Sunday, 18 November 2018

F Fic, Non-fic

Poetry - Ann Carter

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dark of night poetry ann carter pic

In the Dark of the Night

When I cannot sleep in the dark of night.
When shadows move and crawling scare me.
I reach for those friends of great strength and might,
seeking the comfort they can spare me.

There are so many books upon my shelf.
Some tell, some chill, others they thrill me,
but all will take me away from myself,
and with courage and daring fill me.

How do I choose which noble friends to share
the long dark hours that seek to drain me?
A cover bright, is the foreword a snare?
Will it inspire, or hurt or pain me?

Ignore the cover, read the words within.
The shiny wrapping does not hold me.
I open the book and then soon begin
treading the new world that enfolds me.

Such friends are held ever close to my heart.
Their tall tales repeatedly charm me.
And free from their thrall, I’d not wish to part.
They drive back the void that would harm me.

When I cannot sleep, in the dark of night.
When the gloom moves and the black calls me.
I reach for those friends who hold me so tight,
dispelling the silence that walls me.

Asking the Right Questions

A recent trip, a bill for two, red lipstick on his collar.
I stand alone, jacket in hand, not breathing as I ponder.
Fifteen years wed, three children raised, a man’s eyes surely wander
To nubile flesh, the temptress dressed, not seeking as he’s found her.

And who could rein lust’s headstrong thrust, when a tongue tracks ruby lips?
Who recalls wife, and marriage bed, when the wanton grinds her hips?
I see them now, two shapes entwined, a hotel room dimly lit.
And afterwards, in light of day, did guilt on his shoulders sit?

I have to know, a wife must know, if a husband’s love is lost.
But how to pry? I don’t need lies – it’s the truth, but at what cost?
The trust between us two is torn, if I voice my dirty fears
A husband lost, a father lost, and all those sun-filled years.

When evening falls, a table laid, the laundry washed and folded.
The car pulls up, his face appears. He’s late, will he be scolded?
I kiss tired lips, rest head to head, my hands slide round his waist.
“Do you love me?” I softly ask, my gaze explores his face.

“Of course I do” he blinks and smiles, joy blazes deep in his eyes.
“You are my life, my love, my own, from now till the end of time.”
There is one truth I need to know, I think as I serve the meal.
Not what he did, or didn’t do, but how he honestly feels.

We seek the truth, a holy grail, we probe and question all things.
But truth’s a sword, a naked blade, it slices, it cuts, it stings.
When fears abound, and death knell sounds, I’ve learnt some things aren’t mentioned
The past’s like dust, in love I’ll trust, by asking the right questions.


Ann Carter spent most of her working life as a Management Consultant in the United Kingdom. As a child, with Air Force parents, she lived in a number of exotic locations that included Aden and Singapore. As an adult, however, she has lived a more prosaic existence in Cornwall, Yorkshire, and Lincolnshire. Here she adores the traditional English countryside but sees how population growth and creeping urbanization are slowly eating away at England’s two thousand-year-old heritage. As an avid gardener and watercolor painter she extends that thread of creativity by writing poetry, using the medium to express her misgivings at the way we treat our environment and our unwillingness to knuckle down and put the world back to rights.

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