Saturday, 13 September 2008
BLACKBIRD TRANSFIXED
Blackbird watched a weasel weave its way through a cleft near the shore.
The petulant sea, a seething cauldron, raged against sturdy rocks,
The spreading wash passed him by,
He had no place to go.
Blackbird stood transfixed,
Terrified by Nature’s beauty,
Terrorised by her violence.
BLACKBIRD STRIKES
One day Blackbird, bored to tears, snapped,
And savaged his old enemy Al Queda,
The insensitive, resident, in house, terrorist cat.
Narrowly missing the conifer spread,
Blackbird dorniered in on his target
And cruelly struck it beastly dead.
Eyeing the throbbing mass, Blackbird took it apart,
Gorged on blood, but delayed no longer
For there was some serious business to start,
Ripping apart the whimpering soul
And binding what remained with alien DNA
With the breath of life, he took complete control,
Heavily armed, the transmogrified mog
Roared through the undergrowth,
An airborne strike primed to begin
Blackbird’s plan to destroy its feline kith and kin.
Blackbird watched a weasel weave its way through a cleft near the shore.
The petulant sea, a seething cauldron, raged against sturdy rocks,
The spreading wash passed him by,
He had no place to go.
Blackbird stood transfixed,
Terrified by Nature’s beauty,
Terrorised by her violence.
BLACKBIRD STRIKES
One day Blackbird, bored to tears, snapped,
And savaged his old enemy Al Queda,
The insensitive, resident, in house, terrorist cat.
Narrowly missing the conifer spread,
Blackbird dorniered in on his target
And cruelly struck it beastly dead.
Eyeing the throbbing mass, Blackbird took it apart,
Gorged on blood, but delayed no longer
For there was some serious business to start,
Ripping apart the whimpering soul
And binding what remained with alien DNA
With the breath of life, he took complete control,
Heavily armed, the transmogrified mog
Roared through the undergrowth,
An airborne strike primed to begin
Blackbird’s plan to destroy its feline kith and kin.
YNYSDDU
Ynysddu, island of darkness, enclosed
By the rancid river reaching to touch
With roaming fingers, north and south
The trenchant highway of steam Monsters;
Ynysddu assailed by fire and water
While we, who remain to remember,
Fail to recall iron chariots discarding
Incandescent coals to flame bracken banks,
Ghostly fires reflecting like frosted glass
In the chasms of frozen memory.
When residues of winter’s spiteful terrors
Slink away to be replaced by spring marching
In step to a wake up call like no other,
We believe we see the new beginnings,
(Things are going to be different this time.)
Yet we cannot see the Promised Land.
When we were young and ruled the hollow barns,
In summer the river meadow was green,
But rustled golden when autumn leaves tumbled,
Then weed beds teaming with frenzied life,
Disturbed the innocence of hidden havens.
‘Old Watcyn Price y ffermwr sleeps drunken on his nose,
Josh, Joy, and Raldus lay garlands around his toes,
Outside the stricken stable stentorian weeds abide,
Oh! Sing a song of sixpence and with a dance deride
Old Watcyn Price y ffermwr, who snores drunken on his nose,’
Atishoo! Atishoo! Perhaps from drink he’ll drown,
Atishoo! Atishoo! For that’s the way it goes,
Atishoo! Atishoo! All is falling down.’
Watcyn Price stirs, and rumbles loud,
And from the belly of his dream confronts
In the turgid fog of his farmyard,
The thorns of his labour. He has long ridden
The merry-go-round that stops nowhere,
And has placed, as the core of his creation,
A time bomb in the midst of a farmyard,
Into which everything dribbles from the sewer;
The wolf stands before his house of straw,
‘You are not welcome’ cried Watcyn from within.
‘Then’ whined the wolf, ‘I’ll blow your hoary house in’
The river’s bank is broken and black boughs
Of severe trees, like sleep walkers,
Are poised to fall and smash the polished mirror,
That so cruelly reflects their tired limbs.
One hand, alone, destroys Ynysddu,
And nature, singing more than a little off key,
And through no fault of its own,
Has a coarseness that offends: its song
Carries a pungent missive that spills
Into the distraught music of the meadow.
‘Man the most dangerous animal of all
Has to be held to account!’
