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One week old.

 

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3 months old.

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11 months old.

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My gorgeous daughter today – continuing the ‘circle of life’.

The Moment of Birth

My Darling One you are so new

helpless – yet so strong!

You didn’t really need the Doctor

guiding you along…

Now I know how every mother feels

at the moment of birth.

You caused such pain, such draining

of strength, yet

when you finally arrived in just a second

all that had gone before

was completely forgotten

and I held you to my breast – now calm

then gently with my fore finger…

caressed your tiny arm.

Frances Macaulay Forde – 1976

 

@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #POEM:MomentOfBirth  #CircleOfLife

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Five-O

Fifty isn’t old.

It’s really just a number…

How did I get here?

I don’t remember saying

goodbye to so many…

I’m scared once I break it,

like the fifty-dollar note;

the years will disappear.

 

Frances Macaulay Forde  © 2000

(Poem No 5, ‘Return of Rainbows’; “Hidden Capacity ~ a poet’s journey”; 1st published Cork, Ireland, 2003.)

 

@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #BOOK:ReturnOfRainbows  #POEM:Five-O  #Poetry    #BookOfPoems

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ISRADELLA

 

Isradella waits

for ghosts of lovers past

to homogenize

 

Perfect recipes of want

ingredients elusive

beg materialize

 

Abundant beauty falls

shorter than ideal

too rarefied

 

Hope ever lives in one

who strives for vision

so eulogized

 

Reality proves tepid

in life-dreams eye

and Isradella cries

 

Disbelieve the sellers

unattainable perfection

and real-eyes

 

Love no longer exists

the world’s forgotten

to individualize

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2000

Poem No 19 ‘Return of Rainbows’ in ‘Hidden Capacity ~ a poet’s journey’ pub Cork, Ireland, 2003.

 

@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #BOOK:HiddenCapacity  #BOOK:ReturnOfRainbows  #POEM:Isradella  #LovePoems  #Poetry

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Exile

 

Colour my life with rainbow hues

happiness yellow,

warm pinks,

cool, distant blues

and the green of Ireland.

 

I miss you in my life.

 

I want to touch your skin.

I want to make you  smile

make your eyes twinkle

with lust – amusement

at my clever words

 

and electronic kisses…

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2002

(Poem No 30 in ‘Exploring Possibilities…’ section of ‘Hidden Capacity ~ a poet’s journey’, by Frances Macaulay Forde, 1st published in Cork, Ireland, 2003.)

 

@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #BOOK:HiddenCapacity  #POEM:Exile   #ExploringPossibilities  #WrittenInIreland  #LovePoems  #Romance

 

 

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Inspired by Social Bridge Re-BLOGGED post ‘Another Suitcase’  10th June 2015.

 

Without Wheels

 

Old-fashioned suitcases, the ones without wheels…

Such treasures themselves for the memories they held.

 

Skippered with no regard to a life-time of service,

disposed of – as I myself have been disposed of…

 

Perhaps a keen eye will fall over the rubbish bin’s wall

and take you home, give you a new life, if only

 

as under-bed storage.  Or repainted in bright colours

to hold precious memories – like I did.  Not wanting

 

the finality of ‘throwing away’ mum and dad, two

well-worn suitcases proudly sit in our lounge now

 

re-vamped, with children’s toys sharing in a new life

through the lives of my precious grand-children,

 

seeing their excited faces every time they lift the lid

to sort through and grab some treasure of their own.

 

The painted, brightly coloured hearts will never fade.

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2015  

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@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #BLOG:SocialBridge  #POEM:WithoutWheels  #Suitcases  #SkipDiving  #ThrownAway  #DisposedOf  #Discarded

 

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Harry Owen  on FaceBook today:  “If I can do this, anyone can! Please join in and help raise awareness for the rhino today. Thank you!”   

 

@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde   @StopKillingRhino  #HarryOwen  #Africa  #Nature  #Rhino  #Elephant

 

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When I met 90 year old Tom, he was a West Australian Living Treasure and an absolute gentleman.

Also the winner of the Patrick White Award in 1992, Tom was appointed a Member of the Order of Australia (AM) in 1988 for services to literature, the author of many novels, including The Ridge and The River, Sowers of the Wind, Swagbelly, Birdsnatcher and The Prince of Siam.

He’d been writing for 60 years and celebrated his 90th birthday with a collection of stories & poems which illustrated his life.

At the official launch, I sat in selfish wonder listening to the magnificent voice of Jack Thompson booming, blasting passion into the masterly poetry and prose of T.A.G. Hungerford’s new book.

Taken from the back cover of  What’s Happened to Joseph?:  “With dazzling ease he moves from prose to poetry, from the ancient past to the present, from the small, absorbing passions of suburbia to the grim demands of jungle warfare. Hungerford makes us wonder just what did happen to Joseph, farther of Jesus Christ- did he continue to work in his carpenters trade, perhaps in Jerusalem – then takes us to the heart of Anzac Day, to the shimmering colours of outback Australia, or to his own front garden, and with every word he illuminates our own experience.”  

I loved every word of his book and want everyone to enjoy his insight, his sensitivity and his ability to place me right there, where he was when writing them.

‘ANZAC Day’ is a poem I believe would work well on screen; the opening lines; dense, establishing and heartfelt:

“This spot at the corner of Pier Street and the Terrace

between two churches – Presbyterian one side,

C. of E. on the other – is just made to order

for us Second Eighth blokes to form up for the March

this mild April morning.  Wild men we were, all of us.”

When Tom allowed me to host ‘An Afternoon With Tom’ during a very special Poet’s Corner event, devoted entirely to him, the place was packed with lovers of words wanting to hear him read and provide further insight to his writing.

