Zachary thought that he would live
until his head was like a sieve,
Poor Zachary never gave a thought
his total age would be just nought -
they dropped a bomb upon his head,
poor Zachary Smith, new-born, was dead.
I wrote this as a kind of humourous protest against war, sometime in the late 70's. Innocents being killed. The unfairness of war. That kind of thing.
I wrote this poem in remembrance of a baby I miscarried on February 24th 1984. Over the years, the date would come around and I would remember - at the time, I had not even known that I was pregnant. I wrote this poem November 1st 1995.
They come, unbidden, in the night
and like a magical journey
take me back to times long past;
where I can look with backward glance,
and wish those times return once more,
to echo in this brain of mine,
this harried vault of Father Time.
In wonderment, I start each trek
into the depths of times forgotten,
woven as a piece of cloth,
the patchwork of times well- or mis-spent;
yet looking back, one sees no other way
to live the life of yesterday.
And so, unbidden, still they come,
and I, in pleasant warm cocoon
of peaceful sleep,
do wallow in them, once again,
delicious bites of long past time.
The voices blur, the faces fade,
and yet these memories were made
with so much love,
and will remain,
within my heart forever;
And I will relish each return,
to that far-off place, wherein they hide,
to delve once more into history,
into the patchworks of my life.
This poem was written whilst researching material for my book (still in progress!!) "Memories For My Children's Children". It seemed that as I remembered one happening, another would slip into my mind, and I'd be off on a tangent from the original memory I was attempting to write about. I wrote this November 1st 1995.