Poetry Blog by Frances Macaulay Forde (2017)
This poem was written for submission to the 'Rhino in a Shrinking World' Anthology Irish/South African poet, Harry Owen was putting together. It was not included but I am still proud of it and treasure my copy of the beautifully illustrated, published anthology. http://www.kariega.co.za/about-us/help-save-our-rhino-project
Imagine slow, deep heart beats
Friday 20th October 2017 4:55 am
I'm posting this after reading Chris Hubbard's poem about the Nullabour.
(Photo: my hubby and daughter at the launch of the anthology where this poem was first published.)
before cultivation the water flowed
bouncing on leaves falling, falling
to pool on fertile forest floor below
before cultivation the water flowed
flora bursting with life and c...
Wednesday 18th October 2017 5:52 am
A Muslim science teacher in a US school,
OKays a student making a clock in a briefcase,
‘But don’t show it to the other teachers...’
A ‘gag’, lesson or unconscious irony; perhaps
deliberate indoctrination of the young - coolness.
I don’t trust it – I remember recent past mistakes.
A belief that no-one could be so cruel, so calculated
as to mur...
Monday 21st August 2017 3:54 am
(This free verse is from my 1968 teenage notebook... )
Did you know that Cancer
was compatible with Virgo?
Well, it is.
So now, you
should take notice of me.
You’re so tall
you have to bend
to come through the door.
I’m so small
I have to jump
to reach the top shelf.
Funny, hey, that I
should fancy you
Wednesday 16th August 2017 2:48 am
ROOTS & WINGS
When someone asks for a memory
of Africa, I always remember
those dusty hours spent outside
Katie’s Khaya under the Mopani…
Quiet melodious chattering,
the smell of sunshine and family.
Bright white sudza plops in the pot
while bundu sticks crackled with fire.
Low stools where we crouched
in total concentration on a square
of a dozen small indents for stones,
Tuesday 15th August 2017 10:34 am
Tall Tree Tanka
too many enjoy trying
to fell tall trees
when they should be hugged.
We need to learn to look up.
Frances Macaulay Forde © 2014
Monday 31st July 2017 3:48 am
It unites us.
to have choices.
Whether to work or laze.
Decide our futures
instead of waiting for opportunity.
The universal language of neednot greed.
We’ve lost control.
Caught up in the flow
of magazine lifestyle.
The one we desire and reality.
To walk through town
not asking the price.
Carrying the l...
Monday 24th July 2017 2:34 am
“Is this the point where you tell me
you’ve been bullshitting all along?"
This comment, at 12.33pm on Messenger,
stopped me in my tracks – I had to
Why say that? Is this where you are?
Role research? Experimenting on me?
I have opened the door for you once more.
You are the love of my life returned
to my room…
Friday 14th July 2017 4:30 am
Look what arrived in Perth, Western Australia, today!
I look forward to a cup of coffee and some peace and quiet to concentrate and enjoy 'After Hours', by David Cooke.
Thanks to the publisher, Bob Carling and (of course) David.
Friday 30th June 2017 6:11 am
Standing in reverence of a mighty giant
his Nobel words remembered, this fan notes
exaggerated bat-like shoulders enhance his
thoughtful gaze - watching the Horseman?
Others have stepped up on Galway stone; held
those long, thin legs as they balance, head bent
to leave a lipstick imprint of their awe for him
on the space his left hand noncha...
Saturday 24th June 2017 3:53 pm
Securely tuck your fears under elastic
at the centre of your waist with your left hand,
and with your right, hold the remaining
metres of spun silk - your future, facing inside.
Measure the drop of the fall
and it’s finely stitched edge
for correct positioning against heels.
Wrap yourself in the gossamer fold,
swirling the diaphanous film behind
but stay level ...
Thursday 22nd June 2017 2:21 am
Young woman sits
while an old man stands.
She gazes through layers
Does it screen
the opposite wall?
Can’t she read the
“Who are you fooling?”