But will Watcyn, sad Watcyn, ever redeem
The errors that taunt him within his dark dream?
‘Will Watcyn, poor Watcyn, escaping his dream,
Enter the stark nightmare, his personal scheme?
The children, still chanting, dash out in great haste
And dance through the mire and slide in the waste,
They pause for a moment to stroke Hercules,
Sentinel of the gateway to once proud Ynysddu,
But the siblings, in innocence, are yet unaware
Of the desire for revolt that lies in the air.’
They scatter; they flee as the beast breaks his rope,
Is there inspiration for revolution, or merely hope?
The answer is there, plain enough to see
In the hooves and horns of the irritable Hercules.
‘Hercules, misnamed Friesian discontented,
Watcyn price, ill-famed farmer unrepented,
Hercules, inflamed Friesian sorely demented,
Hoofed him, brained him,
Watcyn price, bloodstained farmer late lamented.’
Half doors flapping in the wind of change
Disturb the solemnity of funereal reverence;
Now the music of the meadow is silent, and
Stunned by the spectre of death
We, the carefree summer hardened children, tiptoe
Cautiously through hallowed fields.
But in fear we speak with hushed tones
Lest, with one false move, we reignite
The destructive force of violence.
Yet we, playthings of the grim barns, seek return
To the sweet disorder that was Ynysddu sojourn.
But today Black Island, in silence, cowers;
God in his wisdom has destroyed our world,
And has taken away any sense of its origin,
In readiness for a grand regeneration.
‘Chattering, checkering, hideous din,
Fretful birds, acrobatic on wing,
And placid beasts, awakened next morn
To relentlessly claim the innocent lawn.
From that moment on there was no peace or rest,
No creature safe on ground or in nest,
The birds of the air, the beasts of the field
Danced and jigged, flew and ran
When they heard death of the meddlesome man,
The welcoming death of the tiresome man.'
Ynysddu, island of darkness, enclosed
By the rancid river reaching to touch
With roaming fingers, north and south
The trenchant highway of steam Monsters;
Ynysddu assailed by fire and water
While we, who remain to remember,
Fail to recall iron chariots discarding
Incandescent coals to flame bracken banks,
Ghostly fires reflecting like frosted glass
In the chasms of frozen memory.
When residues of winter’s spiteful terrors
Slink away to be replaced by spring marching
In step to a wake up call like no other,
We believe we see the new beginnings,
(Things are going to be different this time.)
Yet we cannot see the Promised Land.
When we were young and ruled the hollow barns,
In summer the river meadow was green,
But rustled golden when autumn leaves tumbled,
Then weed beds teaming with frenzied life,
Disturbed the innocence of hidden havens.
‘Old Watcyn Price y ffermwr sleeps drunken on his nose,
Josh, Joy, and Raldus lay garlands around his toes,
Outside the stricken stable stentorian weeds abide,
Oh! Sing a song of sixpence and with a dance deride
Old Watcyn Price y ffermwr, who snores drunken on his nose,’
Atishoo! Atishoo! Perhaps from drink he’ll drown,
Atishoo! Atishoo! For that’s the way it goes,
Atishoo! Atishoo! All is falling down.’
Watcyn Price stirs, and rumbles loud,
And from the belly of his dream confronts
In the turgid fog of his farmyard,
The thorns of his labour. He has long ridden
The merry-go-round that stops nowhere,
And has placed, as the core of his creation,
A time bomb in the midst of a farmyard,
Into which everything dribbles from the sewer;
The wolf stands before his house of straw,
‘You are not welcome’ cried Watcyn from within.
‘Then’ whined the wolf, ‘I’ll blow your hoary house in’
The river’s bank is broken and black boughs
Of severe trees, like sleep walkers,
Are poised to fall and smash the polished mirror,
That so cruelly reflects their tired limbs.
One hand, alone, destroys Ynysddu,
And nature, singing more than a little off key,
And through no fault of its own,
Has a coarseness that offends: its song
Carries a pungent missive that spills
Into the distraught music of the meadow.
‘Man the most dangerous animal of all
Has to be held to account!’
But will Watcyn, sad Watcyn, ever redeem
The errors that taunt him within his dark dream?
