The Ghost of Christmas Past.

The ghost of Christmas past

Came knocking at my door,

He took me to the time

When my little girls were four.

 

We knelt before the Christmas tree

Presents crudely wrapped but there,

A plate by the fireside

With Santa’s festive fayre.

 

We walked into their bedroom

As quietly as you can,

My two small girls were sleeping there

In Ramsey, Isle of Man.

 

In the muted light they seemed peaceful

Asleep and safe and warm

In a home filled with love and family

To keep them safe from harm.

 

The stockings on the bedposts

Were filled with treats and toys

Hung there by their Daddy

To bring them hope and joy.

 

Christmas was extra special

In that one particular year

As Daddy had come home safely

From military conflict fuelled by fear.

 

I thanked the kindly ghost

For reminding me that night

That despite the hours of darkness

Christmas is about recognising the light.

 

May your Christmas time be peaceful

Filled with memories that shine,

To keep your heart warm through the cold

And lonely times.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson.

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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 …….

Missing in action.

Still silent seamless sorrow as the shadows of the day recede

My loss and longing washes over me

And it feels like my heart might bleed.

To carry both of you with me across the seas of need

I long to have your hands to hold

And from this endless ache be freed.

Love sets us free to chase our dreams

Make no mistaking there

But the hollow place inside of me, still wishes you were here.

© Alison Jean Hankinson

For Mental Health Awareness Week 2018.

For my girls. Whom I love, every day and more. For my Ellen across the seas. Some days leave a gaping chasm of loss. Hold your children tight when they are small if you are going to give them wings to fly. XXXXX

I am sharing this for open link night on d’Verse and of course the hand holding is part of the theme. For my beautiful girls. XXXX

Death washes over us…..

The sun set slowly

reminded us of the glory days

When we had youth and fortitude.

 

We cannot all age well

Yet we all remember our youthful ways,

when we danced playfully at the murky edge of maturity.

 

This body frail as it is now

was a totem, an emblem of our love and lives together,

hallowed in the summers of our spiritual enlightenment before we had children of our own.

 

The sun sets slowly.

Death washes over us,

creeps through the open window in the dead of night.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson.

napwrimo 18 Day 29 the penultimate.

This is for d’Verse open link night.

 

 

 

 

Passing it down the line….it is in the genes.

I inherited her laugh

It resonated in any room, raucous,

Cackle, guffaw, chortle and undeniably unstoppable.

An energy an emission of unadulterated joy

Everyone knew she was there.

“It’s only for kids missus!”- that was Ken Dodd puppeteer extraordinaire.

King of the diddy men.

“Alison- Your mum’s here…

I just heard her laugh.”

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson.

For poetics at d”verse and for Day 24 of Napowrimo 18.

I am sorry girls but you definitely have it too…long may we laugh. XXXX love you Mumma. XXX

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You are beautiful.

You are perfect just the way you are.

Every blemish is a mark of a wish or a milestone

That was part of your life and has meaning.

 

We wear our scars like jewellery

Ornate adornments of battles we have fought and sufferings we have silenced.

Loves we have lost, dreams that lay smashed at the feet of the soul-less.

 

You are perfect just the way you are-

So wear your skin with pride, it is your life’s canvas,

And your story unfolds with every step forward and every glance back towards the setting sun.

© Alison Jean Hankinson

this is for napowrimo Day 20. It is for my girls. With all my love. Mumma. XXXXX

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Small moments, meaningful memories.

Dad enjoyed a whisky each night

Said it just seemed right

Helped him put the plight of the world to rest

Before eyes-shut, sleep-tight, God-Bless.

© Alison Jean Hankinson

A short sweet contribution for Napowrimo Day 11.

 

 

On mother’s passing.

My mother’s last meal was cornflakes and I wonder did she spill a drop of milk, did she relish every lingering mouthful, did she know somewhere deep inside her soul that this was effectively her last supper.

Flushed and anguished

Pain obliterates, raindrops cascade down the dirty window pane.

One last breath

A sigh before death.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

I haven’t participated in napowrimo before so this is new to me, I used the prompt for day 6. I have participated in Nanowrimo successfully a number of times so I thought it was time for a change.

Shadow of our love.

You wore silk

A delicate shade

Ivory

Gold brocade

Your veil feigning innocence

You captured my heart.

 

Nylon shift

Hides your sagging form

Rings forlorn

Scars are worn

On old withered hands laid bare

Our love lingers on.

 

© Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for MTB at d’Verse where we are using the form Shadorma.

To me the form suggested shadow and I thought about how as we age we still keep our shadow of youth.

 

 

 

Mum’s last letter.

Handwriting didn’t come easily to me, my words tumbled out across the page as fast as my thoughts would carry them but with no time for neatness clarity or punctuation. Laborious lessons trying to perfect a precise clear-cut style between the lines, the endless lines, my sister’s handwriting remains the same as it was in those joined up lessons at school. Mine still resembles ducklings charging towards some azure blue lake with all the joy of momentum, joy and not a care in the world for how it looks to the rest of the world.

Her last letter, heaven only knows why she posted the parcels so early for Christmas, perhaps she knew. Her last act of love. She died on the Sunday half a world away and by Friday I held her last letter in my hand. Her writing cut through the void, the years the tears, the fears.

Precision and care

Her words carefully planted.

Snowdrops cut through snow.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson