Solitaire
Were I to call
Were I to stumble
Or even fall
Would you hear me?
Would the constant babble
Of texts and tweets and twitters
Silence my helpless cry
- Margaret Quigley
Remembering my Mother in early April
A second birthday with you elsewhere
A land unknown, a foreign place
A mystery, a state that puzzles us, and frightens too
Were we to be bravely candid
Are you watching, do you smile, as we ponder
That final destination which will draw us also to itself
The itinerary not yet clear -
And shake your head at our pointless fretting
- Margaret Quigley
Some Souls
Some breasts will swell with mother’s milk
Some feed the flesh formed from themselves
Some lips shape sounds of doting drivel
Some eyes find only what they seek
Some hearts are slaves to Blake or Rilke
Some fill the books on future shelves
Some tongues love rhyme like swivel snivel
Some see too much and have to speak
Some nurse the notions more subtle than silk
Some souls belong to the fairies and elves
Some dream of worlds serene and civil
Some know that power is for protecting the weak
- Edith Speers
The Lost Moment
The furrowed face, the anxious brow
look strange and out of place somehow
beneath the stylish henna hair,
above the business suit she wears.
She’s on the street in city slums
and up to our parked car she comes.
She won’t harm us,
smiles to charm us,
thinks perhaps that we’re naïve,
prosperous and likely to believe
a story that’s been true for many.
Not a penny,
not a dime,
changes hands this time.
Nothing could be fairer,
nothing could be rarer
than the chance to give alms,
to put a dollar or two in the beggar’s palm
for those so lucky it’s strange to meet
someone asking for help on a city street.
But the moment went by.
The simple story was a complicated lie.
In another place or another time
where begging is not considered a crime,
where failing to prosper is not a sin
so shameful to both those who lose and those who win,
where pretending you don’t need more than a bit
is the only way to buy hit after hit,
where in order to lay waste to your life day by day
you must look like all those who do it for pay,
let us hope that a moment will be allowed
where no one has to be cunning or proud
and the need for money is simple and plain
so cash can change hands, no need to explain.
- Edith Speers
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Maggie Quigley lives on the south coast of New South Wales. Love, loss, and life’s natural beauty have been the inspiration for her poetry.
Edith Speers is a Canadian born poet,