‘Will Watcyn, poor Watcyn, escaping his dream,
Enter the stark nightmare, his personal scheme?
The children, still chanting, dash out in great haste
And dance through the mire and slide in the waste,
They pause for a moment to stroke Hercules,
Sentinel of the gateway to once proud Ynysddu,
But the siblings, in innocence, are yet unaware
Of the desire for revolt that lies in the air.’
They scatter; they flee as the beast breaks his rope,
Is there inspiration for revolution, or merely hope?
The answer is there, plain enough to see
In the hooves and horns of the irritable Hercules.
‘Hercules, misnamed Friesian discontented,
Watcyn price, ill-famed farmer unrepented,
Hercules, inflamed Friesian sorely demented,
Hoofed him, brained him,
Watcyn price, bloodstained farmer late lamented.’
Half doors flapping in the wind of change
Disturb the solemnity of funereal reverence;
Now the music of the meadow is silent, and
Stunned by the spectre of death
We, the carefree summer hardened children, tiptoe
Cautiously through hallowed fields.
But in fear we speak with hushed tones
Lest, with one false move, we reignite
The destructive force of violence.
Yet we, playthings of the grim barns, seek return
To the sweet disorder that was Ynysddu sojourn.
But today Black Island, in silence, cowers;
God in his wisdom has destroyed our world,
And has taken away any sense of its origin,
In readiness for a grand regeneration.
‘Chattering, checkering, hideous din,
Fretful birds, acrobatic on wing,
And placid beasts, awakened next morn
To relentlessly claim the innocent lawn.
From that moment on there was no peace or rest,
No creature safe on ground or in nest,
The birds of the air, the beasts of the field
Danced and jigged, flew and ran
When they heard death of the meddlesome man,
The welcoming death of the tiresome man.'
Friday, 12 September 2008
STREETALOGUE
What about your cholesterol
The high street hums, there’s sulphur in the air,
Effie and Edie light a fag they’re about to share,
They splutter; they cough, and put the world to rights,
Will anyone escape their lethal sights?
––Then Edie, I goes an avs’ a brace of eggs,
Sunny side up and other dregs
From last Sunday’s left overs,
Well says I what lovely grub and then I goes…...
––but Effie you daft moll. Your cholesterol!
What about your bloody cholesterol?
––Well I’ll be dammed. It’s Effie. How’s things with you?
Still kicking the world ‘til its black and blue?.
––Oh! Bert. It’s you!
Long time since we had a cud to chew,
Boils all gone?
Can you sit down yet upon the Jon?
––My God Effie. Don’t laugh
It’s been such a bind.
If you only knew how long it was
Since I last sat down on my behind.
–– Well Ta-ra Effie. Can’t stop. I’m off to the Bell.
See you later Babe.
Right Ho Bert…..Will you bloody hell?
––Remember old Bert? Edie,
One of the best guys I’ve known,
But is the bugger to be trusted
Any further than he can be thrown,
––but Effie you daft moll. Your cholesterol!
What about your bloody cholesterol?
––Edie! Oh Edie! Don’t worry and bluster,
‘Cos it’s sorted. All sorted, I’ve downed a fat buster
Drowned with a coffee, maybe two, even three.
And Edie my love……There’s jelly for tea!
What about your cholesterol
The high street hums, there’s sulphur in the air,
Effie and Edie light a fag they’re about to share,
They splutter; they cough, and put the world to rights,
Will anyone escape their lethal sights?
––Then Edie, I goes an avs’ a brace of eggs,
Sunny side up and other dregs
From last Sunday’s left overs,
Well says I what lovely grub and then I goes…...
––but Effie you daft moll. Your cholesterol!
What about your bloody cholesterol?
––Well I’ll be dammed. It’s Effie. How’s things with you?
Still kicking the world ‘til its black and blue?.
––Oh! Bert. It’s you!
Long time since we had a cud to chew,
Boils all gone?
Can you sit down yet upon the Jon?
––My God Effie. Don’t laugh
It’s been such a bind.
If you only knew how long it was
Since I last sat down on my behind.
–– Well Ta-ra Effie. Can’t stop. I’m off to the Bell.
See you later Babe.
Right Ho Bert…..Will you bloody hell?
