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Mrs Lightfoot is a neighbour of mine
Slight of build with matted grey hair
Emerges each spring tending her garden
Picking the same weeds every day

Always in green, top, skirt and shoes
Washing machined regularly
Each Autumn, come rain or shine
Living alone and lonely

She waves to me and I wave to her
The smile that she sends makes me feel guilty
She stutters towards me in those green shoes
To tell me her life once again

Five children rely on Social Services to care for her
Too busy, too far, to visit and love
The couple next door get her shopping in
Yet oft is she seen shuffling with bags

Her garage door got broken and bent
One year in a storm but hangs ever still
The shrubs have outgrown her as she slowly sinks
‘neath the weight of her years and green top

Two men called to see her and had bad news
Her roof was in danger of rain running through
Frightened and trusting she paid for their time
But when neighbours approached they fled from their crime

Her frailty and mind run in tandem, slowly
A sparrow of a creature that once flew the heights
A widow without a cause
With a smile to die for…

Dear John ~

I love the empathy and tenderness with which you view people you come across, meet, or share with in your life. This is another example of that... and makes me want to go visit. I wish you were able or could. I'd love to read a poem written as a result of that meeting... as BoHo suggested to Chris; perhaps, the companion piece to this... your visit to her, a woman so long lost, unto herself. At least one of how you're impacted by her... and she you, from somewhere closer than a neighbour's distance.


Love,
Lizzy

Phew, Byron, there's a lot of good poetry appearing in this section these days. I can see that woman as if were standing at her garden gate myself. The second-to-last stanza seems to me to be a little awkwardly expressed. Not that I have any better ideas. I'm enjoying your other recent pomes, too.

Thanks,

Diane

Restless spirit oh restless spirit.
why is it that its me you call?
Iam but a tiny ant.
jn this place you call earth

Love is yhe message.Love is the message.
I am but a tiny ant.in your invincible army.
Domine Jesu christe.Libre nos
You are the abosulate of love.
they are not listening to me
they are not listening...............................

Love is the cure for love
Love your children.neighbours.friends
Love your cats dogs rabbits.......................
Love your enemies.as you do yourself
you will be rewarded
love is not selfisn,its kind and gentle...............
Yes love is the cure for love........................
....

Love

Diane wrote:Phew, Byron, there's a lot of good poetry appearing in this section these days. I can see that woman as if were standing at her garden gate myself. The second-to-last stanza seems to me to be a little awkwardly expressed. Not that I have any better ideas. I'm enjoying your other recent pomes, too.

Thanks,

Diane

Ta muchly. If you're referring to the broken garage door stanza I think I can explain its meaning to me, although I can understand why it is awkward in its way. Nature damaged the garage door and it 'still' hangs there and also, it hangs quite 'still' without movement; nature sends the shrubs into engulfing 'mode' and she cannot control even the shrubs in her garden which she tends to every day in her way, without success; nature is finally taking its toll on the old lady to the point where she is diminishing in size and wears the same old skin and her favourite green top, all the time.

Hi Byron,

Blimey. Sorry I made you go to the trouble of explaining that stanza, which I understood exactly as you describe. Now you know how people feel after they ask me for directions. I meant to say, 'next-to-last'. Well, I have walked into this one, so let me see if I can explain what I mean, I who find it very hard to analyse things, and only have 'feelings' about them . < thinks > No, I can't! but I'll say how I might have expressed it, dunno if it mucks up a meter pattern, or something else I have not discerned:

Two men called to see her and had bad news
Her roof was in danger of rain running through
Frightened and trusting she paid for their time
But when neighbours approached they fled from their crime

I might have said:

Two men knocked the door to help with bad news
Her roof would spring leaks in autumn's hard rain
She paid for it well, their work, and their crime
With fearful green trust, and to her last dime

But then, that leaves out the bit about the neighbours chasing off those vulturous cowboys . And she has pennies and not dimes but that doesn't rhyme. I don't think that last line is quite right, but I have no further thoughts.

I hope the reference to springing of leaks is forgiven by the fact that spring has some kind of association with autumn.

Your final stanza btw, I like very much; it sums up what you have described in the rest of the poem.

But oooh Byron, now I notice other cracks in your pome, as I start to look closely at it. Is it supposed to be in sentences, or doesn't it matter? Laurie taught me that I can't write in sentences. I guess 'free verse' can be any old thing you like, can it? I haven't a clue. None of the following suggestions pay any attention to meter cos it's getting late now:

The smile that she sends makes me feel guilty

Her eager smile follows and sharpens my guilt ?

Five children rely on Social Services to care for her

Five children leave social services to care for her ?

The couple next door get her shopping in

The couple next door help with her shopping ?


Diane, critic-without-a-clue

ps And I just noticed "come rain or shine" is a cliché .

There's something in the way that you explained that stanza, Byron, that reminds me of 100 years of Solitude, with the house just reverting to the red ants. ha! Being given back, or rather nature 'taking back' what is rightfully hers. Of course its apples and oranges, but that was my first 'impression'.

Had to zip on here asap to say sorry about that particular late-night rambling, Byron. Because you are Byron, I know that I am forgiven.

I am reminded of a French expression I once found and quoted on here: "Je pédale dans la choucroute."

Diane