As you've probably gathered by now, I love writing poetry and I like to write personal poetry for myself and to share with others.
I am inspired by beautiful places, special people in my life, fond memories of childhood and family, new and interesting ideas.
I like to write poetry using accessible and colourful language - when you read it you can understand it and say"yeah I like that, I feel that, I know that..."
I say good morning
I say good morning to the mountain,
She stands there stronger than I.
Her heaped bare body rises from turpentine hills,
Her lines show the wisdom of her soul.
Her mood will change in the sun and the season.
On dark days water may scar her face.
She is close, but I do not touch her,
She is basalt and brown and far too wild.
Sometimes, when no one is looking,
I bow down and worship her.
I call out to her in some foreign tongue
That seems right at the time.
I am not native, not from local stock,
Have lived here for the last ten summers,
And I say good morning to a mountain
And I feel at home.
Copyright Roberta Shaw © 2003
I say good morning to the mountain,
She stands there stronger than I.
Her heaped bare body rises from turpentine hills,
Her lines show the wisdom of her soul.
Her mood will change in the sun and the season.
On dark days water may scar her face.
She is close, but I do not touch her,
She is basalt and brown and far too wild.
Sometimes, when no one is looking,
I bow down and worship her.
I call out to her in some foreign tongue
That seems right at the time.
I am not native, not from local stock,
Have lived here for the last ten summers,
And I say good morning to a mountain
And I feel at home.
Copyright Roberta Shaw © 2003
.jpg)
Sitting Pretty
( 1st prize Waxing Lyrical Competition October 2004)
Sitting in sunshine, watching you-
Standing in wood and sawdust,
Looking at your land
and grinning.
Talking to birds you think
are now your friends.
Looking across hilled grass
to fenceless forests of a bold mountain.
Searching for cows that justify an image
And leaping forward with plans and ideas
of tea and good conversation
on a gently sculptured afternoon verandah.
Sitting in sunshine, knowing you more-
Tapping into thoughts before they are ready,
Finding good things to notice
in the comfortable arms of a dreamer.
Seeing the clever, funny side
of the man who cares for me,
Working out what makes you happy
and finding it easy,
Really.
Copyright Roberta Shaw © 2003
( 1st prize Waxing Lyrical Competition October 2004)
Sitting in sunshine, watching you-
Standing in wood and sawdust,
Looking at your land
and grinning.
Talking to birds you think
are now your friends.
Looking across hilled grass
to fenceless forests of a bold mountain.
Searching for cows that justify an image
And leaping forward with plans and ideas
of tea and good conversation
on a gently sculptured afternoon verandah.
Sitting in sunshine, knowing you more-
Tapping into thoughts before they are ready,
Finding good things to notice
in the comfortable arms of a dreamer.
Seeing the clever, funny side
of the man who cares for me,
Working out what makes you happy
and finding it easy,
Really.
Copyright Roberta Shaw © 2003
Missing You
Missing you is
The bucket without the water,
(mother without the daughter?)
Work without achievement,
Death without bereavement.
Missing you is
Meat without the gravy,
Goodbyes with no wavy,
Books without the print,
Eyes that have no glint.
Missing you is
The wedding without the dress,
Creativity with no mess,
The coldness of my bed,
The confusion in my head.
Missing you is
Big ears without Noddy,
Love without your body,
The pain within my heart,
The fact that we're apart.
Know what I would like to do?
I'd like to really be with you,
Then 'missing' wouldn't even be
Part of my vocabulary.
Copyright Roberta Shaw ©1993
Missing you is
The bucket without the water,
(mother without the daughter?)
Work without achievement,
Death without bereavement.
Missing you is
Meat without the gravy,
Goodbyes with no wavy,
Books without the print,
Eyes that have no glint.
Missing you is
The wedding without the dress,
Creativity with no mess,
The coldness of my bed,
The confusion in my head.
Missing you is
Big ears without Noddy,
Love without your body,
The pain within my heart,
The fact that we're apart.