––Remember old Bert? Edie,
One of the best guys I’ve known,
But is the bugger to be trusted
Any further than he can be thrown,
––but Effie you daft moll. Your cholesterol!
What about your bloody cholesterol?
––Edie! Oh Edie! Don’t worry and bluster,
‘Cos it’s sorted. All sorted, I’ve downed a fat buster
Drowned with a coffee, maybe two, even three.
And Edie my love……There’s jelly for tea!
HOW BRIGHTLY ROBIN SANG THAT CHRISTMAS MORN
Sonnet
How brightly robin sang that Christmas morn,
His fiery breast a-glow with ardent pride;
His silver notes did praise that special dawn,
A special voice to greet the Christmas child.
As one who rests assured in heaven’s bright light,
That Christ had heard his song, he plainly knew,
For had it not come from a heart upright
With unremitting love so warm and true.
Did redbreast once upon the cross invest?
In Christ’s warm blood to ever bear the stain
And proudly wear it on his fragile breast
A symbol either to reject or claim.
Heed not the dainty redbreast or be fooled,
For in aggression, he is soundly schooled.
Sonnet
How brightly robin sang that Christmas morn,
His fiery breast a-glow with ardent pride;
His silver notes did praise that special dawn,
A special voice to greet the Christmas child.
As one who rests assured in heaven’s bright light,
That Christ had heard his song, he plainly knew,
For had it not come from a heart upright
With unremitting love so warm and true.
Did redbreast once upon the cross invest?
In Christ’s warm blood to ever bear the stain
And proudly wear it on his fragile breast
A symbol either to reject or claim.
Heed not the dainty redbreast or be fooled,
For in aggression, he is soundly schooled.
DINOSAURS
Sully Beach is a rich source of Fossils from the Jurassic Age.
“Look! There! Between the wetted rocks,”
“What are they?”
“Footprints! Large Dinosaur footprints.
See how they ran.
Something must have scared them.
Look. Look to the side! Small steps.
Youngsters veered to the left,
Others to the right, Terrified.
Big ones, must have weighed a ton,
Panicked! Ran straight ahead.”
“Plant eaters waylaid by Tyrannosaurus?”
The chill of fear pervades the stony shore,
The silence shredded by savage screams
From loutish monsters dismantled
And devoured by primeval predators,
Blood spattered boulders are cast aside,
And the beach, its hot blood seeping
Into the anguish of turbulent seas,
Coagulates bronzed salt waters.
The beach, shielded from cooling breezes,
Rests before a silver merge of sea and sky,
Where only the lap of lazy waters disturbs
The random call of the raucous gull.
The bay, now at evening rest,
Bays to the delectable Diana.
But she, who has seen all things, sees nothing
As she strides through cotton wool skies,
And stares, sightless, into star peppered heavens.
Sully Beach is a rich source of Fossils from the Jurassic Age.
“Look! There! Between the wetted rocks,”
“What are they?”
“Footprints! Large Dinosaur footprints.
See how they ran.
Something must have scared them.
Look. Look to the side! Small steps.
Youngsters veered to the left,
Others to the right, Terrified.
Big ones, must have weighed a ton,
Panicked! Ran straight ahead.”
“Plant eaters waylaid by Tyrannosaurus?”
The chill of fear pervades the stony shore,
The silence shredded by savage screams
From loutish monsters dismantled
And devoured by primeval predators,
Blood spattered boulders are cast aside,
And the beach, its hot blood seeping
Into the anguish of turbulent seas,
Coagulates bronzed salt waters.
The beach, shielded from cooling breezes,
Rests before a silver merge of sea and sky,
Where only the lap of lazy waters disturbs
The random call of the raucous gull.
The bay, now at evening rest,
Bays to the delectable Diana.
But she, who has seen all things, sees nothing
As she strides through cotton wool skies,
And stares, sightless, into star peppered heavens.
ST.BAROC'S LORE
Barry, long time journeyman
At rest upon the lacquered hill,
Bears witness to a myriad lights that thrill;
A starry dust peppers the evening sky,
A nuance to dazzle the unsuspecting eye;
Vermilion, verdigris, mauve, sienna, white,
Shimmering, ice-cold, with glittering light
Disturbs the serenity of oncoming night.
