Margaret Kollmer Poems

Sitting here at my desk
as the rain splats down
upon the roof
I struggle to maintain
...

‘Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring – not even my spouse.
The dining room table with clutter was spread
With pedigree charts and with letters which said:
...

Living in another body
Will anyone ever understand me?
Who am I?
Or rather
...

I try and try - so very hard

To bury thoughts of you
...

Everyone laughs at me -
The eternal clown!
They laugh because they are bound
by things they don’t understand.
...

Mandy stopped awhile beside me
like you’d stop at the scene
of an accident.
She administered first aid
...

Written by my friend Judy for her friend in Boston, USA:

You told me to watch out for a butterfly
A white one at that –
...

Some rather tortuous teenage angst from my very dear young friend, Caroline - fifteen then, thirty-six today, and still a beautiful, entertaining, intelligent and perceptive young woman. (I ached for you then; today I read your writing with delight, never quite sure if I should be weeping or chuckling out aloud but doing both all the same. Quite wonderful. It warms me that not only did you survive but that you have become such a wonderful mother, wife and daughter. P.S. If ever it was thought that I was something of a drama queen, believe me, sweetheart, I pale in your shadow! Lots of smiles and may God bless you always. It is my fervent hope that one day you will return to writing. You shine! Aunty M.)

Dearest Aunty M – I hope my letter finds you well. It was indeed great seeing you on Sunday although the circumstances could have been better. Much tension filled the air. I do apologise for the informal letter but I’m sure you’ll let me get away with it. I’m sure I have mentioned this to you before – formality grinds me! I am watching the hourglass and time’s a-wasting away before my vivid blue eyes. Screams – theirs, mine – they’re afraid of me, Aunty Marg. My loved ones. Am I torturing them? They torture me.
...

Night comes
so quickly
without warning.
Day wanes and twilight reigns
...

An Irish dragon? Why not? Most things Irish are pure fantasy so why not an Irish dragon? But an Irish dragon for a mother? Why not, again? Most mothers are dragons so why not an Irish mother: -)

Leastways, that's what most children think until they're well into their fifties, or so, by which time, these self-same offspring are coiled (ha ha) for their own spring into immortality so that once again, they repeat the pattern and become dragons to their own children.
...