What You Are

Good Afternoon,

There are few things that rile me, but falseness is one. With that in mind I wrote this poem for my daughter. As a beacon to turn to, when she feels persuaded to be something other than who she truly is. Not an easy path to walk in this consumerist, advertising soup we have to wade through. Giving our children the tools they need to be real and free. Are the best gives ever. 

What You Are

From the moment of conception, 

You will be what you are. 

From one decision to another, 

You’re wanting to want to go far.

There can be no bold denial, 

Of where you have been. 

In reflections of your persona, 

You reflect you to be seen. 

When you walk lingering paths, 

Of places not to ponder. 

It is our natural human nature, 

To want to linger longer.

Walk with your head held high, 

while reaching for that sky. 

Be what you were meant to be,

A real person that is free.

By Helen Stallard

June 15, 2014

Wise Words

Good Evening,
My second post of today. I wrote this for my Grandfather. He was a man that didn't interact with me much as a child, but when he did say something it was often important. He taught my father many things and carpentry was one of them. I asked him once how he taught my Dad and how he made such beautiful things from wood. He just answered with a simple; " I told him and I listened." So I dedicate this poem to him. The man who learned by listening and taught by speaking.



Wise Words

Each single line a vein of life.
A telling tale of love and strife.
One map of life for all to see.
Of this wise man who studies me.

One line reflects his deepest loss
Of a love that shall not be begot.
A perfect love so pure of heart
Such devotion from the very start.

Another line exposes his sin,
One that's buried deep within
A life he took for country and king
An early death that he did bring.

The deepest line is how he lived.
This ancient man and how he gives
Even now with crippled limb
He tells of stories wrapped in him.

An eventful life in which he learned,
And fought, loved, lost and earned.
The best life lesson he says, "I heard."
Was the lesson of spoken word.

By Helen Stallard
June 14, 2014

Gym Bunnies

Good Evening,

This tongue in cheek look at my fitness regime is here to inspire you. If I can do it you can ;) 

Gym Bunnies

Gasping you push yourself further.

Pushing… your body feels like murder.

Dragging your limbs to next class,

Working to shape up your flabby ass.

Compare yourself to the Fitter Ones,

The ones who make it look fun.

They smile as they take the class,

Models reflected in a looking glass.

So you pace your steps to their lead,

When the instructors the one to heed.

No sweat beads on their brows.

Keeps trying until you know how.

If they inspire your body to tire,

Light up in you - the exercise fire.

Only do it because of your drive,

You keep fit so that you thrive.

You can’t worry about your wobble

When after classes you have to hobble

Remember why you started,

So you and that weight get parted.

Don’t be the one that looks funny,

Like the dedicated gym bunnies

Believe always in the power of you,

That’s what will see you through.

By Helen Stallard

June 14, 2014

Addict

Good Afternoon, 
My free verse poem today is not a complaint, a criticism nor a judgemental finger. I offer it to to all those who have been a victim of someone else's addiction. 
I was a very young woman when I was involved in the ramifications of someone else's addiction. Yes it shaped me in a fashion and yes at the time I had no understanding of how torturous addiction can be for the sufferer. However, now as an adult and a more worldly person. I offer those memories to you. In the hope that others will know they are not alone. Seek the support that is there for them and stand united against any addiction. 
All my love Helen.


Addict

When it is absent, I feel the void,
A small empty ache at first.
In the beginning I am strong with-out you. 
Then the thoughts roll in…
And on their backs come the doubts.

There is a nagging in me causing this want.
To be swiftly followed by rantings,
Outbursts of such grandeur, anything else pales.
Next the accusations and then the fight.
Arguments with no conclusion bar one!

I leave, storming away to avoid the reactive?
I leave, to calm my mind and reflect?
I leave, to think on my apologies?
I leave, to save you from me?
I leave to DRINK

Simple in my needs, but complex in my reasons. 
I blame you, the kids, your nagging, 
My work, the pressure, the socialising need.
Though I know in my heart the reasons. 
I wrap them up in excuses.

I should be able to say it.
But those words play in my head and choke my throat.
So I wash them down with my nectar,
To sooth my throat and numb my mind.
My weakness has taken hold of me.


In my lucidity I am strong for a time. 
Just one to stave off the shakes!
For steadying my hand!
Just the one today - until Friday!
One leads to two, two leads to three.