Below, extends a vast still life
But can anything there be still?
For behind it runs the rolling road
Of the roller coaster hill,
Cataclysmic shapes form gaunt fissures
In ephemeral beds of steam,
And skeletal cranes sweep spectral limbs
Each sleep walking a waking dream.
I raise my head above the blaze to gaze
At what was once a wet and lonely place,
And dream of old St Baruc’s lore
And his dwelling place upon the friendless shore.
Barry, long time journeyman
At rest upon the lacquered hill,
Bears witness to a myriad lights that thrill;
A starry dust peppers the evening sky,
A nuance to dazzle the unsuspecting eye;
Vermilion, verdigris, mauve, sienna, white,
Shimmering, ice-cold, with glittering light
Disturbs the serenity of oncoming night.
Below, extends a vast still life
But can anything there be still?
For behind it runs the rolling road
Of the roller coaster hill,
Cataclysmic shapes form gaunt fissures
In ephemeral beds of steam,
And skeletal cranes sweep spectral limbs
Each sleep walking a waking dream.
I raise my head above the blaze to gaze
At what was once a wet and lonely place,
And dream of old St Baruc’s lore
And his dwelling place upon the friendless shore.
JOURNEY TO BARRY
See how they hurried from hill and from vale,
They poured out of Maerdy, Trehafod, Ferndale,
Travelling together, with each one a sinner,
Our Alfie, big Alec and Boyo from Brynna.
With silence descending on hillsides and vales,
The centre of gravity was changing in Wales
Eight hundred youngsters packed in that long train,
While out in the gloaming it tipped down with rain.
With a series of jerks, and a blast of the horn,
Off went the engine through the dank dismal morn
And then a loud cheer nearly tore it apart,
As Boyo’s apple core hit a man in a cart.
Then the carriage resounded in a bedlam of noise
Of cheers from the girls and a groan from the boys.
With their outing to Barry at last under way
Thoughts turned to the wonders of wide Whitmore Bay.
To the coast, a glorious lifting ride and on its journey back,
How fast it roared, so straight it soared along the iron track,
They roundly bypassed Castell Coch a gazing down from high.
Then neatly dodged the sinister Garth, ominous in leaden sky.
And leaving behind the shady vale, and quitting the well loved hill
They came upon the flatlands, where even the air was still
Then in a flash of blinding light with blue skies overhead
They saw the brilliant hue of Barry Isle and cried………
Full steam driver! Full steam straight ahead!
See how they hurried from hill and from vale,
They poured out of Maerdy, Trehafod, Ferndale,
Travelling together, with each one a sinner,
Our Alfie, big Alec and Boyo from Brynna.
With silence descending on hillsides and vales,
The centre of gravity was changing in Wales
Eight hundred youngsters packed in that long train,
While out in the gloaming it tipped down with rain.
With a series of jerks, and a blast of the horn,
Off went the engine through the dank dismal morn
And then a loud cheer nearly tore it apart,
As Boyo’s apple core hit a man in a cart.
Then the carriage resounded in a bedlam of noise
Of cheers from the girls and a groan from the boys.
With their outing to Barry at last under way
Thoughts turned to the wonders of wide Whitmore Bay.
To the coast, a glorious lifting ride and on its journey back,
How fast it roared, so straight it soared along the iron track,
They roundly bypassed Castell Coch a gazing down from high.
Then neatly dodged the sinister Garth, ominous in leaden sky.
And leaving behind the shady vale, and quitting the well loved hill
They came upon the flatlands, where even the air was still
Then in a flash of blinding light with blue skies overhead
They saw the brilliant hue of Barry Isle and cried………
Full steam driver! Full steam straight ahead!
LAST TRAIN
The station hushed in silence,
Blind as bat windows scan the rails,
Around the curve, a two-note prescience
Warns arrival of the clanking beast of Wales.
If raw metal grinds raw metal, tribology rules OK
And when the flier takes the corner
Forces centrifugal come into play.
Distrust the silence that follows raw violence
And the shock of its juddering might,
For with its crass and spread-eagled dithering,
The flier, as ever, destroys the peace of the night.
