FOOTSTEPS OF MY PAST

(c) John Mayer

FOOTSTEPS OF MY PAST

'tis the green hills of Ireland that call me home

for they hold the footsteps of my past.

They protect the very souls of my ancestors

the essence of my being, my Mother's family.

She so longed to visit the land she called home

to feel the mists upon her face

and the wind in her hair.

She longed to walk the lanes her Mother did

as a young girl growing up in Clare..

to hear the laughter and the songs

the brogue that sweetens the very air.

She dreamt of peat burning in the hearth..

family she never knew, welcoming Biddy's girl.

She wanted to tell them her Mam never forgot

and that she was happy in her new land she called home…

that she and her sister, Molly, kept the old stories alive

that they sang the songs of their birthplace…

But it wasn't to be, my Mother left us too soon 

as her Mother had left her.

I will go home for you, my dear Mother

home to the green hills of Ireland you loved to call home.

 © Crissouli Jan 2014

THOSE WITH NO TOMORROWS

Frank Hurley

29 Oct 1917 copyright expired

THOSE WITH NO TOMORROWS

Can you hear the footsteps

of all those weary souls

traipsing over sodden fields

with worn boots and socks with holes...

Can you feel their heartache

so far from hearth and home

many looking for adventure

as foreign lands they were to roam.

One by one, they ventured forth

at first, their heads held high.

One by one, their mates did fall

they knew their time was nigh.

On and on, they fought so brave

for freedom was their goal.

Those with no tomorrows

did give their very soul.

(c) Crissouli 2013

LEST WE FORGET

BEAUTIFUL MEMORIES

BEAUTIFUL MEMORIES

Artie's... Artie Shaw's band

evoking memories of a bygone era…

was life really so simple then?

"Blowing bubbles… in the air…"

The melodious warble of a clarinet

the rise and fall of perfect notes

swirling skirts of crepe - de - chine

tantalising snatches of fragrance

from bruised corsages

and perfumed hair…

carefully pinned and rolled, 

or gently waved

with the help of sugar and water.

Bulky suits, double breasted,

wide lapels,

pleated and cuffed trousers

and always, shining shoes.

Greasy palms, partly from anxiety

partly from pushing back brylcreemed hair.

Sawdust on the floor

fresh flowers mingling with half filled ashtrays..

huge bowls of punch

secretly laced with alcohol

by foolhardy, fancy free boys…

A furtive embrace

on moonlight swathed balconies…

The young, trying so hard

to look sophisticated -

the sophisticated -

 trying so hard to look young.

Cars with running boards,

lamp lit avenues, lined with trees,

and shadows…

the beckoning welcome of a light

shining through velvet draped windows.

Beautiful notes, beautiful music

beautiful memories.

© Crissouli

Image courtesy of ClipArtHut

WITH BEARD OF SALTED GREY

(c) expired

WITH BEARD OF SALTED GREY

They rode by the Diamantina

and alongside the Barcoo and never saw

another living soul.

They crossed the Haddon Corner

where the days are hot and long

and never thought

they'd ever reach their goal.

But there they met a fellow

with beard of salted grey

who told them of a place

that he'd once been.

They spent the night in dreaming

as young men often do

of the rich life that their new friend

said he'd seen.

In the shadows of the Beal Range

they packed again their swags

and made off

in the early morning light.

With their pans upon their shoulders

and strong boots they'd always worn

these two young men did make a splendid sight.

All day long, the adventurers bore

the sticky tiresome heat

and ever brushed

at buzzing swarms of flies.

They trudged along till day was night

and cooling shadows fell

giving welcome rest

to itchy, swollen eyes.

They found again their old campsite

that they'd made among the trees

and settled down

to rest their weary bones. 

They talked of Clancy of the Overflow

and of others that they'd heard

and slept once more

ignoring ghostly groans.

For at this unimposing campsite

some knew there once had been

a ghastly night,

of deeds so very foul

when a man had once been murdered

for another's pot of gold

and this evil deed

had made him ever prowl.

Not knowing of this long gone time

they dreamt the night away

with golden thoughts 

still racing through their mind.

They never woke to see the ghost

with beard of salted grey

who had ensured

that no gold would they find.

'Twas many years before they found,

at the campsite near the bank,

their whitened bones

still in their bloodied rags.

'Tis said the ghost with beard of grey

makes eerie sounds at night..

and still, it's said, he preys on men

who carry mining swags.

© Crissouli

A MOMENT - OR TWO..

(c) unknown

A MOMENT - OR TWO

The quiet stillness of the dawn 

envelops me

wrapped in a cocoon of peace

and solitude

I, at first, feel tense

so much to do

yet, too early for most.

Time to relax, yet I shower, 

quickly,

not willing to let the first

rays of sunlight elude me.

In the distance

a bird calls to it's mate

welcoming a new dawning.

Time to sit and think

and write

to welcome God's gift

of a brand new day.

Too late, the haunting bark 

of the dog next door

shatters the stillness of the dawn.

Then, once again, peace

and quiet…

a steaming cup of coffee

my only companion.

Thank you, Lord,

for these Blessed moments

and, more importantly,

a time of renewal.

© Crissouli

I'M ONE !

I'M ONE !

I'm one, I'm one, 

I'm really one

The days just rush on by

I have to write, I really do

Sometimes I wonder why...

There are things to do

And places to go

And dreams as yet unfolded

With so much that still awaits

I sometimes feel unmolded!

The words do come, 

The dreams do stay

The sun is ever rising

Please come on by 

And share with me

It really is surprising!

(c) Crissouli

DEAR MOTHER

Mother dear,

I meant to write every day, I truly did...
you are always in my thoughts....
I miss your laugh, your smile, 
I even miss your rousing at me 
for not chopping the wood. 
I know I promised that once I got home 
you would never have to do it again.

Did you get the poppy I sent you? 
They are such a beautiful bright red
and I know how much you love them. 
I hope the censor didn't take it out of the envelope.
I forgot to say Thank You for the socks
I know they took you a long time to knit them all
I hope you don't mind, but I gave a pair to my mate
His boots leaked, but the socks helped. 

I promised to fix the fence as well
I am sorry, Mother, I really am,
but it's good that you got our neighbour in
you might need him to help a bit more.
You taught me never to break a promise
but sometimes, you can't help it.

I'm sorry, Mother, that I can't see your smile
I long for your arms around me, I'm cold
as I sleep among the poppies in a Flanders field
No need to keep knitting, Mother
I have enough socks now
Sorry, Mother, for not keeping my promises
Today, I did write, with all my love.

(c) Crissouli

                                            (c) chrismilne