"isobel" poems
I lay my hands over the rot
concealed within my belly
and imagine instead
I am ripe with a husband's love,
feeling for the beating warmth
of a life beginning inside
my desolate womb.
I await constantly
the trial of my womanly worth;
this man may be my judge.
©Isobel G. 15.02.2022
Apr 13, 2022
Apr 13, 2022 at 8:41 AM UTC
Abbie hailed a yellow top cabbie
Brenda had a sister in-law named Glenda
Cate ran late on her first date
Delly ate seven bowls of lemon jelly
Edwina drove to the town of Catalina
Fran burnt her finger on the very hot frying pan
Gwen had a strong yen to go and see her aunty Jen
Hope bought her husband a towing rope
Isobel fell under the magician's spell
Joann took her mother on a holiday in a caravan
Kylie went to the dentist with her brother Wylie
Lesley liked listening to Elvis Presley
Marcia enjoyed eating a freshly baked focaccia
Nell saw a turtle coming out of his shell
Olga lived at the top end of the river Volga
Primrose had a Pinocchio nose
Queenie knitted a multicolored beanie
Ruth could never tell the whole truth
Stacey loved playing dress ups with her friend Tracey
Tilly behavior was always rather silly
Una bought a house in the suburb of Yagonna
Verity wanted to be a well known celebrity
Winifred never stopped taking about Alfred
Xena was presented with a court subpoena
Yale told her teacher a tall tale
Zealand ventured out into the bushland
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
I was sitting on the steps of the wrong building —
two blocks over from The Vermont
awash in gold and the noble lights of the Avenue.
I was drunk,
or, there-abouts.
Isobel was coming.
I was sitting on the steps of the wrong building,
pulling the collar of my Burberry coat against my jaw and ears;
it was November and the concierge came out to ask me
if I’d like to come inside and wait —
“No, I’m good, Sir.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
What was two blocks?
I pull out my cellphone —
“Where are you?”
“My mom’s drunk.”
Code for: “I’m playing therapist.”
I’m almost out —
out of brain cells (really?”
out of patience
out of love
out of “it”
out of time — but,
the curious thing is,
I’m never almost out of money.
I notice him when he stops on the step
I sit on.
He’s a sterling silver chain,
the thin, delicate kind that breaks with a soft tug.
He looks down at me, eyes
the colour of darkened ice,
not softened by the yellow lights
raining down from under the awning.
“Do you live here?”
“Where is “here”?”
He laughs. Smiles. “The Florence.”
He’s beautiful,
the way a poppy is beautiful,
transparent,
saying so much with his flushed cheeks
and dark eyes,
so full of life and resembling something or, someone, dead —
“Lest we forget,” whispered the corpse,
ouvert,
in the slush of Alsace-Lorraine.
He sits beside me, shoulder warm,
firm — he’s a guy, but he’s so ******* beautiful —
I want to touch him,
brush his cheek as if he’s a rose protruding
from the briar, the thorny path —
not pick him, because he’s too beautiful,
too tragic, and I don’t want to **** him; —
“Where do you live?”
He’s smoking like a flower.
I want to lie. I don’t.
“The Vermont.”
His expression doesn’t change,
remains soft, his eyes stay ice.
He looks away.
I’ll uproot him and plant him in richer soil,
I won’t be looking into ice,
no more mirror,
but, the sky after rain,
the soft fragrant grey,
so much light.
“What’s that? Two blocks?”
“Yeah.”
He rubs his face.
He has sensitive skin,
red upon contact with the cuff
of his wool coat.
“I’ll walk you.”
“Please.”
I stand up slowly and breathe in cold air
and vapour.
Out comes alcohol.
“You’re drunk?”
“I was.”
“Your laces are undone.”
“Are they?”
I look down at him,
he’s laughing,
lowering his head at my knees
and I feel something despite myself —
warmth in my chest,
accompanied by a warmth in my abdomen,
tensing.
“I’ll fix them.”
I watch him, shoulders moving under his coat,
and I imagine him higher,
on his knees and,
a little higher,
stop myself with:
“I’m not a child.”
He stops — I stop him.
He looks up;
his lashes are like glass.
“I want to kiss you.”
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
** I wrote this long ago for a friend with cancer - a small malignancy the size of a pearl in her lung. The hateful thing metastasised to her pancreas after two years in the shadows - she lost her battle last week. She was 73. She was firm friends with my mother my entire life, and her own children Isobel and Craig are like my own flesh and blood. I was unable to attend the funeral due to ill health, but she requested this poem be read out at her funeral - I'm sharing it here as a tribute to her, and I've changed names to preserve her privacy and dignity. **
This kingdom's hewn of time and words
And glances flashing over
Shadows, shapes and silhouettes
And pearls of smoke and ochre.
Rude invaders! Generals!
Who dares encroach our borders?
"Naught but pearls my princess, so
We strike! At dawn! No quarter!".
Set shoulders low and feet aplant
And curl your fingers slowly.
Your enemy is swift and lean,
Ten thousand times below you.
No mercy from a princess who
Instilled in fresh disciples
Wisdom, courage, whimsy, love and
When it's called for... rifles.
Gather muskets! Catapults!
Oh marshalls! Summon nurses!
The game's afoot and outcomes?
Well, who dwells on whom we versus?
For masses swell behind you and your
Gleaming armour guides us.
Swords aflame! We saw! We came!
Wakes of pearls behind us!
Ten years hence, one hundred, more
Louises, Davids, Andrews,
Will sing with you your victory,
Sandy Alexandrou.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 6:38 AM UTC
Mummy,
Happy birth-mothersday
Throw ya toast out the window
Feed it to the dog
Kiss me with your laughing eyes
Kiss me kindly with your lips
Touch my cheek with your smooth brown hands
Not one more time
But forever more times please Mum
Let's get ***** growing potatoes
Let's get paint on the carpet
Let's write love notes on the walls
Like all normal people do
Tell me to make you a cuppa tea.