A clatter of silence arrests the broad platform,
Soon to be broken by the patter of feet
Of the one and only, lonely traveller
Who has, once again, not a soul to meet.
Last train of the day and no ceremony greets
The lonely flier with the cold empty seats.
Its entry, in splendour, largely ignored,
For there’s not one soul in sight to clamber aboard.
The station hushed in silence,
Blind as bat windows scan the rails,
Around the curve, a two-note prescience
Warns arrival of the clanking beast of Wales.
If raw metal grinds raw metal, tribology rules OK
And when the flier takes the corner
Forces centrifugal come into play.
Distrust the silence that follows raw violence
And the shock of its juddering might,
For with its crass and spread-eagled dithering,
The flier, as ever, destroys the peace of the night.
A clatter of silence arrests the broad platform,
Soon to be broken by the patter of feet
Of the one and only, lonely traveller
Who has, once again, not a soul to meet.
Last train of the day and no ceremony greets
The lonely flier with the cold empty seats.
Its entry, in splendour, largely ignored,
For there’s not one soul in sight to clamber aboard.
THE DIMMING OF THE LIGHT
Do not resist the dimming of the light
But luxuriate in its warming glow,
And though in life there’s little to delight
Do not resist the dimming of the light.
Although blinded when tears cloud the sight,
Stand fast in your resolve and I implore,
Do not resist the dimming of the light
But luxuriate in its warming glow.
OSCAR THE ARISTOCAT
Oscar the Aristocat,
Oscar the black and white cat,
Aloof but unpretentious
By nature unadventurous,
That’s Oscar the black and white cat.
Oscar the circumspect cat,
Oscar the black and white cat,
Never prone to take violence,
Ever addicted to silence
Is Oscar the black and white cat.
Oscar the mischievous cat,
Oscar what on earth is he at
At his age should he be able
To scale the heights of a table?
But is, in spite of all that,
Oscar the excusable cat.
Oscar the unassailable aristocat.
Oscar the Aristocat,
Oscar the black and white cat,
Aloof but unpretentious
By nature unadventurous,
That’s Oscar the black and white cat.
Oscar the circumspect cat,
Oscar the black and white cat,
Never prone to take violence,
Ever addicted to silence
Is Oscar the black and white cat.
Oscar the mischievous cat,
Oscar what on earth is he at
At his age should he be able
To scale the heights of a table?
But is, in spite of all that,
Oscar the excusable cat.
Oscar the unassailable aristocat.
A SMALL PRAYER FOR A SMALL SINNER
In my world, a big and busy place,
There are so many things to do;
And so short am I of time and space
In my world a big and busy place;
Tonight my Lord I’m in disgrace,
For today I’ve not made room for you;
In my world, a big and busy place,
There are so many things to do.
In my world, a big and busy place,
There are so many things to do;
And so short am I of time and space
In my world a big and busy place;
Tonight my Lord I’m in disgrace,
For today I’ve not made room for you;
In my world, a big and busy place,
There are so many things to do.
DEATH OF SUMMER'S FIRE
Do you sense the death of summer’s fire
As fragrant breezes rest and colours fade?
As when hedgerows shed their fresh attire
Do you sense the death of summer’s fire?
If so, is it time to think of winter’s ire
And forsake the placid aestival glade,
Do you sense the death of summer’s fire
As fragrant breezes rest and colours fade?
RISE AND FALL OF A MOUNTAIN STREAM
Buoyant with the energy
Of one last powerful push,
The mountain spring,
With a jump of joy,
Escapes the sinister gloom
Of mother earth’s cavernous womb.
To and fro the summit grassland,
Basking with pure delight
In the scatter of bright sunlight,
The watery fledging wanders aimlessly,
Until he, with innate perspicacity
Breaks bounds and is set free.
Euphoric is his ride,
It is good to be alive
To Stumble and tumble without a care,
And suck in the sweet mountain air;
For in his new born innocence
There is nothing to fear,
Or tell him that the end,
Of his bold venture is near.
What joy he has in his bright new world,
Is curtailed, when he, suddenly, hurled
Not into the depths of Mother Earth’s womb
But a stark grotto of a man made tomb,
For low down that perilous incline
Lay in wait, with open mouth, a derelict mine.
