Park benches.

Park benches.

A Poem by Beccy

A thousand miles away;
perhaps in contemplation
of the son 
you left behind,
you are playing your guitar.

Even above the gusted November
wind that chills to the bone,
I can hear the melody; 
as can the red/gold tinted leaves 
that dance in skittish
attendance at my feet, 
lost as I am to your beautiful music.

Time slips, clouds close in
and I gather my coat, watching 
the green painted swing as it 
sways creakily back and forth;
and I wonder if it hears the music,
or is simply keeping in practice
for the coming spring and the
fondly remembered laughter 
of a child at play.

Soon then, the wind stills
and the slenderness of my arms
are like the rusted chains on the swing,
strong enough only for measured burden;
and the distance between us,
though counted in miles,
might as well be the far side of the moon,
although love, like laughter, only ever fades.   

© 2015 Beccy

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the last stanza here is as important as any love poem can conger or imagine. And there is that
irresistible promise that surrenders to separation and thusly submits meekly and adjectively
to disappointment. When you write a poem Beccy, all the assertions implied by the speaker
are true even when poetry itself (the art of it) asserts that blessed modicum of trivial
untruth. But we never doubt you and in the end, cry when you cry.

You write poetry like an unearthed, liberated lady of a different century, only this time
breached of etiquette and propriety and allowed bravely to tell the story of heartache
without being trivialized. This is as good as modern love poetry gets..

thanks for sharing it with us.....dana

Posted 2 Years Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.


Such a quietness here.. hope things are well for you..

Posted 11 Months Ago

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Amazing this is! I found the aha moment in this one. The part about the swing trulys portrays your wonderful imagination and creativity. This was easy to understand as well, that made it all the more beautiful. I enjoyed reading this!

Posted 11 Months Ago

Wow! Beautifully written, Beccy. Some wonderful imagery written in a way that brings the angst and pain all too clearly to the fore. Very sad. A broken relationship. Possibly a lost son - could be inferred. Either way, as others have said, the final line ... Wow! Very good job! BRs Nigel

Posted 11 Months Ago

Lovely! I enjoyed reading this very much. Your imagery is beautiful and I felt I could hear the creaky green swing. (Time slips, clouds close in
and I gather my coat, watching the green painted swing as it sways creakily back and forth;) ~Sharon

Posted 1 Year Ago

Because it is undeniably true, the last line stings--and lingers.
A lovely, insightful and somewhat tragic piece of work.
High-level fare.

Posted 1 Year Ago

fades...but never dies. I feel this one.
The idea of the swings keeping in practice and remembering blew me away.
Gorgeously bitter-sweet Beccy.

Posted 1 Year Ago

How one can watch time go by, until shaken to reality. Lovely flow and sweet Imagery Beccy.

Posted 1 Year Ago

Time moves on and kids grow up, fly the nest and quite often to foreign fields at that but those endearing memories linger of youthful, bygone times.

Wistfully penned with angst, yearning and autumn imagery aplenty!

Posted 1 Year Ago

"Park Benches" Thought I would come by and read a little. A quiet place to reminisce and realize what we have in memory. Thoughts of past relationships so precious now loved even more as pondered. My children are all grown and gone but they are in my heart. Blessings in your life and writeing. Kathy

Posted 1 Year Ago

this is music that is triste and we hear it well because of memories you conjure up that many share

Posted 1 Year Ago

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36 Reviews
Shelved in 1 Library
Added on April 24, 2015
Last Updated on April 30, 2015



Northampton, Northamptonshire, United Kingdom

I'm forty one, single and have a lovely eleven year old son called Charlie. I've been writing poetry and short stories since I can remember. I had never really been inclined to share my writing until .. more..


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