Know what I would like to do?
I'd like to really be with you,
Then 'missing' wouldn't even be
Part of my vocabulary.
Copyright Roberta Shaw ©1993
This next poem 'December Child' is from my
"First House" collection - about a small child walking home from school in the Australian summer.
"First House" collection - about a small child walking home from school in the Australian summer.
It is December hot,
No breeze yet.
The hill is steeper than yesterday,
The heat feels exactly the same.
Straw hat sits limply,
Satchel drags heavy,
I dawdle in daydream,
Again and again.
Touching pink petals,
Counting the pickets,
Avoiding cracks that the devil made.
My cheeks are red,
(they always are on hot days),
My freckles are shouting for shade.
Thoughts race to the wrought iron gate,
To the green edged path,
To the back screen door,
To the black and white squares
Of the lino floor,
To the cool hands of a kind mum
and her voice so sweet,
As I slump in the wicker chair
And the blood rushes down to my feet.
It is three o'clock hot.
Almost there.
Sixty one sixty two sixty three,
Petunia puppets welcome me.
Little steps lengthen,
Faster the pace,
And I don't hide
the satisfied smile from my face.
Copyright Roberta Shaw © 2004
Nana's couch was safe and comfortable and special.
What was your favorite place at home?
Warning: The ending is a little sad.
Feathered
The Roseville lounge had plump feathered cushions,
Piped edged cushions on a body round and slow,
Sanderson printed on dark crimson cotton,
Bold white pattern of lilies I know.
Sinking feathers, lovely to lie on,
Grubby feet dangling just on the side,
A place for jumping when no one was looking,
Behind the back, secrets and somewhere to hide.
Bed for a small child with fever and chicken pox,
Sipping hot lemon in the softness of the sea,
Sometimes four fitting in like a family,
Me in the middle is where I want to be.
Leaving nana behind us we still came to visit,
It sat in the same place, the wallpaper new,
And at seventy nine when she died in the same house,
The sad feather lounge died a little bit too.
So taking it with us,
No one else wanted
An old couch with feathers and arm rests gone bare,
It sat at Mount Irvine in front of the fire,
and I nursed my first baby,
Something safe there.
Then we danced and we drifted,
Possessions meant nothing.
My place in the world was more on my mind.
And so, when we rented
that flat in the city-
Too much trouble,
Too heavy,
We just left it behind.
Copyright Roberta Shaw © 2005 revised
What was your favorite place at home?
Warning: The ending is a little sad.
Feathered
The Roseville lounge had plump feathered cushions,
Piped edged cushions on a body round and slow,
Sanderson printed on dark crimson cotton,
Bold white pattern of lilies I know.
Sinking feathers, lovely to lie on,
Grubby feet dangling just on the side,
A place for jumping when no one was looking,
Behind the back, secrets and somewhere to hide.
Bed for a small child with fever and chicken pox,
Sipping hot lemon in the softness of the sea,
Sometimes four fitting in like a family,
Me in the middle is where I want to be.
Leaving nana behind us we still came to visit,
It sat in the same place, the wallpaper new,
And at seventy nine when she died in the same house,
The sad feather lounge died a little bit too.
So taking it with us,
No one else wanted
An old couch with feathers and arm rests gone bare,
It sat at Mount Irvine in front of the fire,
and I nursed my first baby,
Something safe there.
Then we danced and we drifted,
Possessions meant nothing.
My place in the world was more on my mind.
And so, when we rented
that flat in the city-
Too much trouble,
Too heavy,
We just left it behind.
Copyright Roberta Shaw © 2005 revised
341 Mt Coxcombe Rd
Upper Lansdowne NSW Australia 2430
+61 265569174 (aust 02 65569174)
Mob: 61408979747 (aust 0408979747)
Email: info@happypoemsforyou.com
ABN:24387753073
Personalised custom poems
for weddings, birthdays and all happy occasions
Personal Poems
2008 Happy Poems for You. All Rights Reserved.
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |