Waiting III

Sat in the hospital waiting room
there with Sal for moral support
on a very cold winters' morning
('cos it's the right thing and I ought)

Here for an eyesight inspection
post-op (trust everything's good)
'cos we're not as young as we were
and things don't work quite as they should

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#47 POETRY =

#47 POETRY =

By Charles Robert Lindholm 

Poetry =

#33 POETRY =

By Charles Robert Lindholm 

Poetry =

The new me

New week and new me
at least that's the intention
as I don't want to dwell or
perhaps even make mention
of what this past fortnight
has been my malaise
which sadly protracted
itself there for days

As I'm mostly I think
a quite chirpy fellow
not given to stupor or 
times when quite mellow
inactivity rules and
the mind gather dust
and an ache of the limbs
like a mildew or rust...

Came up for air

I came up for air, been down there a while
it was getting quite hard to breathe
but at the edge of my sight
I saw a feint light
and knew I would there find relief

And the question drops…

Picture courtesy: Internet. If you own this, kindly let me know. I am willing to give you credit by adding name or link. Also, willing to take it down.

An empty seat awaits your presence and when you occupy it, I will be rowing you silently through an ancient route. You sit there on the other end of the boat and look around. As you will find me absorbed in rowing you choose not to ask me that one question and you keep it for later. Then when you gaze the grasslands and the infinite sky a shimmering golden breeze kisses your face and you feel strange. For you know this breeze and this recollection will make you feel like you know every pixel of what you see and you know every grain of your feeling.  Like you know everything about everything here for ages. Like something is speaking to you and waiting for you to break your silence. Yet, your silence is your only language, your only means to express. You look at me and I raise my head. In the moment, something in us knows that a word will be too much. Your question drops. And, a wordless journey on an ancient route goes on..

Of this world…

A face lay there in eternal sleep,
No smile.
No frown.
I wonder,
“After all, smiles and frowns are of this world”.

“Mine”

I own nothing
The ideas I present
The feelings I feel
The thoughts I think
And, the words I used
Or continue to use to express myself.
Everything, ever that has been
Has been through:
Absorption, assimilation, memorization
Recollection, repetition and more memorization.

The Music

The music was there with something afresh
it had found and picked up on the way
Something perhaps
with live music’s lapse
that made it quite special today

Seemed the musicians had put in their all
throwing energy full in the licks
As they could not perform
‘Cos now’s not the norm
so they put all they had in the mix

Tri-haiku XXVIII (Healing)

With no abandon
to a mediocrity
I wait with patience

Hasten the mending
the healing of wounds and ills
Bring back spring to step

For I am waiting
Breath bated, coiled to move
to those hills again

With the sun upon my brow

I’d like to go out walking
but need legs to get me there
and as one’s out of action
and I don’t have a spare
I’m having to make do
with sitting with a smile
as a hobble and a limp is all
I’ll manage for a while

Rocks and shins and A&E

August Bank Holiday Monday
sun is shining and it’s warm
so to the beach I should be heading
as you would ‘cos it’s the norm
Yet instead I sit in A&E
my leg still causing pain
Not my first choice I’ll admit
to be in here again
Strangely though it was the beach
just last Wednesday night
where I sustained the injury
the reason for my plight

Adaptation

Adaptation is a precious thing
as it proves that we are able
to make the very best of things
when cards are on the table
I speak of course of Covid
and the lockdown and the change
it’s brought worldwide to all of us
as we all re-arrange
There’s been loss and there’s been sadness
as the pandemic’s taken hold
taking toll from everyone
from young to very old

19 February 1974

The knock at the door
I remember it well
though forty-six years have now passed
The vicar right there
with something to share
for a slap in the face that would last

It was anger I felt
with a fist in the air
that my father had left in that way
And I heard not a sound
from that hole in the ground
as I stood on that February day

Breathe

I saw the end of the tunnel
It shouted my name
So I ran to the light
and found freedom again

And breathing in deep
that heavenly air
I shouted out loud
and laughed without care

HE HELD MY HEART IN HIS HAND

By Charles Robert Lindholm

My Heart
Had Been Shattered
With Pieces
Scattered
Everywhere
In My Life

Brightening

Just a few words is all it takes
to change the way I feel
Escapism? maybe sometimes
but they have the power to heal

Just a few words each morning
finds a way to say
something new to bring a smile
and brighten up my day

On a Hill in Wales, Father and Son

1.

To the beginning son, go back with me
Remember how I stood beside you when…

No, you only remember my absence.

Here we return with precision, an arrow
Fired by the great Tell who reveals us.
The apple on our heads, the gift of Eve
Who saw in us the beginning of Love.

If You Could Break Me

If you could break me
how many pieces would you strive for?

A split in two,
have me broken down into fourths,
a complete s h a t t e r i n g –

HER MOSAIC HEART

By Charles Robert Lindholm

He Left Her
With Her Heart
In Pieces On The Floor
Shattered In The Moment
He Said, “I Don’t Love You Anymore”

She Sat Alone In Darkness,
In Silence And With Tears
And Finally Found The Pieces
She Had Searched For Through The Years

She Rescued All The Pieces
Left Lying On The Floor
Her Heart’s No Longer Fragile
It’s Stronger Than Before

WRITING POETRY

By Lesley Kluchin and Charles Robert Lindholm

“Writing poetry

is the best therapy for

POETRY AS THERAPY

By Lesley Kluchin and Charles Robert Lindholm

A Broken Heart Needs

Poetry as therapy

Time doesn’t heal some wounds…

“Time heals griefs and quarrels, for we change and are no longer the same persons. Neither the offender nor the offended are any more themselves.”

                                                                         – Blaise Pascal

It doesn’t hurt anymore, for that I must thank you,

Though forgetting promises has become part of you,

BLURRED MEMORIES

By Charles Robert Lindholm

Memories replayed
that were joyful
and exciting
and fun
stay
in focus

#47 POETRY =

#47 POETRY =

By Charles Robert Lindholm 

Poetry =

#33 POETRY =

By Charles Robert Lindholm 

Poetry =

Counting the days II

I’m not past my prime
yet sometimes I feel
it takes longer these days
to recover and heal

And I know that the sun
should help me feel well
But sometimes it seems
very much the hard sell

So I think what I need
is a break well away
A bit of a rest and
a nice holiday

Birth of a Friendship

Great misunderstanding
Even greater mistake
Lies