Taking My Time

By Jan Norman

I have been writing poetry since I was a child, one who loved reading, including the poetry available for children at that time. As I grew older, my poetry writing became an outlet for a whole range of emotions and experiences, both good and bad. I try to use language for which no one would need a dictionary to understand. I hope that my readers

• Language: English
• Publisher: Debbie Lee
• Release date: Oct 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781760414474

Book preview

Taking My Time

Taking My Time

Jan Norman

Ginninderra Press

Taking My Time

ISBN 978 1 76041 447 4

Copyright © text Jan Norman 2017

Cover image: Clocks on blue © Stillfx

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All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright holder. Requests for permission should be sent to the publisher at the address below.

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First published 2017 by

Ginninderra Press

PO Box 3461 Port Adelaide 5015 Australia

www.ginninderrapress.com.au

For Asti

with thanks

Contents

Taking My Time

Taking My Time

The Future Imagined

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When I am grown old

will I still remember Me?

When I walk with care

down every stair,

will I still remember

dancing free?

When I sit and I nap

with a cat on my lap,

will I still remember

a lover – or three?

The adventures I had?

The friends, good and bad?

Will I reach out at all

towards memory’s glass wall

and try to make contact with Me?

Arrival

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You are,

You were,

You will be –

Decline the verb ‘to be’?

Decline it not.

Rather rejoice

And so rejoicing rise

From brilliant agony

Alive; immortal

In your eyes

And greet the world

With these first frantic cries.

Getting the Ration Books

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The news came rolling

Through the valleys

But the mountains fled,

Blue and quivering,

Into the distant mists.

‘What’s a war, Mummy?’

I wore my red dress,

She wore her blue

With the white flowers.

It was my favourite.

Grown-ups, very tall,

All legs and trousers,

Skirts flapping in my face,

Waited uncertain

In summer sunshine.

‘What’s a war, Mummy?’

‘I’m worn out!’ she gasped.

Seizing my hand, Nanna

trotted me down the path

From the RSL clubhouse

In shabby Lurline Street,

Onto the pavement

Sprouting clover and lolly papers.

She sat on the wall.

I looked up at the stones,

Rough and grooved

With sparkles in them

Where the