I am now located in Cheshire and a member of the Vale Royal Writers Group and Blaze Mid-Cheshire Stanza. Hope to be posting more after being absent for some months.  Happy reading!

Island

When they met she was in black –
her red lips a splash of hope –
and he caught her by the door:
she had stopped in the light,
named by the etched glass,

a kiss before he left for the boat.
It was one remembered by her
but was not spoken of until
she was forced to admit the truth.

Summer was the time we travelled
away from the city to new places
where sea scented the days mingling
with fruits from her orchard.

We gulped thyme, garlic that grew
wild on the hills above the bay,
broke the glass water as a pair
of eagles frolicked over the island.

Her cups were stacked carefully,
brought out for tea when guests came
together with cake stacked
neatly on stands above white cloths,
so the ceremony would always be perfect.

The city clouds, the moist heat had thrust
me inside. I found a photo of them
taken in that lost light.

Carolyn O’Connell
August 2017
Submitted to Reach Poetry September 2017
Published Reach 229 October 2017
and in Beneath the Blue Bridge Anthology VRWG 2018

Winter Beech

The beach trees were shining gold
suddenly the white flakes came
the dropping temperature plunging
the garden into silent white

but still the blackbirds flew
seeking sustenance among stalks
of newly planted shrubs peeking
from above the winter’s path.

I watch them from above
sealed by a screen of glass
remembering snow in another garden
far away in time and place.

Carolyn O’Connell
December 2017

Finding your love

Hidden in your briefcase I found this poem
I’d written it to you as a gift on our Silver Wedding Day
never knowing you’d kept it perhaps read it
as you travelled to work, I never knew!

When I found I cried, for you had died.
We will never celebrate another anniversary
for you are gone and I am packing memories
into the box, and the box of my heart.

18-4-1994

Two dozen summers, springs and falls
each season’s change we’ve seen
their promise, glory; gleaning we have known
and winter’s chills did feel.

Where they went I do not know
they passed – as turning tides,
yet you have made the Maytime years
a chain of sparkling blossoms picked
morning fresh as for a bride.

Whether we reach a haven like that depicted here
or destined we remain
within the city’s hassle, its struggle or domain,
I have, with the dew dropped blossom
you’ve given with the years, a haven
secret in my heart to hold my love with you.

A tall strong son with manly grace
a daughter to enchant,
are blessings that we offer to
a future still in dark.
If no more we lie beneath bright stars
as in our courting days – it matters not
for creaking limbs need duvet’s down to play.

To Silver and Gold let go –
with courage and our love
may God’s grace keep us close my love
His blessings still to know.

So with me here beside you
let’s celebrate our date….This Anniversary of Our Wedding Day. Carolyn O’Connell
Submitted to Reach Poetry 5/9/2017 Published Reach Poetry 232 Jan 2018

Raised Hands

Over oceans of ideas, cultures, and countries
raised hands rise to support, supplant
the rulers whether democrats, dictators
oligarchs they face each other for a time
then time rolls on fading them into
sepia images rattling history.

They leave a thread of wounds and horror
littering the globe with tears, mourning hands
uplifted, pleading for justice, return of lands
even from long forgotten graves they rise:

but the hands unnoticed rise to comfort
from hearts torn in silent breasts
calling in deeds of kindness to the outcast
defying the power of the tyrant unopposed.

Carolyn O’Connell
March 2018

Published on the Be Zine .com 16 April 2018

Castaway

From this grey moon-dust
I see my home rise
as a child’s marble –
remembering
the games, tunes of childhood,
my mother singing “Hey Jude”

or thinking of your ring;
a cabochon fire opal
catching sunshine
as we kissed when we danced
to Oasis as morning broke.

Castaway with no way back
I watch for home to rise
from jet night, ribbon stars
firework comet tails threading orbits,

think of you asleep beneath
the water blanket encasing
the home we knew and loved before

I left for this desert. No island
no disc, no luxury but only
my thoughts, memories and love
to hold until they rescue or air expires.

Carolyn O’Connell

Published Reach Poetry 197 January 2015

Source: Building Freedom

Source: The Sacrificial Lambs?

Source: Confrontation

I remember a farm where grasses grew
wild flowers scattered over their jewels
enriching the meadows where cattle grazed
and every August with horses we made hay.

The land was productive and the cattle thrived
and gentle the rain that watered the soil:
the summers were long and the children swam
in the waves lapping beaches of silvered sand,

for the cattle provided pure milk by the gallon
that was milked every morning and collected
in churns, it tasted so sweet fresh from the udder.

The grasses provided sweet hay for both horse cattle.
I remember the haymaking, pitching grass on the fork;
the haycocks rising their mounds on the fields
to dry in the long days of summer’s sure sun,

but that was before the farms turned to spreading
chemicals promising ever increasing production
the flowers vanished together with the bees and
the meadows no longer held cattle and horses,
for the cattle are housed in great lines of production

and their milk is pumped into vats for pasteurisation.
Its delivered in plastic that needs recycling or lands
in the sea we once swam in so freely but now is awash
with fish that are dying and fishermen’s catches grow

ever smaller as the boats that caught mackerel no longer
tie-up at the jetty we walked to on Sundays, to buy mackerel
for dinner – they’re gone with the summer and the pure spring
water we drank by the bucket from the clear mountain stream.

© 2017, Carolyn O’Connell

Source: Loki’s Pranks | Carolyn O’Connell

Consultation

She sat at her desk
stern, yet welcoming
almost a mother but barred by time

as the watery day threw pebbles
on the dirty window
matching the mood

she listened as we described
the chines we’d encountered
cliffs, drifts, rocks
of the climb, before the final fall

into the unknown air
of this unspeakable mountain
to a space of no return.

She offered no resistance
but like a mother
tucking her child to sleep
offered her helping lullaby

a small song of comfort
lightening the fear of sleep
welcome as hope of rescue.

Carolyn O’Connell
February 2017

Published Reach Poetry 223 April 2017

Source: Spread of Fear