The Moment

Beware the moment when the mind
Becomes aware that all is well
No fecks, no fears, no fault to find
Just jolly tales of joy to tell
All happiness and all good things
Are here within the now and here!
The fool from on the rooftop sings
As all the angels disappear
And demons gather on the hill
Attracted by his careless cry
To watch him fall, as fall he will
As all things fall that fly too high
And shine too bright, and fly too fast
Enjoy the moment. See, it’s passed…

*

© Gail Foster December 6th 2017

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‘If Truth Be Told’; a book of poetry and autobiographical prose

For poetry fans and curious fellows; my book

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It’s available from Devizes Books (01380 725944), as well as through Amazon.  Herewith the blurb; there’s lots in here you won’t have read.

Everything in this book was written between November 2016 and November 2017.
It’s an odd mixture, really.

Serious sonnets and satirical silliness.
Randy pigeons and St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Feisty stuff and flirtations with form.
Sainsburys and the Avebury Ring.
Grand themes and little ticklish things.
Sadness and spiritual joy.
….
This is my second anthology and yet again I have had to give thought to the diverse nature of my content.
I have decided to treat my readers like adults, and include all my material.  Everything.  Nearly.  Except for my haiku, senryu, and tanka, which belong in another book, and the private things I have written.  Everything including the sweet story about my god daughter, the mysterious case of the socks on the rocking chair, a poem in which I use the ‘c’ word for a fascist, songs of love for beautiful people, wild poems inspired by the muse, and the seedy tale of what happened to me back in the seventies and early eighties.

So here you go.
Take a deep breath.
Thank you so much for reading my work.
*
Gail Foster ~ Devizes, Wiltshire, November ‘17

 

colours of sunday

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Impressions of Sunday morning;

for Valerie, Vince, and John

*

valerie and I

call the slice of chapel light

hockney and lemon

sunshine on silver

tails of little wriggling fish

feeding the thousands

vince by the fountain

twinkling as he talks about

beetroot and the times

gold on the mustard

seeds that grow in gospel leaves

scattered on the ground

black belt lay preacher

hurling holy water on

the red fires of hell

the peace, fingers crossed

wishing my heart was as white

as the altar cloth

shades of pigeon grey

orange plastic shopping bags

taking sunday home

*

© Gail Foster 30th July 2017

If Truth Be Told

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A Villanelle

*

The men that catch my eye these days are few

The ones that do are married men, or mad

And truth be told I only fancy you

I doubt that in the pub or porch or pew

I’ll meet a man like you who makes me glad

The men that catch my eye these days are few

I could be looking but I seldom do

There’s only you for me, you ‘lucky’ lad

If truth be told I only fancy you

Until the day fate sends me someone new

I’m all for you, I know, it’s odd, and sad

But men that catch my eye these days are few

You make me happy, boy, you make me blue

I hold a torch for you, and I grow mad

For truth be told I only fancy you

I’ve told you something you already knew

I’m sorry, but I’ve really got it bad

The men that catch my eye these days are few

If truth be told I only fancy you

*

© Gail Foster 21st July 2017

The Crone and the Maiden

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for Idril

*

At Avebury, on Solstice eve, a crone and a maiden sat

The crone wore a weary wisdom, and the maid wore a flowery hat

And as the sun sank ‘neath the hill, and the sky flushed rosy red

The maid, her eyes all full of flame, turned to the crone and said

‘I know nothing of love, speak to me, of marrying, and men

How will I know if I lie with a man, that he’ll come to me again

How will I know if I lie with him, that his heart be faithful and true

They say that the crone knows everything, so tell me, tell me do’

The crone put down her weaving, sighed a little, thought, and spoke

‘How do you know that the bees will buzz, or the wren will sing in the oak

How do you know that the night will flee, or the birds fly free on the morn

As sure as you know that the sun will rise, and the stones be here at dawn’

‘That isn’t an answer,’ said the maid, ‘I want more certainty

How will I know that he speaks the truth when he lies down with me

How will I know by the look in his eye, or the touch of his hand on my breast

Whether he be the man for me, and king above all the rest’

‘You won’t,’ said the crone, ‘you’ll never know, ‘tis up to fate and chance

‘Tis biology, mystery, fantasy, a curse, and a merry dance

Just drink of the wild heat of him, while fire still burns in the sky

For men will come and go, my dear, all suns will fade and die’

The maiden sighed a little, and the crone a little too

‘It seems like only yesterday that I was a maid like you

With oak and roses in my hair, and eyes all full of flame’

‘Best get some in,’ the maid said

‘Ay,’ the crone said, ‘that’s the game’

At Avebury, on Solstice eve, a crone and a maiden sat

The maid wore a little wisdom, and the crone wore the maiden’s hat

And time passed by in a wheel of stars, till dark gave way to the dawn

And the sun rose pink upon the hill, and the king rode in on the morn

*

© Gail Foster 17th June 2017

Sad Solstice Sonnet

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*

This time last year, at Solstice, love, you came

To lie with me, as ancient lore decrees

We drew the sun to earth, and kindled flame

Between us blessed the flowers and the trees

And I wore poppies in my hair, and you

A crown of acorns proud upon your head

How swiftly round the ring the magic flew

When you and I made Avebury our bed

But that was then, and this is now, today

I come without my power and alone

No sign remains of you, or where we lay

No shadow on the grass or on the stone

Another summer, and another ring

I am no longer Goddess to your King

*

© Gail Foster 16th June 2017