Rani Turton Poems

Like a soft breeze that, barely there, sifts the papers on my table.
A window, open, and the curtains move gently.
A memory, that should not have been there.
An emotion that barely acknowledged should have known better.
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A storm will arise tonight.

The wind has started ruffling the pages of my book
The open window creaks, curtains billow.
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In these closing years of your life
Each time I see your white hair that was once so black
Your body bent that once walked so straight
I remember you throwing me up in your arms
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There is a clock on a city street
These pavings that have often known my feet
There is a clock, a street and a tower
That is the mystery of love's power.
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Poets have no tools, never
No tangible tools that is to say
Some people even call them fools
Poets have a different worldview
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Yet again, a wanderer at your shore.

Asking and not waiting for your reply.
Waiting but not wanting; watching but silently.
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My soul wanders, erring; to my great surprise:
I didn’t know I possessed one.
That to this day and that when tomorrow should come
I will look at what I’ve become.
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As despair weaves a cocoon around my shadow
Alas, alone am I with my despair.
I had waited for these clouds to lift I had prayed
For these storms to cease
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When a woman goes to pieces
Hysteria and fragility are often evoked
When a man goes to pieces
Its often just workload
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I wrote this poem for you; just a lyrical fantasy.
Just some words that found their way onto a page.
Unasked for, unbidden
But not yet forbidden.
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