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.
Buckets spades and sandcastles
Donkeys on the beach
Paddling at the water’s edge
Family in easy reach.
Seashells on the shoreline
Waves lapping at our feet
Coconut oil and sunburn
Ice cream 99’s for a treat.
Arcade penny slot machines
Grab machines galore
Potted shrimps and cockles in a tub
Mum goes back for more.
Holidays at the seaside
Family fun days out
Car breaks down on the way back home
That’s what summer was all about.
©Alison Jean Hankinson
Grey-haired renegades
Body-popping bimble-bugs
Summer spirits soar.
We were highly entertained on a beautiful summer evening at Brunton Park, Carlisle watching the UB40 Grandslam tour. It was a relaxed affair, every bit old school reggae with some Level 42 for good measures. I suspect the average age of the audience was pushing 50. The beer flowed, everything was mellow and there were smiling happy people enjoying sunshine, good music and a little bit of bimbling bopping…I get auto-corrected every time I try to use bimbling, but it is a word…although I took the liberty of adding to it in my short senryu
.
It was a long walk home and I suspect there will be many had tired and aching feet and a few with added hangover this morning, but it was a welcome reminder of the good natured side of eighties life…there was nothing to prove…no hidden dystopian novellas wrapped in shady riffs, just sunshine and the occasional syncopated rhythm from a trill trumpet or a laid back sax. Reggae on renegades.
Alison Jean Hankinson
Geneology
we lived and died here
Names trickle by,
echoes of the past
Stories unfold
Startling revelations
In the stories we shared
Souls and mortal sins bared
We name our children in their honour
They will echo us forever
In their blood and bones.
Alison Jean Hankinson
This is for Quadrille with d’Verse.
The transition to seaside life has been a total joy. However dark and difficult the long days of winter were with their obstacles barriers and uncertainties and the fears that we would somehow fail. There was always a small smattering of hope that things would eventually work out for the better. We have been able to rekindle our love for our own culture and connections, track back through pathways and places that were already part of our story and re-establish the significance of our own place in this wonderful landscape.
The move in springtime to Heysham has been a wonderful and welcome move into what promises to be a pleasant phase of our lives. The sea and scenery are endless sources of peace, calm and serenity. The joy to be able to walk and witness this place in all its beauty and glory for just a small part of each day is genuine food for the soul. There is a song by Groove Armada it is such a seaside song, it talks of sand-dunes and salty air and it is just the sentiment of this place, a seaside town resting on its laurels and trying to reinvent itself as the coastal jewel in the crown resting at the foothills of the Lake District. Mountains on the horizon, resplendent in a salmon sunset, windmills stretching out to sea as far as the eye can see, ancient history carved into the headland and wilderness, wind and wavespray.
Mid tide Glasson Dock
In sprightly spring-time sunshine
Fear and dark thoughts ebb
Alison Jean Hankinson
This is my late offering for Haibun Monday and is about fear receding.
oops just missed the link by 35 minutes…
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.
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.
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.
It has been a complex business. I had thought that coming home would have some kind of natural simplicity implicit in its processes. After all we weren’t trying to migrate to new pastures we were simply returning home after an extended spell overseas…11 years in NZ. I hadn’t expected it to be smooth, there were going to be hurdles and obstacles but I had expected it to have some kind of “this is your home” ring to it. I think the shifting sands of Morecambe best sums it up. Things were the same but somehow different. Faces were familiar but somehow not recognisable. In our absence, the shifting sands had changed the landscape.
In spite of this there was an absolute joy in recognising and reconnecting with familiar buildings and walking in the ghostly footsteps left from our previous wanderings and the feeling of warmth and belonging were rekindled by the crisp winter evening air, the ghostly morning mists and the memory of plants and flowers long forgotten in childhood.
Pussy willow tree
In February drizzle
Catkins caress spring
Today for Haibun Monday we were asked to reflect on the best things of life being for free and the catkins this Sunday did it for me. Long forgotten childhood treasure.
The promenade bathed in winter sunshine,
Seagulls, chips and gravy, Blackpool rock
Then the Winter Gardens in all her splendour
bringing memories and echoes of a bygone era.
Reminiscing on a lifetime of cherished holidays
Whispers of childhood wishes and ghosts of summers past.
Alison Jean Hankinson
The challenge for tonight’s quadrille was Ghost. Today we revisited many ghosts as we took a road trip to Blackpool a place that will always hold a special place in my heart.
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
This post/poem was added in response to d’Verse Poetics which took a closer look at the work of Ally Saunders.
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
