“You try to be …

English: Footsteps on Traigh Bail' a Mhuilinn

Footsteps on Traigh Bail’ a Mhuilinn (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“You try to be faithful
And sometimes you’re cruel.
You are mine. Then, you leave.
Without you, I can’t cope.

And when you take the lead,
I become your footstep.
Your absence leaves a void.
Without you, I can’t cope.

You have disturbed my sleep,
You have wrecked my image.
You have set me apart.
Without you, I can’t cope.”

― Rumi, Love: The Joy That Wounds: The Love Poems of Rumi

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STEALTHILY

Stealthily she comes,
at first a twinge in
the wrist or that
ache in the lower back

when you wake up, bend
or negotiate the
spiral stairs for the tube –
try to put on your shoe.

You tire, sighing
at the mirror, sighting
a crop of white;
People stand up for you

on trains and buses;
In cafes you stand out
for the choices
you make, your bent

qualifies you for a freedom
pass; you feel patronised
yet want to be prized
for your vintage

whose music no longer
appeals to their ears;
They think your birth
date is historical, hysterical

they ask how you are as if they expect
you will terminate any time soon.

You speak a language
that dates,
choose to visit places
auctioneers like on plates.

You forget why you went
down the high street;
remember the church lady
but not her name. Sweet.

Stealthily she comes,
this thing.

count the stairs.:-)

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

They call it ageing.

©Millicent Danker
16 June 2013

WHARF LIGHT

Crepuscular Rays

Crepuscular Rays (Photo credit: t0msk)

Overhead, the rolling ample sky –
ample because of building restrictions
which allow you to
sit by a river and look for miles
without a high-rise in sight –
Clouds turn silver
from ageing at twilight
mirrored by platinum ripples
on the water, a delight
to the London eye.
Small craft lazily ply
colourless geese glide by
bobbing beaks under a bridge
of dull stone;
Grey or brown cottages,
white river homes
decorate the flanks;
Muted now the crepuscular land.

Then, a parade of scarlet buses –
Urgent reminders of city buzzes –
Cranking over the arches.

©Millicent Danker
16 June 2013

DRESSING UP GIRLS

Why do girls dress up as boys –
wear
unwashed jeans
moccasins
rude Tees
fleece
checks
macs
turned-up trousers
warehouse blazers
sneakers
boxers
rucksacks
haversacks
cargoes
loafers
bootlaces
her tuxedos?

No wonder they turn out
studded
belted
zipped
clipped

cropped
striped
leathered
booted
rugged
faded
jaded
bleeded
blackened
waistless
shapeless
faceless
sexless

Do they know their creators –
those evil brandsmiths
purveyors of design
big money and crime –

Peasant glad rags from
Asian backyards common
made-to-conform
rich-born, pretend-torn

No more that frill, that thrill of
dresses that flatter
head-turning couture in
colours that matter

Whither the turn of ankle
the feminine pout
the sweet sassy sway
of skirts that swish about?

Pushing hard to look like them
on every street in the kingdom
– whether at work or at play –
are we not a tie and a beard away?

©Millicent Danker
10 June 2013

fashionb02

fashionb02 (Photo credit: minijack3)

REFLECTIONS ON ‘SKYLIGHT’*

Stained glass skylight in Church of the Holy T...

Stained glass skylight in Church of the Holy Trinity, Rittenhouse Square, Philadelphia (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My own hovel being cleaned out,
a new life laid out for me
except I don’t yet see.
I must trust in this skylight
that has opened up –
this window on the world
setting me free.
I can now see
the life in this death
before me.

Why resist these little dyings?
It’s time to
step out of my skin.

*by Seamus Heaney

©Millicent Danker
15 January 2010

AN ENGLISH SUMMER

Sunny Days!

Sunny Days! (Photo credit: Alex Holyoake)

Could any day be more glorious?
The sun oh the sun
Beating down on an earth
Starved for fun

Could any day be more glorious?
Stripped to white tees
Flip-flop toed females
pretty nails tease

Could any day be more glorious?
More long, more salubrious
Could life be better than this?
Was there ever more reason to kiss?

Could any day be more glorious?
Could any sky be more generous?
Could He make any more universe
For England, for me?

© Millicent Danker
8 June 2013

LORD OF MY LIFE…

An example of handwritten Bengali script. Part...

An example of handwritten Bengali script. Part of a poem written by Rabindranath Tagore in 1926 in Hungary. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

LORD OF MY LIFE

“Thou who art the innermost Spirit of my being,
art thou pleased, Lord of my Life?
For I give to thee my cup filled with all
the pain and delight that the crushed
grapes of my heart had surrendered,
I wove with rhythm of colors and song cover for thy bed,
And with the molten gold of my desires
I fashioned playthings for thy passing hours.
I know not why thou chosest me for thy partner,
Lord of my life…”
– Rabindranath Tagore, 1861-1941

JUST CHECKING

Questions?

Questions? (Photo credit: Valerie Everett)

Bagless or bagged
Upright trim or squat
Metallic or jazz
A matter of watt
Does she climb stairs
Can she stretch
Pick up cat hairs
How long will she last
How loud, how fast
Wot’s her cost to keep
And can she beep
How heavy is she
Will she treat allergy –

Too many questions
To ponder over
A Dyson, a Hoover
A Miele and more
When all I want
Is a clean floor.

©Millicent Danker
7 June 2013

“This being hum…

The Rumi Museum in Konya, Turkey

The Rumi Museum in Konya, Turkey (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“This being human is a guest house. Every morning is a new arrival. A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor…Welcome and entertain them all. Treat each guest honorably. The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in. Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.”
― Rumi

TO DHANYA ISABEL, NOW 6

dbirthday6

Nana at first, next Danya Bell
from playpen peek-a-boo
to frocked flower-gal
tall now in ballet tutu

posies off, she’s bubble-blowing
frolicking
first stroller, then scooter
toddler to Stagecoacher

wheels-on-a-bus for a time
and twinkling stars
now singing in the rain
around biscuit jars

Like first kiss, first
grandchild etched just
erupting in gurgles, then giggles
at sight of mama from afar

giving out cuddles
with grubby handles
bottie burps and stinky toesies
taking delight in made-up stories

© Millicent Danker
30 March 2013