“Glimpses Across The Barricades” A Poetry collection in progress. “Unspoken” by S.Burke.

Sword of Damocles

Glimpses Across The Barricades

Unspoken

By

Suzanne Burke.

I thought of you today

When I was least prepared.

I thought I heard you say

Those precious words we’d never shared.

We had no need for talk

When our souls were intertwined.

We shared sweet laughter as we walked

Deep kisses, drugged, like wine…

Distance seemed to matter not,

For time was ours to own.

I recalled … and then forgot

That love should never breathe alone.

The safe harbor of your arms,

Where I could finally, safely, sleep

Led me to believe … that this precious time

Was forever ours to keep.

When did those church bells cease ringing

And spring flowers cease to bloom

When did The Sword of Damocles

Hang waiting in the room.

All those words we’d heard before

Recalled and distrusted …  by their deeds.

We were so wise, we knew, we swore …

Even as we began to bleed.

If those hands of fate should bring you again

Dressed in your armor to my door

Then ‘my knight’ I’ll hold you

and whisper words, I should’ve said before.

‘ti amo’

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Glimpses Across The Barricades #Poetry Collection. “Canyon Of Dreams” by S. Burke.

Thanks so much for stopping by. This is a collection of poetry (Still a work in progress) I share with you poetry from my yesterdays, and hints of my tomorrows.

Canyon of dreams EAGLE

Canyon of Dreams.
My soul soars high on thermal winds
as I gaze enraptured at earth below.
I watch as the mother gently awakens
caressed by mist in dawn’s red glow.
Deep valleys of muted green, whisper secrets,
as softly, softly ends the night.
Leaf-laden branches like lover’s arms reach out
to hold and cherish the enfolding light.

As Autumn breezes chase through her canyons
swirling leaves of amber and gold come dancing
in a twirling tango they move entrancing
as falling through corridors of color
to settle soft on the moisture laden soil
that lay untouched below her patch-work canopy
where the air is sweet and cool,
Muted perfume of liquid amber and pine
with scent of velvet moss and peat combine.

Through endless stretch of bracken fern
on blankets of golden leaf and pine
the dappled glow of morning, at last begins to shine.
The light touches all that lay there, whilst close by
the diamond water sparkles, running wild and free
as in suicidal-dance they hurtle downward
as they have for all eternity. Over steep ledges
worn by time, the sound thunders as they fall
to create a bridal-veil of mist,
rebounding off the canyon wall.

Whilst high above on sandstone castles
The proud eagle surveys his domain
with hunter’s eyes and talons sharpened
He launches into Autumn skies.
His prey begins a fruitless journey
to escape his hunters grasp or die.
Sudden cries of hunter’s jubilation
mesh with screams of capitulation
Echo off steep walls as old as time.

In this paradise I am the uninvited
humbled to witness such perfection,
as yet untarnished by the hand of man.
This endures and will continue
long after frail bodies turn to dust.
If we can but respect her, she will remain,
to soothe our troubled minds.
We who ask her the riddles of all man’s seasons.
and discover there are no answers left to find.

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“Glimpses Across the Barricades” Poetry Collection #1 ‘The Pigeon Lady’ by Suzanne Burke.

Hello, and thank you for making the time to drop by. I will be sharing one of my poems each week, from my wip “Glimpses Across the Barricades” A collection of my own takes on those moments that bring about change in our lives.

 

 Glimpses Across the Barricades.

‘The Pigeon Lady’

A Story Poem.

By Suzanne Burke.

In loving memory of ‘Noelene’.

