Solitaire and Some souls

 

Solitaire

 

Were I to call

Were I to stumble

Or even fall

Would you hear me?

Would the constant babble

Of texts and tweets and twitters

Silence my helpless cry   

 

- Margaret Quigley

 

Remembering my Mother in early April

A second birthday with you elsewhere

A land unknown, a foreign place

A mystery, a state that puzzles us, and frightens too

Were we to be bravely candid

Are you watching, do you smile, as we ponder

That final destination which will draw us also to itself

The itinerary not yet clear -

And shake your head at our pointless fretting

- Margaret Quigley

 

Some Souls

 

Some breasts will swell with mother’s milk

Some feed the flesh formed from themselves

Some lips shape sounds of doting drivel

Some eyes find only what they seek

 

Some hearts are slaves to Blake or Rilke

Some fill the books on future shelves

Some tongues love rhyme like swivel snivel

Some see too much and have to speak

 

Some nurse the notions more subtle than silk

Some souls belong to the fairies and elves

Some dream of worlds serene and civil

Some know that power is for protecting the weak

 

- Edith Speers 

The Lost Moment 

 

The furrowed face, the anxious brow

look strange and out of place somehow

beneath the stylish henna hair,

above the business suit she wears.

She’s on the street in city slums

and up to our parked car she comes.

She won’t harm us,

smiles to charm us,

thinks perhaps that we’re naïve,

prosperous and likely to believe

a story that’s been true for many.

Not a penny,

not a dime,

changes hands this time.

Nothing could be fairer,

nothing could be rarer

than the chance to give alms,

to put a dollar or two in the beggar’s palm

for those so lucky it’s strange to meet

someone asking for help on a city street.

But the moment went by.

The simple story was a complicated lie.

In another place or another time

where begging is not considered a crime,

where failing to prosper is not a sin

so shameful to both those who lose and those who win,

where pretending you don’t need more than a bit

is the only way to buy hit after hit,

where in order to lay waste to your life day by day

you must look like all those who do it for pay,

let us hope that a moment will be allowed

where no one has to be cunning or proud

and the need for money is simple and plain

so cash can change hands, no need to explain.

 

- Edith Speers

  

 
__________________________________________________________________________________
 

xxxxx

Maggie Quigley lives on the south coast of New South Wales.  Love, loss, and life’s natural beauty have been the inspiration for her poetry.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

xxxxxEdith Speers is a Canadian born poet, teacher, editor and publisher who manages Esperance Press in Dover, Tasmania.

Topic tags: Margaret Quigley and Edith Speers

 

 

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