Stunned silence

The deafening silence of tragedy

the sound of pain beyond human comprehension

Stunned into silence a soundless

pause perhaps if we remain completely silent

maybe we won’t be noticed and it won’t be real.

Shrill sounds reveal that it is scarily real after all.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

 

This is for d’Verse quadrille.

In 2005 I was in London with a group of school students when there was the second bombing, my students who were young and had never experienced anything like that before just wanted to get on their coach and go home immediately which just wasn’t possible, we left the following morning and the bus was eerily silent and remained so until we got beyond Birmingham. Silence is deafening in tragic circumstances. My heart and love to all to all who were touched by the Manchester bombing.

Re-integration

We are treated as vagrants

worthless souls with no right to belong

It feels like someone is playing with our lives

having a giggle at our expense

One step forward ten steps back

and even though we were born here there is no recompense.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for Monday Quadrille at d’Verse

d’Verse quadrille

What am I?

 

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I am the face of hope,

In the fast fading light.

 

I am the distant dream

Driving forwards, when the day draws to a close,

The Star-bright shining in a suburban sultry night.

 

I am the laughter and the tears, the fear and guilt and pain,

Felt by all the mothers before me, the broken and the humbled, the joyous and loving,

I am the seed, the seedling, the roots, trunk and branches.

I bear the fruit. I am the womb of time.

 

I am me, fifty and finally come of age, woman.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

 

It is open link night #190 at d’Verse and so we are encouraged to submit anything we choose, this was part of something I wrote a while back, and I guess it is what I need to believe at the moment. Returning and coming home has been nothing short of gruelling, nothing has been simple at all. It has been a little like hurling yourself from a small cliff into a ferocious and stormy ocean. I have to know deep down that it will come right and that the storm will pass. To do this I have to peel back the layers and remind myself of what I believe I am and then slowly start to pick myself up again.

The image is Ellen and the tree- the second version…and my children are very much a symbol of what I am.

 

On the edge.

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October gold rolled down across the valley

Set fire to the moorland putrefied the summer roses

Cut the Lifeline.

 

I somnambulist walked the moors, saw the hues

Tasted the mists, breathed the rancid air- embraced it in my lungs

I welcomed the ritual of the seasons, I had no fear of death

 

Death is nothing to be afraid of my friend, see it not as the end, merely as the beginning.

Strange voices whispering through the boughs of an ash-dead spruce

Had October gold severed my lifeline.

 

Yea though I walk- first it was a voice whistled on the wind

And the valley of death come unto me

the voice strengthened until it became a choir of heavenly angels

Fear not thy destiny-lay down the misted shroud that marks the path to the golden sepulchre.

 

Stop the voices I cried in terror

Stop the voices! Stop the Voices

I am too young to die

 

I have no staff to guide me through this cavern of darkness.

I shall not succumb to my fate- Give back to me

The light of life.

 

The hands that first betrayed me-

The human hands that cut the cord at birth

The hands reached out to embrace me.

I clung to the naked flesh and was received.

 

The breeze softened for a moment

The hypnotic trance was broken

October passed swiftly over the valley

And my destiny was fulfilled.

 

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

Image from Wikimedia-  Title: Moorland above Attadale With Lochcarron across the loch, left.  By Toby Speight

http://www.geograph.org.uk/profile/608

For d’Verse (d’Verse expressionism )  meeting the bar an attempt at expressionism? Bjorn stated “The simplest and most effective way to define expressionism is that you present the world in a totally subjective perspective. Expressionist artists sought to express the meaning of emotional experience rather than physical reality.”

So I have revisited something I wrote many years ago and attempted to do this.

 

 

 

Social Media and the crimes for our times.

 

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(If it was the Whales- we’d save them)

When Shep died and we were still young

We cried for our loss- not Shep’s

Now we have grown up and walked forward

But to our shame our souls have slipped backwards.

 

Rape, pillage and plunder, massacre and torture

Genocide, legalised murder and organised crime.

We can turn a blind eye if it’s not on our doorstep

There’s always a scapegoat, someone to blame.

If it’s not in our country then it’s not our problem

We can share in their loss without suffering the shame

Of committing the crime.

Voyeurism isn’t a crime.

 

Let him who is without sin cast the first stone

Are any of us without sin

When we are the ones allowing it to happen?

 

Alison Jean Hankinson.

This poem is for d’Verse open link night. #189 Open link #189

The image is from Flickr and is of Syrian refugees. This is the link:

Syria refugees

 

Crossing over

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Here I stand cap in hand

A lifetime before me

And a lifetime behind me

And in the lamplight the path isn’t clear.

 

Here I lean upon my wooden bridge

Subdued memories ripple downstream in the wake of yesterday

And if I cross- hail what tomorrow brings

Shadows or sunsets in the evening?

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

For poetics d’Verse

d’Verse poetics abridged

Image– my mum and my daughter Ellen at St Annes, Lancashire. Mum was called Anne…

The lifetime behind me is my mum, whom I left behind and lost when I came to NZ, the lifetime before me is Ellen my eldest daughter whom I leave behind when I leave NZ to return to England.

 

Remembering Wormwood

Chernobyl’s children still suffer the sentence of their parents malefaction

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Chernobyl’s children
Still suffer the sentence of
Their parents malefaction,

The ruins remain ruins
Decay covers more decay
Destruction and despair draped

in pure white blanket
The crystal cloak of winters’
season salves not purifies.
As Earth still revolves
And snows of winter still fall
Burnt out remains lie buried
Will never be forgotten.

Alison Jean Hankinson

Image: By Clay Gilliland from Chandler, U.S.A. (Wormwood Star Memorial) [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

This was a response to d’Verse Meeting the Bar; the Choka

I have never attempted this form/format before and found it quite a challenge. Anyway this was my first ever attempt at a Choka..I tried to understand the form.

d’Verse Meeting the bar