blog-glimpses-straw-hat

She fed pigeons in the park opposite my home.
The same bench each day she occupied; she never seemed to roam.
There she sat in the early morn and again at end of day.
On my way to work as I hurried by, she’d smile at me and say
“Good morning dear, a lovely day for your early morning walk.”
I nodded my response; I did not make the time to talk.
I’d quickly grab a coffee from the station coffee shop
and gulp it down as I waited for my crowded train to stop.
My working days were filled with legal speak and lengthy hours.
I remained remote and untouchable inside my clever ivory tower.
My world was filled with designer clothes, and all the correct possessions,
and of course, I had my dearest friends, and our numerous bitch sessions.
My calendar was full with gallery openings and plays-
I was on the “A” list of the social must invites, where I worked hard to stay.
I surrounded myself with people whose favorite word was ‘yes’,
those cool, together, people, who never showed distress.
The seasons changed with rapid pace, the fall wind was chill.
The pigeon lady remained upon her bench, and smiled her greeting still,
A battered straw hat she always wore, upon her graying head.
I didn’t break my stride as she spoke. I hurried by instead.
The mornings grew darker, as days were met by early winter snow,
yet still she sat with her battered hat, perhaps she had nowhere else to go.
It was not my problem after all; therefore, I didn’t stop to ask
I had Christmas shopping yet to do, so I thought only of that task.
One early morning in late December, I awakened so unwell
the thought of going out to work my fevered brain dispelled.
The illness burned and left me weak and shaking in my bed,
day merged with night, as I lay with pain pounding in my head.
For three days I lay in sweat-drenched delirium, yet shook with fevers chill,
I telephoned my dearest friends for help; they were all too busy still.
By day four the weakness had me in tears of lost despair.
My doorbell rang, I answered …  to find the Pigeon Lady there.
“Good morning dear,” was her surprising greeting,
she continued on, and said “I’ve made you soup but it needs heating.”
She stood there in her battered hat then gave me flowers that she bore,
she laughed, a quite delightful sound, at the expression that I wore.
“I’ve missed you dear,” was all she said, as she escorted me briskly back to bed.
I was confused, which clearly showed, pain was pounding in my head.
“Where is your linen kept?” she asked, she then changed my sweat-soaked sheets.
She raised the blinds to let the sunshine in, and then I had her soup to eat.
After the soup she explained, “Your gardener told me you were ill.”
I had no idea what to say, my eyes were closing against my will.
“Come on, young woman, off to sleep,” said she, and I gladly went.
I slept at once in my clean fresh sheets. My crying was all spent.
I awoke unsure of what I’d see, a delightful aroma filled the room;
a cheery fire awaited me, to take away the chilly gloom.
She’d left a note, which read, ‘I’ve left a meal, and tomorrow I will call.’
I had not the strength to ponder, why she had come at all.
On the morrow just on daybreak, she was there once more
Her clothing clean and tidy, yet still her battered hat she wore.
I didn’t know how to thank her for the kindness she had shown.
It was so far outside my experience, on the streets where I had grown.
“Your life has been so empty dear.” How did she understand?
“It will be all right you’ll see;” said she, as she gently touched my hand.
“What is your name, my dear?” she asked, with her sweet slow smile
“Of course I gave you your park name, it’s been bestowed on you a while.”
“My park name?” I queried. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Oh; I give everyone a name my dear!” and her eyes began to gleam.
“We have so many characters in the passing parade I see,
that I bestow on each a name that means who they are to me.”
I was not certain I would like or understand what I was about to hear.
She looked at me, and gave my hand a pat. “Why you are the ‘Lady Guinevere;’
still in search of ‘Camelot’. Be patient dear, she added, I just know it will arrive;
if you can just stop from shutting out the world in order to survive.”
How had this strange woman looked inside, and found the child that once I’d been?
I was profoundly shaken, how could she know these things others had not seen?
She smiled once more and waited, “And so what is your name?”
I grinned at her at last, and made no attempt to hide my pain.
“My name is Jennifer,” I said, how we laughed at that. ‘Guinevere’ was so correct
“Well now, Lady Jennifer.” she said, in her manner so direct
“My name is Francesca, however dear; you may call me Fran.”
We shook hands my new friend and I, and we talked as some friends can.
Three more days went by before I was well enough to work resume
Fran came by each day to check on me, she didn’t just assume
always asking if it were convenient for her again to call,
I thanked her and told her truly it was not inconvenient at all.
Day four I had risen early it was still a little dark
I made two mugs of hot, sweet, tea and joined Fran in the park
She was clearly so delighted, we enjoyed that place and time.
Then each morning thereafter, a small bench space was mine
I learned about the pigeons; their names and all their individual deeds .
They soon became accustomed to my joining in their morning feeds
Fran shared with me her park people, and a few I helped identify
There was, Mr. Baggy Pants who almost lost them as he scurried by,
and young Master Odd Sox, was color blind for sure,
I became ever more grateful, that she had knocked upon my door.
People that I worked with commented on a change in me
Mostly they seemed uncomfortable. So they just let me be.
Fran one morning said to me as another season changed
“Lady Jennifer my friend, a dinner I have arranged.”
“I’d like you to come home with me tomorrow after work”
“Come home with you?” I questioned, then, I felt a total jerk.
Luckily she laughed at me, and no offense did take
“Yes dear I have a family, and a home” she corrected my mistake.
I had mixed feelings about that evening, I was unsure what to do. I mentioned this to Fran, who said “My dear you just be you.”
Our morning ritual we shared and arranged a time to meet.
Fran’s large dog was so pleased to meet me, he knocked me off my feet.
I was welcomed as her trusted friend by her sons, all three.
Thomas was the eldest, head of the family was he.
The middle son was Jacob, so like his mother he did look.
The youngest one was Elijah who read me like a book.
All three sons proudly wore policemens’ uniforms.
Their father was killed in the line of duty, I was sadly then informed.
The time flew by so quickly, and often to their home I went
Many happy hours of shared dreams and laughter was time so gladly spent
Fran held herself so gracefully, I could not think of her as old.
I did not want to ask her age fearing she would think me bold.
Her hair was completely gray by now; and her hands would often shake.
And as the distance she would walk became difficult to make; she said no words to indicate that may have worried me
her carefree laugh, and ready smile, were all she’d let me see.
I awoke one morning as usual and prepared our cups of tea
I walked outside, then, stopped in shock; for Fran I could not see.
The pigeons were all there waiting, as it softly began to rain,
She is just late I told myself; I waited for hours in vain.
A police car stopped outside my home, Thomas looked my way;
I did not want to hear the words he said; I wanted to run away.
Our beloved Fran had gone to bed, and in her sleep had died
Thomas put his arms around me as we clung to each other and cried.
I feed pigeons in the park opposite our home
I wear Frans’ battered old straw hat; I have not far to roam.
My daughter lay safely in her pram. The passing parade goes by.
My small Francesca loves the birds, and greets them with a delighted cry
Her daddy Thomas dotes on her, and on me, his wife.
Every day I tell my Francesca more about her grandma’s life;
One morning as we sat there, a young woman strutted into view.
A “Lady Guinevere” at last! I looked up and smiled,
Fran this one’s for you.

