Poems I

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A selection of poems by China Hamilton


Sad News

There is good news, bad news and sad news.
Today was sad news.
It’s just not fair,
And because I care, yes really care,
I feel so tempted to just shed a tear.
But that won’t serve a drot,
Or oil the wheels of dreams,
For times of darkness,
Ah never as they seem.
For all journeys never have a plan,
Nor time nor destination,
For so it’s been to come and then to go,
Since the birth of all creation.
And so I must value what has been before,
And what is still to come.
Remembering all the happiness
And all the blessed fun.


There She Was

I turned about and there she was.
Perhaps it was a noise I heard?
Perhaps it was a dream?
The rustle of suspender belt,
Against a stocking seam?
I turned again, she wasn’t there,
Except the perfume of her hair.


New Year

Across a room with midnight tolling
I glimpse those ghosts from years gone past,
Friends and lovers dear fond memories
Whose flames have died and didn’t last.

Fireworks rip the darkest sky,
The new-born year takes wings to fly,
Some are laughing some in tears,
Laden with all hopes and fears.

A stranger’s hand is filling mine,
A hug a kiss good wishes flow,
That painful, aching hidden well,
Hides sorrows they will never know.


A Thought

By recording,
The moments that we share,
Enshrine the sensual and perhaps,
The sexual if we together dare?



“So I see the challenge set,
There you are and there you sit
And yes and there you read.
Each Wind Horse that I write and fly,
Let loose upon the wind,
To find the vastness of the sky.
Will also sow its seed.”


What’s Within That House?

“That’s not my house,” I heard him say.
“No not mine, not any way.”
But what’s within I asked again,
A serious question not a whim?
“Nothing, nothing, not a thing,”
His answered as he turned around
And like a fine horse pawed the ground,
Gave little hope to me.
“They are all like that one,
Quite the same” he murmured on,
“They are but empty hopes
And empty dreams,
Failed un-fired bricks
And nothing to show for all that effort,
Rot infested beams.”
Surely not that house,
I pointed with my stick?
“Oh yes that house, they’re all the same,
Life’s hopes and wishes all undone.”
Come, come, I used encouragement,
Surely there’s a small gray cat
And some sweet maid with flowing hair.
“Oh yes once and bread and wine
And little mice just for the cat,
The cat she stroked upon her lap.
They had chairs
Large oak tables set in pairs.
Candles lit as nightfall come
Music made their merry fun.
At first out went the chairs
And tables to.
Two men came and drowned the cat,
[Don’t like em any shade of gray,]
Was all that others heard them say.
They eat and drank and munched the mice,
Then each in turn did use her thrice.
Screams will empty any house,
As bare and rot does echo back.”
He walked off not looking back,
I threw the key away,
For there was little more to say..
I’d ask another man upon another day.


The Witch

And so sweet, loved Witch,
The mystical growing threads of such controlling force,
Seek like the tendrils of a sapling oak,
The deepest, craven pleasures
Within the enveloping warmth
Of a Sorcerer’s cloak.
It wraps so silently with cunning stealth,
Around your naked and so wanton form.
And as dark night passes,
Upon its stallion gleaming black,
Now your waking time, through shafted lights of dawn,
Finds your willful will, so bound with tightened cords,
And old magic’s skill.
That try your hardest,
They will weather all the forces
Of proud Nature’s storm.
To hold through time together,
Your craving bondage to a lover’s loved filled will.



I put my hand upon a stone,
I felt a darkening in the sky,
I though I heard a battle cry.
This was a place they came to die.


The Bag

When what was once perfection new,
Has become your cherished friend,
A truthful intimacy,
Secret space,
Wrapped by its leather folds.
It holds a timeless perfume,
Its notes a complex union,
Sweet life and all that’s you.
Comfortable and by your side,
Confidence in every stride.
Now unique, no longer one,
Of but a special few.


My Dog

There goes that small dog, perky, pesky,
Ridged rod of a tail, tallyman talisman through the grass.
A hells bells of memory smells,
She’ll mark em,
Crystal cut ruby eyes, spy and find what’s left behind.
Reynard, saucy pheasant, rubbish from a careless peasant.
Bird dog putting up, odds and ends indignant duck.
That woven wire coat, marsh rains never soak,
Dingle dell and dark wet dyke,
Where the school boy hopes he’ll find a pike.
Daring doo dah doggy, pondles on, busy, busy Lizzy.
Except she’s Mazey, just a little crazy.



I’m just alone, doors have shut,
Those footsteps gone into the night
Broken hearts, shattered dreams
My tears to fill a bath.
Oh well, he said it was a laugh.


The Child Within.

“Take me for a walk,”
Said the child and offered up a happy, grubby hand.
“Shall we explore the house”
I asked?
The serious face beneath its Viking hair,
Burned me with its curious eyes.
Our house, I seemed to answer… the passive question.
Yours, each dream filled day of childhood,
Mine, dying embers of memory on a smoldering fire.
The large, white door, number six, woven in glass
Into the leaded testimony to nineteen twenties art,
Swung open for us both.
Blown once from its hinges by Herr Hitlers’ bomb.
Held wide for you, as death’s fingers,
Played dice for your young life.
Mr Fleming, clever man, filled you full of his invention,
Smells like rotting flesh upon pajamas,
White seamen of the sorcerer he surely was.
Smell or not it’s why I’m here.
There’s not much to explore, no hundred bedroomed mansion.
Yet so little of the embedded detail has really, really changed.
“Until you left”,
I remarked to the Child,
“Nothing really changed.”
Each item its allotted place, dusted daily and replaced.
A few, that get fewer, have traveled with me.
Time capsules of memory to glance upon or fondle.
The Child let go my hand to show me how a cardboard box,
The ultimate of toys,
Became some strange vehicle, sliding over lino
Polished entrance to the hall.
I wandered with the Child,
Through the simple rooms.
The coal fire, warming bottoms on a winter day,
The steam filled kitchen, tiny with its intimacy,
The stove alive with its creations, the damp dog drying off.
Bedrooms cold, ice filled in winter,
Tossed and turning during summer,
When only saucepans filled the weekly bath.
“That’s a laugh,” I told the Child.
It was however much engrossed in flying Bronco planes
Across the bathroom lino floor.
That lay as some great marbled end paper or a pirate’s map.
I heard delivery horses clopping by,
I’ll have these memories till of course with me…
They’ll die