For my mother on her birthday

Rain falls on the terrace outside

And you listen to its music.

The flowers that you remember,

open faced,

Always kissing the sun,

Are sleepily drinking



From soaked clay pots.

You hear the cry of gulls
And the echo of waves

Crashing along the seawalls.

Not far from here
Gulls drift above the tides.
The white tips of their wings;

the only colour

Above rolling waves

Blotted out under a grey marble sky.

The song of the sea rises and falls with the tumbling waves.

The sea air,

And the song of the sea;
Your homecoming.

By J. Hamilton

Taormina, Sicily

I want to take you

To the hilltop village

That overlooks the Ionian Sea.

The very same place

Where my mother spent many childhood summers.

When we look at the sparkling blue waves that roll onto the shore of Isola Bella,

I will tell you

That I am looking into the endless blue sea of my mother’s eyes.

We can breathe the air that once filled her lungs

As she stood on the beach with her sisters,

Soft sand filling the tiny arches between their toes

Wind off the waves

Kissing their faces

And filling up their bodies with it’s own breath.

Let’s feel the hot sand

Under our feet

Feel the cool spray off the ocean.

Visit Il Teatro and think of where her dreams began.

We will walk along sand and rocks.

See the light off the water reflected caves.

Let us let this seascape be our home

For one summer. Let us create a deep

Endless sea of memories that extend from hers

To ours.

Let us carry them with us for the rest of our lives

Like shiny pale sea shells that wash to shore ,


By J. Hamilton

Summerfield and butterflies

Not all moments are the same

Just like the minutes and hours of summer

That sit at the edge of a


Illuminated by sun.

Last summer

Like many summers before

I wished that a butterfly would visit me

Drift dreamily in the air

Then find a place to rest

Near by.

Last summer

While we sat

In parched yellow grass

That tickled the underside of our bare legs,

Butterflies did come.


Then two

And two more

They sat in a line on our arms

As if drunk from the scent of fragrant blooms on nearby trees.

We watched in awe as tiny monarchs

Crept along our arms

As if we were flowers.

I can still see us

Holding our arms out to the sun,

Our skin

Kissed by butterflies.

By J..Hamilton

In summer fields (For Maria)

Painting, In Summer Fields, by Maria Grazia

I slip off my shoes

To feel the soft

Tangled grass

Under my feet

As I walk in summer fields.

Purple blooms

Stand on slender stems

All around me.

The powdery scent of lavender

Drifts in the wind.

The same scent of lavender scented sachets

That my mother kept

Among her linens.

A reminder and an unspoken promise

Of sweet,


By J..Hamilton

Poetic moments

You and I are similar in many ways.

I collect leaves

Then store them between the pages of a book

To remind me of fall walks

And the oxygenation of leaves and how their colours deepen,

Becoming red

Like wine

Then fade in time.

You collect flowers

On your walks.

They are mementos of poetic moments.

Treasures that dry on your window sills, on a book lined shelf

On your pine bench

Next to your satin ballet shoes.

Yours are everywhere


Constantly reminding you of

Where you have been

Within the fields from which these flowers have grown..

My leaves are inside the pages of books,

Tucked inside a papered time capsule.

Both of us

Are collectors

Of moments

And seasons



And leaves.

By J. Hamilton

Toward the sun

In a vase, an arrangement of flowers sit

Drinking from the same water.

A mix of rosy snapdragons, fluted irises,

Butter coloured tulips, open faced, toward the sun,

And mustard, black-eyed Susan’s, sitting on long stalks of green, unbending.

These flowers are unlikely relatives

Spanning seasons

Standing together in

a gold handled


This is how you would choose your children.


Basking in their own uniqueness

Yet sharing the same light.


This is how you make tea

I still remember

The aromatic preparation

Of tea

In the kitchen I stood in

As a child.

The saucepan on a burner,

Water, milk and spices

Coming to a gentle simmer,

Then black tea

Darkening the fragrant mixture

Of sweet sublime.


Poured me a cup of my own,

Watching as I drank your tea

In your sunlit kitchen.

Your dark eyes


As I sipped from

Your cup of warmth

And friendship.

This is how you make tea,

You said.

J. Hamilton

On a naked path

Dedicated to an angel on my walk today.

You walked along a naked path,

Trees hung in the backdrop




Your red coat

A stark contrast

To your sleepy surroundings.

One arm at your side

While the other was outstretched

Like a cardinal’s wing.

You carried the weight of your neck

Like an injured bird.

Yet as we passed

You smiled.

Your smile was unmarred,

Your soul,


By j. Hamilton


Ir has been a long time since we last spoke.

The seasons have changed.

Blood red leaves hang on branches that are soon to release them.

Night has blotted out any hint of light.

I am in my room,

Curled up in the quiet of my bed

Holding in the cough that builds up until it robs me of air.

I am trying to listen to the sounds of life within this house.

All of us, still together under one roof.




Housed here.

By J. Hamilton