I wrote this poem in the same way I write most of my poems and songs. In my experience ideas just turn up like an unexpected visitor.They knock your door. They connect with you and if you have the sense you let them in.
It could be a few words or a few lines. The few times I have let things go I have usually had regrets. Either too tired, not awake enough, too distracted but I know that if I do that, they won’t be back.
This special exchange is an example of how poems come.
Seedlings.
By Randall Stephen Hall ©
The discovery of her body
Didn’t come as any great surprise.
More of a relief really.
Just one bullet
Did the trick, the dark magic
In that one huddled
Submissive second.
Pulling up a cold
Fog bound blanket about her
Like the forgetfulness of time.
Yet the forensic trail
Sang out the narrative of her
Last few moments.
For caught up in her left hand
There lay the seedlings
Of a bright summer flower.
Snatched up in these, her last Autumn steps
Or perhaps, placed there by the guilt
Of a foot soldier to the cause.
Raw to the new experience.
Doubting her blood sacrifice
Not freely given
Nature’s small rosary beads.
These seedlings, still, waiting to be counted.
Waiting to be planted.
Resting, deep within a mother’s desire
To be at home with her children
Just to make their tea
And hug their untidy faces.
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