Too much rain they cried!

Desperate for rain we held over breath,

Hopeful as dark clouds gathered in the skies,

As the grey clouds burst their tears,

Too much rain, too much rain we cried.

No! Surely not again!

No not so soon! Not so soon!

But they were on our TV screens again.

There been too much rain, they cried.

They tear flowed, we prayed,

We hoped and pray some more,

Until the river broke its banks again,

There been too much rain, they cried.

We stand and watch in disbelief,

As watch our river rise,

Now nervously we wait for it to peak,

There been too much rain, they cried.

We close our eyes and pray again,

Our city’s heart again in flood,

Two years, two years too soon,

There been too much rain, they cried.

Debbie Chilton (c) Copright 2013

Need for Balance

A room of balance

Centred

The room is centred,

Oh, ok for me then,

The room is centred,

Yes! The table is centred,

Round table in corner,

No! Room is off centred,

Please return table to centre.

Collections

Items form collections,

Like goes with like,

Items form collections,

Candles are grouped,

My candle collections,

Plants are group in size,

Like goes with like,

Items form collection,

Balance,

Placement of items creates balance,

Placement of colours important,

Placement of items creates balance,

Paintings hanging level,

Placement of items creates balance,

Items must be centred in position,

Placement of items creates balance,

Disturbance,

Movement of my things creates disturbance,

Tables in corners create disturbances,

Movement of my things creates disturbance,

Stacking chairs creates barriers,

Movement of my things creates disturbance,

Hiding paints creates temptation to danger,

Movement of my things creates disturbance,

My message is simple unless asked don’t move my things!

Debbie Chilton © Copyright 2013

Be Still

Evolving Room

The room is still.

Planted on firm foundation,

Centred!

Creating balance and space,

The room is still,

Its walls do not move,

But the flooring does,

In case the paint goes splat.

The room is still,

As is the door frame,

But the furniture evolves,

From coach to day bed and back,

The room is still,

Its walls don’t move,

But the art that hangs on it does,

The wind blows them down.

The room is still,

As is the door frame,

But items go in an out

Changing the room to suit my mood,

The room is still,

Its walls don’t move,

But the plants do,

So they can chase the rain to grow,

The room is still,

As is the door frame,

The nick-nacks come and go,

As the room evolves,

The room is still,

Its walls don’t move,

But the cushions fly,

As I work out how to sit,

The room is still,

As is the door frame,

But the table moves

Just in case I have company.

The room is still,

Its walls don’t move,

But just everything else does,

To evolve to suit daily my needs,

The room is still,

As is the door frame,

The candles, the tea pot, the mat, the paints and brushes,

They all move as the way the room was designed.

The room is still,

Its walls don’t move,

Things do,

Creating balance and space,

The room is still,

As is the door frame,

Enter, look and enjoy,

But leave things centred,

The room is still,

As is the door frame,

Its walls don’t move,

So contented I smile.

Debbie Chilton © Copyright 2013

The Day Christmas Was Stolen

Classmates taken

Their teachers lost

Friends they’ll never hug again

Only broken hearts remain.

The spirit of Christmas lost

Buried in hurt,

Numbed by shocked

Wash away by tears.

A town mourns it lost

Their sons

Their daughters

Sisters and brothers.

The Christmas Spirit lost

In thoughts

Unable to make sense

of what eyes see.

Sadness falls

Tears are shed

Hearts are broken

Lives are shattered,

As the Spirit of Christmas fads

No Christmas presents needed

Others will never be unwrapped

Flowers now mark there place.

Shock turns to disbelief

Disbelief turns to anger

Anger to a cry for justice

A cry for justice goes lost.

Taking with it the Spirit of Christmas

Crippled by hate

Stripped by grief

Taken away by our thoughts.

In memory of the 28 lives lost 12/14/12

Debbie Chilton (c) Copyright 2012

This Christmas

I’m not dreaming of snowflakes,

Nor reindeer hoofs on the roof,

I expect no jolly old man in a red suit,

And there’ll be no mistletoe over the door.

But I’ll deck out the Christmas tree,

With its bright green leafy leaves,

Bring out my Christmas angels,

To remind you what Christmas means to me.