 

#RRBC is THE place to be! Lets ROCK in this Writers’ Conference! Join in this amazing opportunity to share and learn.

Rave Reviews Book Club Writers’ Conference & Book Expo! Registrations close NOVEMBER 23rd 2016.

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#RRBC is THE place to be! Join in this amazing opportunity to share and learn. Treat yourself to the Christmas gift that just keeps on giving!

Are you a Writer, Editor, Cover designer or Publicist; a Publisher or Blogger, or a an avid Reader dedicated to finding and reading a selection of the best the online world has to offer? The RRBC WRITERS’ CONFERENCE & BOOK EXPO has something for everyone!

If you checked any of the above then this post is pure gold!

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Book Review: ‘The Hearts Journey Home’ by Natalie Ducey. Poetry For The Hungry Heart.

Hello and welcome to my review of “The Hearts Journey Home.” By Natalie Ducey.

Meet Natalie.

Natalie Ducey Author Pic

 With a BA in Psychology, Natalie has had the privilege of working in the counselling field for approximately 15 years. Through her work and personal journey, she has witnessed the remarkable power of the human spirit.

In her own words she explains, “The potential of the human spirit has always amazed me. Through poetry, I try to capture the essence of the fragility and the resiliency of our hearts – the brilliant beauty of life’s journey. I believe we are connected by similar and relatable experiences. We all love/loved deeply and most likely have been on both sides of goodbye. We know the exquisite and profound beauty of love. We know the immobilizing force of grief and the anguish between letting go and holding on. We know the acute distinction between second chances and new beginnings.

Life…
It’s majestic and mystifying, and every day we are granted the opportunity to begin again. Let’s enjoy the Journey!

Natalie was born and raised in Newfoundland, Canada, with her two brothers and twin sister. She now resides in Ontario, Canada, with her husband, a Soldier in the Canadian Armed Forces, and their little dog, Bella. She enjoys kayaking and the freedom and serenity of being one with water. She is an avid reader, passionate writer, and seeker of tranquility along life’s mystifying journey.

In February 2015, Natalie published her first book of poetry – The Heart’s Journey Home, a collection of 23 poems celebrating the brilliant beauty of life’s journey.

To contact or to learn more about Natalie, please visit her website: https://natalieducey.wordpress.com/home/

 BOOK REVIEW THE HEARTS JOURNEY HOME NATALIE DUCEY COVER

The Hearts Journey Home by Natalie Ducey.

Poetry for the soul. The Heart’s Journey Home is a collection of 23 poems that capture the essence of the fragility and the resiliency of our hearts – the brilliant beauty of life’s journey. We all love/loved deeply and most likely have been on both sides of goodbye. We know the immobilizing force of grief; we experienced hardships that have brought tears, revelations, and self-discoveries of strength unknown. These trials could easily dishearten us, but instead we choose to be more loving, compassionate, and kind. That is worth celebrating.
The Heart’s Journey Home is a celebration of our heart’s journey through life’s majestic beauty. The collection includes 23 poems titled: Reckless Words, Borrowed Angel, Nobody’s Fool, Silence of the Heart, Love’s Illusion, Fallen Angel, Let’s Dance, Where Does the Love Go, Young Love, Small Town Girl, Winter’s Gift, Destined to Fly, Eternal Love, The War Within, To my Sister on our 40th Birthday, Goodbye without Warning, Old Oak Tree, Names in the Sand, Can’t Let Go, Memories Linger, Caged Bird Sings, Surrender, and Heart’s Journey Home.

MY REVIEW: 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

An inspiring read that touches the soul!

BySoooz Burke

Format: Kindle Edition|Verified Purchase

Author Natalie Ducey has penned a poetic journey here, and she has done it in a way that allows us to not only glimpse her private journey, but to celebrate and reflect on our own.

Each poem is written with a pen dipped  deeply into her heart and her experiences.

The comfort of reading poetry such as this can’t be overlooked. I found comfort in the knowledge that I am not alone in experiencing loss, love, and the pain of letting go.

Author Natalie Ducey reaches into that secret place we all try so hard to shield, and with her words she invites you to remember, laugh, cry, and say goodbye.

I purchased this as a gift to myself. I will be purchasing other copies as a gift to dear ones I hold close. Such is the measure of my pleasure in reading this work.

Purchase The Hearts Journey Home on AMAZON here.

Natalie Ducey On Twitter

 

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