To late to hesitate or to cry
He embraces fate with a pitiful moan
And leaves the hill to solitude
And to me alone
A small interval, a joyful dream
The birth and the death
Of an ephemeral stream
Buoyant with the energy
Of one last powerful push,
The mountain spring,
With a jump of joy,
Escapes the sinister gloom
Of mother earth’s cavernous womb.
To and fro the summit grassland,
Basking with pure delight
In the scatter of bright sunlight,
The watery fledging wanders aimlessly,
Until he, with innate perspicacity
Breaks bounds and is set free.
Euphoric is his ride,
It is good to be alive
To Stumble and tumble without a care,
And suck in the sweet mountain air;
For in his new born innocence
There is nothing to fear,
Or tell him that the end,
Of his bold venture is near.
What joy he has in his bright new world,
Is curtailed, when he, suddenly, hurled
Not into the depths of Mother Earth’s womb
But a stark grotto of a man made tomb,
For low down that perilous incline
Lay in wait, with open mouth, a derelict mine.
To late to hesitate or to cry
He embraces fate with a pitiful moan
And leaves the hill to solitude
And to me alone
A small interval, a joyful dream
The birth and the death
Of an ephemeral stream
INANITIES
1. Never ever
tell me whether you
ever or never endeavour
something I never
endeavour
ever.
2.That eerie hour
That eerie hour,
not day
nor night,
Twilight.
3.Toby Lee
Who lies here
But Toby Lee?
Met with an accident
Unfortunately.
Decisively demolished
By a passing tree,
Now sleeps here
Peacefully
4.Waste of Power
Wind lashes
Rain splashes
No leaf
Nor flower
Waste of power.
5. I took three apples
Forgive me
for I took
three apples
from your tree
which were
all the tastier
for being
free
6. The Artist Paints a Primary Bow.
The artist paints a rainbow,
That shines through day and night;
A bolder bow,
A brighter bow,
Than heaven can e’r provide,
With a touch of blue and yellow at the core
And a splash of red each side.
7. Staley is a- coming Home
Old Staley is a- coming home,
But will he like his comfy ride,
For they’ll pack him in a silk lined box,
Where he’ll be snug and cold inside
8. Sheila
That’s Sheila
I feel no need
To feel her
9. Mobile
Now I’d like to have a cosy chat
When I make my journey home,
But no one ever speaks to me
So I’ve bought a mobile phone,
10. Power is the Politician
Personnel perpetration Political interpretation
Power is the Politician
11. Tough on Dad
That child is father of the man
Is somewhat tough on me and dad,
For, as such, he’s not yet born
This means I have not yet been had
12. Ceffyl Dwr
Night stretches along the shore
Ceffyl Dwr glides,wicked, over sifting sand
14. Migration
Morning’s swirling with swallow’s wings
1. Never ever
tell me whether you
ever or never endeavour
something I never
endeavour
ever.
2.That eerie hour
That eerie hour,
not day
nor night,
Twilight.
3.Toby Lee
Who lies here
But Toby Lee?
Met with an accident
Unfortunately.
Decisively demolished
By a passing tree,
Now sleeps here
Peacefully
4.Waste of Power
Wind lashes
Rain splashes
No leaf
Nor flower
Waste of power.
5. I took three apples
Forgive me
for I took
three apples
from your tree
which were
all the tastier
for being
free
6. The Artist Paints a Primary Bow.
The artist paints a rainbow,
That shines through day and night;
A bolder bow,
A brighter bow,
Than heaven can e’r provide,
With a touch of blue and yellow at the core
And a splash of red each side.
7. Staley is a- coming Home
Old Staley is a- coming home,
But will he like his comfy ride,
For they’ll pack him in a silk lined box,
Where he’ll be snug and cold inside
8. Sheila
That’s Sheila
I feel no need
To feel her
9. Mobile
Now I’d like to have a cosy chat
When I make my journey home,
But no one ever speaks to me
So I’ve bought a mobile phone,
10. Power is the Politician
Personnel perpetration Political interpretation
Power is the Politician
11. Tough on Dad
That child is father of the man
Is somewhat tough on me and dad,
For, as such, he’s not yet born
This means I have not yet been had
12. Ceffyl Dwr
Night stretches along the shore
Ceffyl Dwr glides,wicked, over sifting sand
14. Migration
Morning’s swirling with swallow’s wings
STREETALOGUE
Jemima Joyce
‘Wotcha love.
