quiet, at peace, when minds are feeling unsafe.
Hearts tensed up.
We can't even walk into the place we love without feeling afraid.
Just trust in God in these times.
He would guide and keep you,
all the days of your life...
all the time...
Shooting her and there, accidents here and there, people molested ***** even by their "trusted" ones. All around the news. Hardly any sense of safety or love or peace or joy anymore. All these are making people cold...
I come from sunlight,
      The sweeping of leaves,
      South London streets,
      Lurburnum seeds;
      Hot semolina,
      A spoonful of jam,
      Hands full of gooseberries,
      That's who I am.

      I come from rose petals,
      The sound of the fairs,
      The smell of candyfloss
      Mist in the air;
      I come from warmth,
      My parents hands,
      Outings to parks,
      Both small and grand.

     I come from knowledge,
     True and false,
     From nursery rhymes,
     And stories and pictures of God;
     I come from gentleness,
     A quiet afternoon,
     From visions of loveliness,
     Sewn on a spool.

    I come from two worlds,
    With different ways,
    A threaded pearl necklace,
    And sensible soles
    A mother and father,
    I think I knew,
    I came and I wandered,
    I looked at the view.

       By Mary **
Poem inspired by the Slam poets on BBC
  Jun 2018 sheila sharpe
Brandon Conway
A sweltering run through the pastoral streets
Past the chemical plant and decrepit machinery
A couple miles trekked for nature's delicious treats
Incardine specks and black dots poke through thick greenery

Step over the ditch into the smokey mud
Stick your hand in carefully, the cost just a little blood

A blackberry picked from the protective thorn
is sweeter than one picked from the grocery store
  Jun 2018 sheila sharpe
Brandon Conway
It was a warm June night
Swaying between two trees
You laid your head on my chest
The leaves whispered its sweet breeze
The lantern was set to low
While we read about that giant peach
Fireflies giving us a show
The AC shut off with a screech
You lifted your tiny head
Do you remember what you asked me?

Why do we never see mommy anymore?

Instead of telling you about the horror of drugs
I told you about the peace in death.
I love your hands
So beautiful
So strong
The way your fingers dance
upon the fretboard
as you play a song
The tenderness in your fingers
as they caress my cheek
something you always do
before drifting off to sleep
The warmth
of your hand
as I take yours in mine
As we stroll through the bush
birds singing
the weather fine
How gentle they are
As you hold
our grandbaby in your arms
Nurturing
full of love
and always so calm
Playing the guitar
made your hands strong
I love their beautiful shape
your loving fingers long
Never was into hands until I met my husband
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