(I'm turning into you mum.)
Sing my songs to me mummy
Tell me about Rindacella again
please tell me how she slopped her dripper on the stairs
Can you hear the morepork Mummy? Listen with me
Did you see that shootin' star?
Are you smelling these trees?
Wrap me up in itchy woollen cardies
Put my odd socks on
Puddle jumpin' in my gummies
In a land called Honalee
I'll climb into bed with you tonight
Lace bedspread catching my toes
Curl up in the nest of the crook of your knees
It's cold, sleep back-to-back
Dance in front of my friends if you like
They all think you're cool
Sorry I didn't tell you.
Teenagers ****
Tell me I'm amazing
Adventurous and strong
Your courageous daughter
Smart and beautiful
Remind me I can sail ships through storms
That God is always close
Pray over me and praise with me
Read the bible again to me
Come play piano with Isobel
Or computer games if you like
I think I've killed your Farmville farm
Sorry .
Mummy
Chat with me on Facebook
Ocean's teacher likes Donald Trump
Be outraged with me please
Come with me to the school
I'll hide behind your storm
People aren't afraid of my
Gentle, steady rain
I think I hear my babies stirring
They're amazing Mum
You should see the stuff they do and say
You should see how fierce they are
You should. You should. You should.
Be. Here.
They're creeping round the house now
Making my heart laugh
I better open up my bedroom window
Ready for the toast.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 10:44 PM UTC
Inspired by Neil Diamond's "Morningside"
A tale of when an old man died,
Of nights spent alone, and days that I've cried,
For my children
This poem is real, this poem is me,
Far from the person each one of you see,
Depression, emptiness, a life I can't flee,
For my children.
By mistakes a plenty, my life defined,
The gift I hold, verses from what's on my mind,
A tormented soul, with the words I've signed,
For my children.
Emilia and John, years spent apart,
Thinking back each night, tearing at my heart,
To go back in time, and correct from the start,
For my children.
Isobel and Lydia, off doing their things,
Watching them flourish, the joy that it brings,
Two ladies growing, in my heart it sings,
For my children.
And obviously Ben, my Junior Sharkbait,
My final reason to smile, this tiny wee mate,
Giving me purpose, keeping life great,
For my children.
People believe as a dad I am good,
But I've let them all down far more than I should,
And I'd change it all for a chance that I could,
For my children.
As a father I know that I truly am blessed,
I've five stars that to me, are simply the best,
With their joy, love and laughter, my heart is caressed,
For my children.
But when I die, truth is sad,
Not a child will claim the gift I had,
The words I write become my epitaph,
For my children."
Cinco Espiritus Creation 2018
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 5:58 AM UTC
A poem runs just like the tide,
What word comes next, I must decide,
With words as water, they ebb and flow,
But how it ends, I don’t yet know.
A title from film, or even song lyric,
A spark will light, and then I click,
My fingers type, the poem forms,
Be it still of night, or as day dawns.
I use my words to create a verse,
I’m always thinking, a blessed curse,
I follow no plan, I write off the cuff,
So pardon me if some seem rough.
I use these words to ease my woes,
Wound so tight, sometimes it shows,
My poems help to set me free,
Not always good, but always me.
The style that suits, I make them rhyme,
I whip them out in lightening time,
The inner me is in them all,
You read each one, you will find Paul.
I write for causes of which I fight,
My inner soul as dark as night,
I share my hopes, I share my fears,
With more to come throughout the years.
My children are my creative spark,
They are my light when it gets dark,
John, Isobel, Lydia, Emilia, Ben,
You inspire me onwards, time and again.
We all have things held deep inside,
A truth we hold, that won’t be denied,
The reason why my poems thrive?
It’s simple, my sweet children five.
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2013
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 7:41 AM UTC
I knew that something was going on
When she went to walk each night,
Just on dusk when the tide swept in
With the blue moon of delight,
She never asked me to tag along
Though at times I thought she must,
We’d once been close, but the time was wrong
And our closeness turned to dust.
I stayed back up in the dunes while she
Took on the darkening shore,
It triggered memories held when we
Had walked it once before,
That gentle rise where the sand had dried
And we sat awhile and kissed,
Now I sat lonely and cold aside
Bemoaning what I’d missed.
I didn’t follow along the beach
Too scared what I might find,
A lovers tryst in the dark I feared
That might upset my mind,
I knew my temper was short and so
I feared what might be done,
Out there, and under a hasty moon
Might see me overcome.
The moon was skirting the ocean’s rim
The stars were riding high,
My only thought as she disappeared,
In a single word, was ‘Why?’
I wondered what the attraction was
That would take her away each night,
Would leave me sat alone in the gloom
Like a pensive troglodyte.
It had to come to an end, I knew
So I strode along the beach,
Followed the trail of footprints where
The tide had failed to reach,
Till sudden, there was the sweetest song
On the wind, I ever knew,
And there was Isobel, sitting rapt
While the notes came fast and few.
And on a rock set above the tide
Sat the singer of the song,
The perfect form of a sweet mermaid
With her tail, so curved and long,
But then she gave out a sudden cry
When she saw my shadow fall,
And slithered back off the rock, to swim
Below to the mermaids’ hall.
‘Why did you come,’ said Isobel,
‘Why did you have to pry,
She’ll never come to the shore again
To sing to the empty sky.’
I turned and ran from her angry gaze
But at least I now know why,
She sits at night in the moon’s half light
And I often hear her cry.
David Lewis Paget
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC