poem

Miscarriage

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Miscarriage
By Anne E Thompson

You stand as the beautiful girl I loved,
But I know,
Inside you are deformed by grief.
A hunched old woman,
Clutching emotions tightly,
Lest another should shatter,
Into artery slicing shards.
Pools of laughter have bled from your eyes,
They harbour the shadows of ghosts.
The dead are in everything you see.
Your words, sane, pleasant, kind,
Carefully constructed in your mind,
Never touching your heart.
The core of you is gone.
I live beside the puppet you.
And wonder if you,
The real you,
Can grow again.

Order

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Order
by Anne E Thompson

She tidied up,
Resigned her job,
She tidied up,
Paid all bills.
She tidied up,
Found a cleaner.
She tidied up,
Trained the dog.
She tidied up,
Left recipes.
She tidied up,
Found appliance manuals.
She tidied up,
Threw out memories.
She tidied up,
Took the gun
And removed her brain.

The Mother

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The Mother

I ease the chalk white torpedo through the foil,
Releasing it from the clinical plastic capsule.
Held lightly, so lightly, in my hand,
As I imagine what might be.
How I would welcome oblivion.
Then I think of you;

How your face shines at the simple delight
Of a favourite food,
How you chatter endlessly about your day,
Carelessly scattering love.
You need routine and security,
You deserve to feel safe.

Then I consider what might be.
Your bewilderment and distress
Your life-long wondering “Why?”
The fear it was your fault.

So I will continue to wade
Through the murky darkness
Of black treacle depression.
And I will fail,
I will be the mother who is lost,
Or late,
Or who forgets to return forms.
Who shouts when she is tired,
And sometimes cries.

But at the end of time,
When you stand before me
And confess I failed as a mum,
I will know, that at least
You had one.

God’s Body

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God’s Body
The
Body
Was created
to travel and move
and grow and
touch others
The
brain
was told the
route. The eyes saw
where there were dangers. The feet walked on and on.
The legs used strength to keep up. Everything worked and
The body was strong and grew and travelled. But. One day, a hand
slipped into a warm
pocket, thinking,
“The other hand
can do my work,
it’s warm in here.”
And no one noticed.
Body travelled on. He
reached a gate. One hand,
working alone could not undo
the latch. “It’s fine,”thought brain,
“Foot can do it, he has toes.”But
foot could not. So body had to
climb through hedge. This took
longer. Foot got a thorn in heel.
No one cared though. Legs and
stomach said, “It’s fine, we can
cope, we can slither.” So they
did. But now body was low.
Mud went in eye.
Nose complained,
he had to sniff
the route
and breathe.
It was too hard.
Brain tried to think of a solution.
So he stopped listening to directions.
The body fell. Into a pit. Body is hurt,
blind, crippled, fallen, weak.
Then God, in wondrous grace and kindness, gently helps hand from pocket.
He lifts body to his feet once more and sets him back onto the right path.
The body begins to move and travel and grow until at last he can touch others.

Family Battles

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Family Battles
by Anne E Thompson

I felt your rage today,
Your teenage venom,
As you slammed your fist,
Eyes spitting hatred
Because you had lost a book.
And I could have won,
I could have cried.
And you would back away
In surprised confusion.
But then you would have
No safe haven
In which to dump your anger.

You argued with me today.
With vicious words and
Cruel tongue to justify
A selfish action.
And I could have won,
I could have mocked
And wounded your pride,
Belittled confidence.
But then you would have
No self esteem,
My sneer would damage you.

You slammed a door today
And refused to help
When you broke a vase,
Not caring at all,
Absorbed only in your world.
And I could have won.
I could have sulked,
Withdrawn lifts and treats,
Not listened anymore.
But then you would have
No assurance
That I always forgive.

So I let you win,
And correct softly
When you abuse rights.
For one day you will be grown,
Calm and mature,
Confident, secure
And you will look at life
with love.
And then at last
I will truly
Have won.

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Home Time

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Home Time

by Anne E Thompson

Lurching across the road,
In testosterone fueled bravado,
The tide of newly grown men,
Blustered loudly towards home.

Untucked scrumpled white shirts,
In conformity spurned denial,
With ties asunder,
Blazers flapping loosely.

Untied shoes scuffed of all polish,
Heavy bags slung with ease across shoulders,
Carrying books and study guides,
Pens by the dozen
And yesterday’s forgotten lunch.

Obscenity smattered jokes,
Accompany loose lipped laughter,
While they mock and abuse
In affection filled farewells,
As their paths diverge,
For another day.

Night Sounds

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Night Sounds.

Anne E Thompson

APPRENTICE AUTHOR

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Night Sounds

Night Sounds
by Anne E Thompson

As she lay resting after a long day,
The sound of breaking glass shattered the peace.
She frowned and rolled over,
Knowing the cat must have knocked a vase.
There followed a scream and a steady drip,
And she sighed,
For the pet must then have slipped.

There was a click and footsteps on wood.
She nestled deeper into her pillow,
For there were often draughts and floorboard creak.
A sound on the landing,
She pulled the cover close to her cheek,
The tree outside must be blown ‘gainst the window.

A muffled cry and heavy thud
And she snuggled deeper still,
A restless child must have knocked a book,
And the scratch and drag she now could hear,
Must be mice again, seeking warmth.
Then there was peace and she slept on.

In the brittle sunlight of a new day,
She went downstairs to find,
A smashed window and strangled cat,
Blood soaked footprints across the mat
That lead upstairs and her child was gone.
The only sound was her scream that lingered
On and on.

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It’s a Wrapper on the Floor Mum!

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It’s a Wrapper on the Floor Mum!.

Anne E Thompson

APPRENTICE AUTHOR

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It’s a Wrapper on the Floor Mum!

It’s a Wrapper on the Floor Mum
by Anne E Thompson

“There’s a letter from my school mum,
‘Bout a trip to test the sea.
I don’t really want to go tho’
“Cos is only Geography.
I need you to ‘phone my teacher mum,
I seem to have lost a book,
And my shorts are missing too,
Yes, I hung them on my hook.”

“But there isn’t any homework,
It’s just revision instead,
Yes, I’ve prop’ly cleaned up already,
The cup is under the bed.
I need you to buy more shower gel,
The toothpaste ran out last week.
I’ll phone her when I have time,
But don’t expect me to speak.”

“It’s a wrapper on the floor Mum,
Not the start of world war three.
There’s a party at Bill’s ’til late,
‘Fraid I think I’ve lost my key.
The dust will be there tomorrow Mum,
I like my clothes on the floor.
Those socks aren’t mine anyway,
Could you please just shut my door.”

ONE THOUGHT ON “IT’S A WRAPPER ON THE FLOOR MUM!”

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Rebecca

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Rebecca

 by Anne E. Thompson

When I first saw you,

I looked into your eyes,

And saw my own.

My head,

My nose,

In miniature.

You helplessly

Demanded food,

And I was lost,

In love for you.

I knew,

Without a doubt,

If I needed to,

I would die

For you.

3 THOUGHTS ON “REBECCA”

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Who Knows the Girl with the Dancing Black Eyes?

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Who Knows the Girl with the Dancing Black Eyes?

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20094900 - CopyHave you seen the girl with the dancing black eyes?
With the bubbles of laughter,
And chuckling stomach thrust forward
In mischievous game.
An exuberant bundle of fun.

20094900 - Copy

Who provides for the girl with the dancing black eyes?
What cost the torn red dress patterned with white?
Do you sell your body,
Abandon safety and pride to a willing stranger?
Or do you wear down sore fingers
Making rugs from rags?
Or is it begged from tourists,
With outstretched hand and pitiful eyes
And gentle tugs at their clothes?20094904 - Copy

Who cares for the girl with the dancing black eyes?
Who pulls back her fringe with elastic hair band?
Gives her food and cuddles
And notices should she wander?
Who knows her feet are sore and red
As she dances over rubbish strewn paths?
Who shelters her from rain,
Pain,
Or harm?
Who loves the girl with the dancing black eyes?

20094913 - Copy

     When we were in Mumbai, David visited the surrounding slums to see some of the work that Tearfund is doing. I was ill and stayed in the hotel room but when he returned, I could see from the tension in his face that he had seen some sad sights. As he carefully removed his clothes and sealed them into a plastic bag, I could guess at the hygiene standards in the slum.

   We then looked at his photographs. He had taken several of a ‘street’ in the slums and there was the little girl. We have no idea who she is, but she is clearly having a laugh and teasing someone inside the make-shift house. She is laughing with her whole being. Something about her tugged at my heart. Every fibre of my maternal being wanted to take her home, wash and dress her and take her to school. Clearly it was more appropriate to instead give money to a charity that could improve her situation in her own home but I cannot forget her. She is the screen saver on my computer and reminds me that when I think life is hard, I do not really know what ‘hard’ is. When I raise money to be used in India, it is her laugh that motivates me.

  You can read more of Tearfund’s work in Mumbai at http://www.tearfund.org

If you enjoyed this poem, you might enjoy:

https://anneethompson.com/poems/african-poems/tearfund-poems-fear-and-funeral/

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