Fake fur-collared jacket
and label shoes.
Large black leather bag
clutched to protect her
– it doesn’t – she’s mean!
The old man has turned
his neat and clean
but well-worn back
Monday 19th June 2017 4:37 pm
I’ve followed signs to Yield in Ireland
when I’m used to an Aussie Give Way.
As I put on bright lipstick, tell you stories
of Africa when we were both young,
I watch my words seduce you again.
You remember young Chianti;
full and round, ruby red, peppered
with berries. I remember
a Hotel in Kitwe - Blue Nun.
You say your taste has matured,
you now pr...
Thursday 8th June 2017 10:07 am
It takes all my strength to pull this life to me,
To claw and tear my way from one day to another
Not counting, just tearing one more here in the glow
of the sun suffocated by rays of light and warmth
holding tight to ties that bind. I want to keep
these precious feelings and bask in your love forever.
Frances Macaulay Forde © 2009
written to the artwork of Jessica M...
Friday 2nd June 2017 4:10 am
bookshops are like lovers
they numb in black & white
then seduce you with colour
titillate and tempt your soul
until you finally let go
find the courage to close
the book ~ pages which leave
you gasping ~ the breath of air
on your face feels like a slap
Frances Macaulay Forde © 2004
Saturday 13th May 2017 6:44 am
Hearing a Corella as it flies across grey skies, together.
Anticipating the squall, clearing showers of life.
Gutters flowing from Heaven to Earth,
giving birth to clean growth.
The sudden green as parched soil erupts with change.
A fresh day, sun rays, line of pinks or orange,
pale to a bright blue, herald the new;
promise of happiness to come.
Painting walls, ma...
Wednesday 3rd May 2017 2:06 am
I am many faceted
not see-through glass
I proudly wear my life colours
individuality scratched into my skin
gaze deeply into my painted experiences
shared memories etched in bright reflections
see strength and character in the vines which
grow in defiance - spirited independence in
the starbursts of my femininity - purposeful
illustrations of origina...
Friday 28th April 2017 2:03 am
An Easter Tragedy
At the Magistrate’s Court in Harare, a crowd gathered outside
weeping for men and women who carry an invisible cross.
Thousands have suffered at the hands of baton-wielding zealots,
masquerading as Police, in a land where lives have little price.
Is this commercialism gone mad? Trading in muscle and limbs
feeding their families with the blood of co...
Monday 17th April 2017 4:23 am
(I have the audio but can't seem to upload it here, it will only play on Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/francesmf/turning-the-page?in=francesmf/sets/poems-2014-sounded )
Turning the Page
you were focussed
on study so I waited
peeking through the crack
watched you turn a page
rushed to kiss you quick
I twirled to leave, let you
get back to reading
Sunday 9th April 2017 11:07 am
The Bar of Grief
Upturned bottles once lined with military order
on dusty, termite-rotten shelves. Fingerprints,
clear spaces of use, caught by the shafts of daylight
through pin-holes where nails have been.
A puddle of spilt pain, beneath an upturned bench.
Life, wasted in boozy stench lies forgotten,
punished for excess, while determined creatures
Tuesday 4th April 2017 6:36 am
Do you ever do an ego-search on Google? I did today and discovered and e-book available of all the poems I had posted on Poem Hunter probably up until 2004? They must be making money selling my (and all the other writers') poems on screen with the amount of advertising they have next to the most awful metalic automated voice readings, etc. https://www.poemhunter.com/i/ebooks/pdf/frances_macaulay...
Tuesday 4th April 2017 6:31 am
for ghosts of lovers past
Perfect recipes of want
Abundant beauty falls
shorter than ideal
Hope ever lives in one
who strives for vision
Reality proves tepid
in life-dreams eye
and Isradella cries
Disbelieve the sellers
Saturday 1st April 2017 3:02 am
Lakeside, I watch
the Coots bouncing
on top of the water.
They throw their heads
with intention and abandon.
