Biography of Elaine Battersby
I have only recently started writing again.My poems in some ways are little stories, my slant on the things I see, feel.
New to Poem Hunter I will be posting quite a few more shortly.
I welcome your comments feedback.
My own, journey, sometimes struggle,
has helped me not to be afraid to speak my truth.
Something I would like to share with others.
Elaine Battersby's Works:
Elaine Battersby Poems
Voice Of Truth
A voice of truth, of reason, speaks out with splendid clarity, dismissed by raised newspapers and turned heads. Indifferent to his words his truth.
My grandma, before she was dead. Naught wrong with world, it's people in it. I think you could say, it's the same today, As it was of yesterdays.
I saw her from a distance. Body swollen and slouched, she sat motionless, Sad
She 85 years young With a mind of her own, and a will of steel that's for sure. Not afraid to speak out,
My world seems much smaller now. Lonelier, more hostile. I feel imprisioned in my body. Trapped, restricted, by my aching limbs,
Different Life, S
Sitting on the top deck, I watch the swirling lights, shine brightly on the rain lashed paines, late at night.
You pass then bye withour even noticing them. And if you do, you dismiss them as being to grey, to old. In your percieved importance and arrogance, you mock their slowness, their faded looks.
Like nomads of the sky, they roam, restless.relentless. Their shapes and colour forever changing. Echoeing the mood of our souls. Dark, light, optimistic, angry.
Dishes, dishes every where, But, I’m the cook, so I think that’s fair. Dishes, dishes, everywhere.
Oh, were in trouble Some ones burst the bubble, Europe is at war again, No boots, rifles, or bombs in sight this time.
A Man Of His Time
He was a man of his time, his class, a worker. My father. As I child, he told us of his war days. And my brother and I watched and listened,
Did you hear my words. Not just the words, But the meaning, The story, the love
My Brother Tom
He has gone to god now. Finally, he is at peace, at rest. His final days, tragic, desperate, Lonely,
Like nomads of the sky, they roam, restless.relentless.
Their shapes and colour forever changing.
Echoeing the mood of our souls.
Dark, light, optimistic, angry.
In a moment, magically transforming from a thunderous mass.
Into delicate streaks of red and grey.
Painting the sky as if it was alimitless canvas.
On a bright summers day by noon they have disappeared.