Poetrymatters

[samsitsonthehill]

For Love

Haven’t posted for a while but there really is not enough said about love and we shouldn’t shy away from writing about it. Enjoy the love poem below but enjoy the people you love more.

For Love

You have coloured love and red is

only part of it, we are threads pulled

through each other’s blood,

 you have changed the greenness of

the scene and poured the floods that

colour the palest parts of me,

 driving the force that compels

and feeds the reason to create,

you are the story I will write.

 And love, they told me not to talk about

it, but how can we trust those tenuous

seams when it is the most robust, fearless of things?

 Let us colour our page with it

and cover ourselves in it because

all that matters is what we make of love

and, my love, what it makes of us.

 ©Sam Pearson

[samsitsonthehill]

Remember to let love in! Mostly, we all deserve it so if you’re lucky enough to have love around you then absorb as much as you can and have pleasure sharing it! I wrote the following poem to send out to friends for Christmas 2016, I’ve dug it out as a positive wish for all in 2019!

Let yourself be loved

Let yourself be loved and know it is the essence;

make it welcome,

feel it breathe through you

and be lifted by it, be free,

break your own boundaries and let it

know there is no part

of you would refuse it,

Love is the friend and

when the friend is love it is care, it is trust;

the friend you must introduce your closest friends to.

 Let yourself be loved, know it well

and love yourself more for it,

only then can you share it and to

share it is to know it so fully that the pleasure

is knowing how the other feels

when you pass it on.

 ©Sampearson

[samsitsonthehill]

A poem

She Said, “Make the best of it while you can because it doesn’t last”

But there’s nothing clichéd about

the woman who now sits ‘c’ shaped,

trying to shake the frown from her

forehead as if it were a fly,

It would be enough to peel

out of the chair and shuffle

to the kitchen to pour tea,

to prepare a light breakfast

and then to push her feet into boots,

to call the dog and wander across to

the chickens and rummage for eggs,

to roll the warm ovals in her palm before

placing them in her basket

It would be enough and more beside,

to fling her arms up at the jackdaws,

to flap and shout as they

dive down for chicken feed

And everything and all would be hers if she

could wander back with the dog beside her,

to kick her boots off at the door,

to place the eggs in a dish before

settling at the table with her paints and

her pencil, her water and her brushes,

contemplating the blank page.

Sam Pearson

[samsitsonthehill]

Very new to posting - learning the ropes!

This was written for an elderly friend who is an amazing artist but who now, unfortunately, finds it painful to sit long enough to paint.

[samsitsonthehill]

Poetry for People

I made my dad cry today. No, I didn’t upset him, rather he was overwhelmed. I read him a poem I had written about him, speech failed him and tears fell. I have seen my dad cry many times - no stiff upper lip has ever prevailed where he is concerned and I love him the more for it.

I enjoy writing poems about people who have influenced me in a positive way though it’s extremely difficult as there is usually so much that I want to say and not enough space to say it. I also enjoy reading poems written about people by other poets, a favourite of mine is one written in memory of a family member by Peter Sansom, ‘We All Dance In Our Family.’

It’s moments like the one I had this morning, the powerful gift of words that no financially purchased gift could even scrape close to, that makes all the time spent thinking, scribbling, worrying that’s it’s not good enough, editing and redrafting, all worthwhile. What better way is there to show someone how they have helped shape you? (In my dad’s case by sparking a love of music and words that has helped me through some of my most turbulent experiences).

This poem was written for my dad but I’d like to dedicate it to all dads who make time for their children.

My dad’s the real music man,

helped me learn words through

the songs of a band,

fed me the beats that led me to dance

allowed me to follow

the music of chance,

played to the crowds in choking pubs,

played the charity functions,

and old working men’s clubs,

stood on the stages of local schools,

played in the church barns,

and bland village halls,

fed me on riffs and chorus lines,

while other dads slept

he made music time,

set up his keyboards in the front room,

asked for requests and

and played all the tunes,

he didn’t gain fame and didn’t desire it,

he just wants to see people

singing and dancing,

he doesn’t need praise or adoration,

he plays for the people

at their planned celebrations,

he tells me he never wants it to stop,

can’t imagine the weekends without

rock, waltz or pop,                                                                                                

but the years have made it harder to load

the heavy equipment

that he carts on the road,

no perks, no roadies to lift morale

just dad, his amp, keyboards, guitar

stacked and packed carefully into his car,

my tastes are sometimes different to his

but I feel the music

and he gave me this,

we hold songs within us, they help and they cure,

we turn to the music

when we need something more,

and while other dads do and other dads can,

mine taught me living with a musical hand

my dad’s the real music man.

 ©Sam Pearson

[samsitsonthehill]

Poetrymatters

Why Poetry?

I often wonder why I write poetry. Why do I spend hours, starting with piles of notes - I always start longhand - then spend hours carefully thinning it down to a few lines of a few words? It is because poetry matters. It matters because it is the first place I will go to when I need peace, reassurance, hope, amusement, encouragement and the list goes on. I will pick up a book of poems, often knowing which poem I need to read - a favourite is Mary Oliver’s, ‘Wild Geese,’ and I will read over and over until I am feeling calmer, satisfied, connected, happy - whatever the emotion is that needs to be fulfilled poetry will usually suffice.

Before I confide, enquire, share a special moment with a friend or relative I almost certainly would have, at first, taken a pen and paper friend in hand and scribbled my thoughts down.

Here is short poem of hope :

One way

For all the side-stepping there’s

one way to walk and that’s forward

for all the hanging on there’s

only freedom in letting go

for all the hiding there’s only

one way to find and that’s by looking

for all the wondering there’s only

one way to experience and that’s by doing

©sampearson

[samsitsonthehill]

Poetrymatters

Why Poetry?

I often wonder why I write poetry. Why do I spend hours, starting with piles of notes - I always start longhand - then spend hours carefully thinning it down to a few lines of a few words? It is because poetry matters. It matters because it is the first place I will go to when I need peace, reassurance, hope, amusement, encouragement and the list goes on. I will pick up a book of poems, often knowing which poem I need to read - a favourite is Mary Oliver’s, ‘Wild Geese,’ and I will read over and over until I am feeling calmer, satisfied, connected, happy - whatever the emotion is that needs to be fulfilled poetry will usually suffice.

Before I confide, enquire, share a special moment with a friend or relative I almost certainly would have, at first, taken a pen and paper friend in hand and scribbled my thoughts down.

Here is short poem of hope :

One way

For all the side-stepping there’s

one way to walk and that’s forward

for all the hanging on there’s

only freedom in letting go

for all the hiding there’s only

one way to find and that’s by looking

for all the wondering there’s only

one way to experience and that’s by doing

©sampearson

[samsitsonthehill]

A poem

She Said, “Make the best of it while you can because it doesn’t last”

But there’s nothing clichéd about

the woman who now sits ‘c’ shaped,

trying to shake the frown from her

forehead as if it were a fly,

 It would be enough to peel

out of the chair and shuffle

to the kitchen to pour tea,

to prepare a light breakfast

and then to push her feet into boots,

to call the dog and wander across to

the chickens and rummage for eggs,

to roll the warm ovals in her palm before

placing them in her basket

 It would be enough and more beside,

to fling her arms up at the jackdaws,

to flap and shout as they

dive down for chicken feed

 And everything and all would be hers if she

could wander back with the dog beside her,

to kick her boots off at the door,

to place the eggs in a dish before

settling at the table with her paints and

her pencil, her water and her brushes,

contemplating the blank page.

 Sam Pearson