Plunging - immersing themselves.
I want to bounce,
Plunge into you...
Frances Macaulay Forde © 2001
*Coots: small black waterbird related to Moorhens: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coot
(1st Pub. 'Hidden Capacity ~ a poet's jo...
Saturday 25th March 2017 4:33 am
Old-fashioned suitcases, the ones without wheels...
Such treasures themselves for the memories they held.
Skippered with no regard to a life-time of service,
disposed of - as I myself have been disposed of...
Perhaps a keen eye will fall over the rubbish bin’s wall
and take you home, give you a new life, if only
as under-bed storage. Or repa...
Monday 20th March 2017 3:40 am
Like Mr Bo...
my heart jangles
when your smile
misses your eyes.
The face of a clown
soft shoe shuffling
through my soul.
White hands clasped.
The generous frill
framing your mask,
flutters like a wing
across the circus tent
of my broken heart.
Funny shoes walk strong,
confidently skirting around
landmines of feeling
clothed in ...
Wednesday 15th March 2017 4:58 pm
I sat myself down on a low stone wall,
a semi-circle that splits St Mary’s Road in two.
I’m just visiting Midleton, you understand…
But I fancied a go at drawing that house -
number 23 – the smart one covered with ivy.
Everyone who passes offers a gentle smile,
a quickly delivered non-committal comment
about the bright, …hasn’t it turned lovely?
Thursday 9th March 2017 2:09 am
Suits and ties…
Your Corporate wardrobe titillates.
Challenges me to abandon -
invite you to swim with me –
in a sea wet with desire.
Throw off your hard shell,
your calm, controlled exterior
and reveal the let-go you.
The knot of your tie,
like seaweed trapping
the unaware swimmer,
restricting your neck -
Thursday 2nd March 2017 3:27 am
My mouth is a gun with a silencer, stopped
mid-sentence from telling you how I feel –
actions speak louder especially when they hurt!
You see, you say but I can’t speak. You speak,
I hear but no words are offered because I can’t reply.
I see, I hear so please, throw your words my way
so I can at least aim in silence.
Frances Macaulay Forde © 2009
Monday 27th February 2017 2:57 am
It’s not about pain
although each graphic tale
was born of needles...
It’s not about regrets
although in retrospect,
there is always blame...
It’s not even about relationships
although painted stories
pay homage to my past.
It’s actually about celebration:
love - my constant companion
nature - inspiring motivation.
Tuesday 21st February 2017 2:13 am
like a carrot
its peel flayed
in the rubbish bin
like a pale octopus
desperate to score.
Frances Macaulay Forde © 2013
Monday 20th February 2017 12:25 am
Tuesday 14th February 2017 7:01 am
And now, for something completely different.
Years ago I was employed by our major hospital to write an advertisement to be played on the Emergency Room TVs, in-house aimed at a mostly younger audience.
My script required visuals acted by Barbie and Ken dolls dancing to this song, at a party.
Listen here! Y’all need to know
Chlam – ydd-ee-ah Trach – o –mat – is is...
Saturday 11th February 2017 3:54 am
I recorded this on Soundcloud but can't see any other way to add it... https://soundcloud.com/francesmf/romance
beadwork is intricate
novel-like in the detail
the chase a known pattern
crochet hooks the reader
burrows through cotton/wool
knitting thrusts and parries
everything to do with
the size of the needle
and how it is manipulat...
Friday 3rd February 2017 3:02 am
Pigs might fly…
Who says they can’t?
Is there an omniscient
oinker monitor float-
ing in the same tree?
Who has the right
to tell watchers
that pigs might…?
In deepest despair
we need hope,
to fall back on.
A competitive spirit…
Who says we can’t?
I need to soar
above my world
Tuesday 31st January 2017 4:06 am
Nick Earls is only one of a dazzling array of Australian and International writers who will speak, discuss, workshop and generally promote words over three days, so don't miss out!
Thursday 26th January 2017 2:04 am