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T.A.G. Hungerford graciously allowed me to interview him for BOOKS Australia during Poets Corner. FMF © 2006

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Kevin Gillam playing ‘Fascination’ for “An Afternoon with Tom” at Pages Cafe during Poets Corner. FMF © 2006

The last poem in his book; ‘Fascination Waltz’ is another favorite and made me cry.  That’s why I asked Kevin Gillam, a fellow poet, admirer of Tom and professional cellist to play ‘Fascination’.  I felt the love and saw a tear in Tom’s eye, too.

Although he’s gone now I still think of him and his words, often. I treasure the firstly hand-written, then typed letters we exchanged and an (as far as I know) unpublished poem “Grey Ghost”, which would also make a fantastic film.

I want to pay a larger tribute and help make his writings available to more by getting them up on the big screen. Any producers out there, interested?

@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #TAGHungerford  #What’sHappenedToJoseph? #JackThompson  #Stories&Poems   #Poetry  #KevinGillam  #PoetsCorner  #PagesCafe

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Co.Cork.  Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

 

The Folly    

Gaeltacht – Irish-speaking area.

Teanga – living language, tongue.

 

My Gaeltacht friend explained  ‘Ye should go t’ see the folly…’

So, like tourists, my man and I actually took a clear-day,

no rain so far drive. A determined scenic dalliance

in sunny  sections flashing green and historical grey.

 

Eventually – with no clear direction, journeying

quite far out of our way…  we appreciated the Anglo

interpretation on the road signs, because as foreigners,

we don’t speak the traditional language of Ireland.

 

Not wanting to barstardise or pronounce phonetically

in error, ‘so’.  We enjoyed the lilt and musicality of her

tumbled, seemingly conscientious explanation – story-

telling at a 100 miles an hour.  ‘Ah well  ye know, ta

 

get t’da place dat ‘tis, you just go along dis

road, don’t ye know, ‘tis a sort of a wind-y road, den

up t’ hill, don’t ye know and dere’ll be a turn off t’

da right – de left would it be, no, ‘tis definitely

 

da right…  but don’t you be going dat way, d’ye know

‘cos dat’ll get ye into all sorts a troubles, sure

t’ will and all…’  Pictograms pointing to a past not

forgotten although many have tried to suppress their

 

uniqueness… The soft emphasis or not.  A language

echoed through 400 years… the charming emotional

push of Ireland.  ‘So’, we go on death-defying strips

of beaten earth, slicing through fields, carelessly carving

 

up gently rising hills dotted with dwellings, puffing

grey smoke evidencing crisp cold air, we journeyed

on by-ways bordered by stones. Intrusion bands – neatly

trimmed piles of manual labour carefully selected and placed

 

one on top of the measured other… in spite of  wars and cars,

surviving like the teanga, rebelliously, resolutely, knowingly

employed at home in private, upright and proud though sagging

in some areas, often bent by forces who moved on and forgot.

 

Those walls still exist in places – repaired now, to allow

journey. Showing a path around a sparkling gem waiting…

We chanced intrusion of some one’s private personal space,

a rutted homely driveway – questions of culture, seeking

 

an un-shy, proud demonstration of Celtic heritage. We

wanted a clearer vision of soulful insistence – difference.

A sculptural acknowledgment, including the heroic past,

clear evidence of resistance – of residence.  The Folly!

 

 Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

 

@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #POEM:TheFolly  #SketchingInIreland  #Poems   #Co.Cork  #Ireland

 

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Photo Source here.

Marisa Wikramanayake  : “I’m a journalist, a writer and an editor. Well, actually, I write novels and attempt to survive doing so by having adventures and being a journalist and an editor.”

Take a look at her website where, among many interesting postings, most recently she has started doing videologs in support of Australian Women Writers.  I’ve just watched Robin Bowers’ interview.

This poem was posted on Facebook today and I loved it. (Naturally, I asked permission to post it here.)

Were you to break me down into my constituent parts,
Bit by bit,
Build me back up again with IKEA instructions but perfectly,
(I will give you an Allen key),
With each Lego piece in its spot,
Bit by bit,
There would be no place for love.

Oh, there would be a tinkertoy space here, some engine that whirled around,
That makes me good at all the grand gestures,
That would let me let you go if you were happier without me,
Without me blinking,
Because you are made of flesh and nerve endings that will hurt,
But I am made of blocks that can be broken down and rebuilt,
Bit by bit.
So I can withstand it.

But there is the space you would find surrounded by the Fabuland set,
That would be that space that doesn’t quite work,
Perhaps they discontinued that line a long time ago,
Bit by bit,
But it’s the space that makes me wake you,
At three am because I want to talk,
Makes me since I am a brick,
Quite selfish and quite thick,
No good at the small important everyday love,
Ever feeling that my part in any duo would not be enough,
It’s the space that will make me leave you behind,
While I chase things that intrigue my mind,
Where I will stand wondering why I am not the one to be in your part when I know how a gendered romance should go,
That openly states when and how I feel,
Because no one who hears believes it’s real.
It’s the space in me that makes me stubborn,
Want to break down your walls and lay you open.
Bit by bit,
To dissect you, pull you apart so I know how you work,
So I can love you the way you deserve.

And you deserve different, flesh and blood with nerve endings and all,
Not something, half real, built of bricks prone to break apart and fall.
I have built myself up to work like a machine.
Over the years,
Bit by bit,
For maternal, fraternal love,
For grand gestures because I can’t protect you enough,
But not at all adequately for the small love on which you’re keen.

– Marisa Wikramanayake, (c) 2015

 

@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #MarisaWikramanayake   #GuestPoem   #WAWriters  #Community   #FavWriters  #Love  #Poetry  #RobinBowers

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@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #POEM:BeachBabe  #Poetry  #Postcards  #Love

#Romance

 

 

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