That leads to my guilt,
which flows through my tears. 

By Helen Stallard
June 11, 2014

Arachnophobe

Good Evening, 

I feel this free verse poem needs no introduction. 

Arachnophobe

I know you are there lurking. 

Hideous, ugly, grotesque. 

You watch me from dark corners. 

Those hairs sensing my moves,

Anticipating my actions. 

You bide your time... waiting! 

When I am distracted you strike. 

The stalker with it’s prey. 

Biding your time until you dash. 

Rationality abandons me then. 

I am drawn to seek you out.

A sick black need to find you, 

Before you jump at me.

A paralysing fear grips me,

As you intrude in my sanctuary. 

By Helen Stallard

June 10, 2014

Black River

Evening All, 

Today's poem/monologue is one from my childhood. I played freely as a child. In places that I would be mortified for my own children to play at today. One of those place was a river near my home. Used by the Cwm Colliery, it was polluted and a magnet to me as that free roaming child. To this day I know not what that little brook was called and I don't want to know either. It was nicknamed, `The Black River' by us children. `i remember it fondly as such and want to always. 
I do hope you enjoy reading this as much as I love revising it. 

Black River 

Chocking as it struggles on it’s course

Black death almost consuming it

As oils skims the near by pools

Strangling further this struggling force

My eyes search where the rust settles

Making unnervingly beautiful colours,

Against it’s forest back drop of green.

Framing this picture to my mind.

Still I am drawn to paddle knee deep.

Child like minds do that... urge you!

The water, clear to the surface...Yet?

So tentatively I present my toe.

Cold surging through my body,

as my foot follows deeper.

Then I feel ‘it,’ the consuming sludge.

This black gold smothering my extremity.

Surging upwards and engulfing foot and brook.

A soothing sensation from something so murderous

Now disturbed - it seeks a new host

Clinging as limpets to a harbor wall.

Thick, suffocating, dark, dangerous.

I feel the grit of it between my toes.

Small wind fallen twigs, fattened by moisture,

Leaf litter and the carcasses of river insects.

All carnivorously consumed and under foot.

Still... I relish the slimy sensation abut me!

My legs heavy now with this sludge.

Sludge upon more sludge.

As the brook turns black. 

This enveloping darkness warming me through.

To me it’s as normal as the words from my mouth!

Here I’m at home in my playground

With this brook. Crucified by the washeries,

Used up and hanging on for life.

Trying still, to sustain all about it.

The sun breaks the canopy 

And now I see what I seek.

The blackness glistening,

in the dappled sunlight.

As pristine cut diamonds,

in churning water.

Nothing compares to this reflective beauty.

I see the glory of the black gold.

Admire it!

Standing statuesque,

The slow current about me,

Washing my sparkle away,

Back to the bottom of the brook.

Heading now towards the bank.

I drag my leaden feet,

to linger longer in the sensation.

Up and out - onto the bank.

The now drying coal dust clings,

finding life out of the black river,

But my sparkles dies with it.

The child in me wants back in,

but i’m late already for home.

Having lounged to long,

this summers day

Distracted by nature and her loves.

I am thankful for the distant pools

of clear fresh water.

Where I remove any trace of my friend.

For fear of being discovered.

Being outed for my adoration of The Black River.

By Helen Stallard

June 9, 2014

A Place Called Home

Afternoon All,
There are days when ones memory flits back to happy times filled with warm memories. This poem is one of those moments, that I now share with you. Back to the seventies and a day in the life of me then.


A Place Called Home

Taking me away from this place of today.
Back to the snow and my seat on the sleigh.
Where crystal white blankets covered all,
In the days long after that summers fall.

When icicles dripped from old wooden gutters,
Frozen chins made you chatter and stutter.
Hand made mittens hung heavy with clump,
As we made tracks with curves and bumps.

Men of snow guarded gardens galore.
Little old ladies smoke salt to the floor.
Trails of black from coal houses traced,
To unlocked doors in the keeping warm race.

Children hopped from one foot to another,
Other kids called for your sisters or brothers.
Wooden sleds snowmen, in ice dens we played.
While our schools shut down for the day.

We cared for those with little more than us,
Checked on their fires  and making a fuss.
To when people cared, is where mind roams.
To a time that I miss - that place I called home.


By Helen Stallard
June 8, 2014