"bullseye" poems - Hello Poetry

Something about the woven leather Reminds me of sandals you once wore, In the garden enjoying the sun. Your shorts and that old cotton vest the one that was probably once white, but Nanny wasn't around to do your whites anymore, and so it grew greyer as your hair grew whiter. The sun's rays danced through the waves of your hair and into the garden, Filling it with light, shining down upon plastic flowers planted among coloured stones. Smells of stale cakes from bargain stalls and the sugar from flat lemonade in murky cups wafted out the back door and clashed with that overpowering cooking smell as you sat in your sun lounger and baked yourself in vegetable oil, cooking your Irish skin to a crisp! The flower patterns of your walls in the garden and cast iron patio furniture, The plastic mat that covered the carpet and always managed to trip us, The halogen heater in the parlour and blanket on your knees, The clumps of bullseye sweets in your locker and Quality Street tin of empty wrappers, The damp and stale smells of the kitchen in your care, The holy pictures and moving Jesus on the stairs, The bath marbles we loved to play with and how they'd smash upon collision, And the pink, silk quilt that enveloped your bed, They're all pieces in the mosaic that illustrates your memory now and they'll never be broken. I've glued them so tightly together it's as strong as your jaw! Your jaw, always known to make eyes water when you'd turn during a goodbye kiss on your cheek and crush our noses! Even when we tried to approach with caution! But oh what anyone of us wouldn't give to feel that again, just to say goodbye and think we'd be over to the Bluebell to see you again. So now I sit and look at the woven leather on my sandals and remember all the details, all the memories that are woven together to make you. Sometimes I wish I could click the heels together. Bluebell Bluebell Bluebell And be back in that garden, once more.

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Sep 20, 2016

Sep 20, 2016 at 5:41 AM UTC

sorcha

Grandad Kinsella's Sandals

Something about the woven leather Reminds me of sandals you once wore, In the garden enjoying the sun. Your shorts and that old cotton vest the one that was probably once white, but Nanny wasn't around to do your whites anymore, and so it grew greyer as your hair grew whiter. The sun's rays danced through the waves of your hair and into the garden, Filling it with light, shining down upon plastic flowers planted among coloured stones. Smells of stale cakes from bargain stalls and the sugar from flat lemonade in murky cups wafted out the back door and clashed with that overpowering cooking smell as you sat in your sun lounger and baked yourself in vegetable oil, cooking your Irish skin to a crisp! The flower patterns of your walls in the garden and cast iron patio furniture, The plastic mat that covered the carpet and always managed to trip us, The halogen heater in the parlour and blanket on your knees, The clumps of bullseye sweets in your locker and Quality Street tin of empty wrappers, The damp and stale smells of the kitchen in your care, The holy pictures and moving Jesus on the stairs, The bath marbles we loved to play with and how they'd smash upon collision, And the pink, silk quilt that enveloped your bed, They're all pieces in the mosaic that illustrates your memory now and they'll never be broken. I've glued them so tightly together it's as strong as your jaw! Your jaw, always known to make eyes water when you'd turn during a goodbye kiss on your cheek and crush our noses! Even when we tried to approach with caution! But oh what anyone of us wouldn't give to feel that again, just to say goodbye and think we'd be over to the Bluebell to see you again. So now I sit and look at the woven leather on my sandals and remember all the details, all the memories that are woven together to make you. Sometimes I wish I could click the heels together. Bluebell Bluebell Bluebell And be back in that garden, once more.