The tree speaks of spring and new life,

A tree that would die one day to become a cross,

The angels who sang of the birth of a king,

God’s gracious gift when he sent his son for me.

I’ll set up my nativity scene,

I’ll wrap gifts that I’ve made,

And some that I’ve bought,

And place them under my Christmas tree,

To speak of the gift God once brought,

To earth wrapped in a cloth,

Placed in a wooden manger,

Like the wood used make a cross.

I’ll remember the baby gifts given to him,

The gold, the myrrh and frankincense too,

Gifts for a baby that would become king,

Gifts needed the day he was nailed to a tree.

This year I have gifts for those closest to me,

To given like the one who has given much to me,

Gifts that cost both money and time,

But fail in comparison to what Jesus gave to me.

For me these symbols of Christmas,

You’ll find this year in my home,

Represent a mother’s new born in a simple box,

Who was given gifts that told of the true cost.

Of the day God humbled himself,

By becoming a man,

Who would live a life worthy,

To become a prefect sacrifice.

Christmas is not about me or about gifts I receive,

It’s about remembering the only gift that I need,

My salvation bought through a death on a cross,

This, my friends, is what Christmas means to me.

  

 Debbie Chilton (c) Copyright 2012

Poet missing in action

Reclaiming Life . . .

So I spent the last 4 months loafing around, reading books, watching tv and sleeping a lot. So I have decided to decicated the next two months to friends, family, food, and fun as I regain my strength and spirit of adventure.

The truth is most of the last 4 months was spent in hospital, somewhere between conscious and unconsciousness. Most days the muscle relaxant I need knock me out for 1hr.  That makes a lot of lost hours over 4 months.  While I feel stronger and I home again coping quiet well, no body goes through a period like that and isn’t left weaken.

I still need to return to hospital at the end of August. So over the next 2 months I will be going to physio and seeing an OT to regain strength and functioning.  I also think I need some quality me time and catch up with friends instead of trying to take 10 different challenges on at once is important in my recovery.

I also have a holiday booked in Sept so fingers crossed I will be well enough to go.  Can’t wait actually, to make some new friends, have meals cooked for me, enjoy some adventures and fun times. 

So October like seems a good time to aim for coming back to work and writing commitments, although this will look very different,  and I will be reducing my commits and work hours to avoid a repeat performance.  As to what that will look like I have no idea, as a said its a prefect time to take stock, and reclaim what matters to me the most.

Looking forward to seeing my readers soon. 

Puddles & Poets In The Park!

The poets gathered once again to feast on food & poetry, in the puddles of Walloon. The poets came from everywhere just by smelling out the food.  ‘Must be Ipswich Poetry Feast time dear,’ The Goodna Gunner said to his wife! On this year there was one thing missing, the sunshine struggle to appear. Never fear when Paul Tully is about, we got off to a flying start. The Guests were welcome and absences noted, perhaps they’ll join us in another 10 years.  Oh did I forget to mention that we turned ten!

Dave gave his usually rave on the history of The Babies of Walloon, the park and competition too. As the did all those years ago, Bridgett Kate and Mary Anne dancing among the water lilies, as Don recited Henry Lawson The Babies of Walloon. And this year the grey skies let down their silent tears. Then came out the Sow & Sow’s to present their patchwork quilt to the captains of the school and a new tradition was born.

So it seemed the morning had everything, tucker, the brush, ceremony, tradition, art and culture . . . but then entered politics as Paul Tully unleashed the ghosts of politicians past, handing over to Denleigh the poets had the mike at last.

Some recall the tales of poets of the past, while others sent us into laugher tell us of childhood’s follies! Still other tired to regress into there days of youth, while the rest of us poets just told it how it is.

Local artist, poet and historian Judith Baker waved together tales of yester year and the very present, bringing up back to the reason we gather here, at Henry Lawson Bicentennial Park, to continue the tradition Lawson poem recorder and declare open the Ipswich Poetry Feast Competition.

So if you stay tucked in warm in bed, that wall all you missed. But be sure to join us next year to feast on food and poetry, hopeful without the puddles. Oh and don’t forget now to enter the dam competition!!!!

See Ipswich Poetry Feast Webstie for competition detains.