Prodigal

Clumsy — awkward steps across the hall — Childlike stomps beyond the wall.

My heart skips a beat.

Is it you? Are you home?

 

Stealth — I meld with the shadows — I limber lithely behind the arch.

Eager to surprise you with my smile.

Are you near? Is it your footsteps I hear?

 

Shouts — call out your name — voice cracks through the silence.

We melt into each other’s arms.

My child is home.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

 

This is for d’Verse mtb.

If only …….

My own flock of birds…

Here they silently speak my language

Share my passion for puns

Take pride in a past that is a portrait

Of my heritage and the story of my blood.

 

Here I belong

The names of the rivers and valleys and mountains

Are etched as clearly in my mind as the rugged landscapes

That call out my name on wild and windy mornings

and stir my restless spirit from its slumbers.

 

Irwell, Ribble, Eden, Lune

Here the waters wash away my whispers

Pendle, Cribden, Criffel, Shap

Here the shale and slate smooths away my fears.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse poetics.

 

 

 

 

The Journey Home.

The Sea washes over me

I am lost in yearning

For a time, tide and place

A space of belonging

That once I called home.

 

Far away dreams

Distant foreshores

Mellow memories of love

As the spirits guide me

On my long journey home.

 

© Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for the Tuesday platform at imaginary garden with real toads.

 

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

Terraceville-Living in the Valley.

The train clatters down the track

Clickety clack clickety clack

To deliver the coal and slack

From the pithead.

 

Smoke emanates from the dirty stack

Wives hanging washing out the back

From the outhouses of the back to backs

In Terraceville our suburban mill-town.

 

Kids play in the street and no- one cares

Mothers holler for their offspring and no-one dares

Be late for supper. Free from care

Because they are always there,

And we are taught to share

With each other.

 

Got no money put it on tick

Misbehave and you get the stick

Get drunk Friday and you’ll be in the nick

In our suburban mill-town.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

The photos are from the Peter Fisher Archive and gallery….and this was where I grew up.

Peter fisher gallery

 

This is an attempt…. of sorts for poetics….for d’Verse poetics… I am not sure I achieved…it was not something I normally do…but we are here to learn…. so I have given it a go.

d’verse poetics suburb

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nostalgia

And so we came home to Eden

But Eden wasn’t home anymore

And we had grown out of it.

Seedlings nurtured by parental love

Branching out reaching out towards a world

Where Eden wasn’t familiar

And we had no place to call home.

 

Just an intimation an emotion

A security which represents home.

And then we asked the question

From the sudden realisation

Is home synonymous with kindred love

Is kindred love home?

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

many-paths

This post/poem was added in response to d’Verse Poetics which took a closer look at the work of Ally Saunders.

d’Verse Poetics

The image that I responded to was this one, which is entitled Many Paths. I believe that I have travelled along many paths and have stumbled many times and however hard it is to journey down -my latest path is leading towards my kindred home.

#d'Verse-Poetics: Ally Saunders – A Closer Look