How be?
In the family way
Again, I see,
What’s his name?
The dad I mean.’
‘Dunno. Tom Dick or Harry,
Now the unseen,
Couldn’t care less,
All without a bean,
Seed scattered,
It’s been bit of a scream.’
‘Surprise! Surprise!
They’re on the run,
What’ll you call him?
The unexpected one.
Tom, Dick or Harry?
What‘s your choice?’
‘No problem there,
Tom, Dick, Harry
And Jemima Joyce,”
‘Wicked! Nice,
Expecting a quartet.
With one soprano voice.”
.
Jemima Joyce
‘Wotcha love.
How be?
In the family way
Again, I see,
What’s his name?
The dad I mean.’
‘Dunno. Tom Dick or Harry,
Now the unseen,
Couldn’t care less,
All without a bean,
Seed scattered,
It’s been bit of a scream.’
‘Surprise! Surprise!
They’re on the run,
What’ll you call him?
The unexpected one.
Tom, Dick or Harry?
What‘s your choice?’
‘No problem there,
Tom, Dick, Harry
And Jemima Joyce,”
‘Wicked! Nice,
Expecting a quartet.
With one soprano voice.”
.
THE POEM I WRITE IS ON ITS WAY
Exhausted I can only, but, say
The poem I write is still on its way,
But it is with dread I gaze upon
A cold and sterile page,
For lurking there I clearly see
A ragtag host of wriggling words
That will not settle down for me.
Nonentities all, they stand alone
Insensitive, a thoughtless breed
Spitefully wasting precious time,
For which I have a special need.
So into the war of words I stepped
And among the raging lines I crept,
I’d take no prisoners, I vowed to win
And the poem I write would then begin.
“Let battle commence,”
Italics were heard to mutter,
And alliterative bullets
From pentameter feet
Immediately started to stutter,
A meiosis groped a sad quatrain,
She cried aloud with passion,
“We are in no way unmindful my friend
Of your under stated aggression;”
Soon the muttering reached an alarming degree,
‘til bullied and gored by a spiteful spondee
The oxymoron, father of the man,
Overreacted and trampled
An unassuming iamb, who
With damaged limbs, and in distress
Circumnavigated the field
In the clumsy rhythms of an anapaest
For eight long hours the chaos ranged,
Until, loosing their ire, the rebels
Passing, through my conscious mind,
Were released refreshed and redefined.
Eight long hours, two lines complete
Fifteen short words for reader to greet.
Exhausted I can only but say
The poem I write is still on its way.
Exhausted I can only, but, say
The poem I write is still on its way,
But it is with dread I gaze upon
A cold and sterile page,
For lurking there I clearly see
A ragtag host of wriggling words
That will not settle down for me.
Nonentities all, they stand alone
Insensitive, a thoughtless breed
Spitefully wasting precious time,
For which I have a special need.
So into the war of words I stepped
And among the raging lines I crept,
I’d take no prisoners, I vowed to win
And the poem I write would then begin.
“Let battle commence,”
Italics were heard to mutter,
And alliterative bullets
From pentameter feet
Immediately started to stutter,
A meiosis groped a sad quatrain,
She cried aloud with passion,
“We are in no way unmindful my friend
Of your under stated aggression;”
Soon the muttering reached an alarming degree,
‘til bullied and gored by a spiteful spondee
The oxymoron, father of the man,
Overreacted and trampled
An unassuming iamb, who
With damaged limbs, and in distress
Circumnavigated the field
In the clumsy rhythms of an anapaest
For eight long hours the chaos ranged,
Until, loosing their ire, the rebels
Passing, through my conscious mind,
Were released refreshed and redefined.
Eight long hours, two lines complete
Fifteen short words for reader to greet.
Exhausted I can only but say
The poem I write is still on its way.
Thursday, 11 September 2008
DO YOU REMEMBER
Do you remember that day not long ago?
Ten years, perhaps, not a day more,
When you said you loved me;
A happy day when lambs skipped
And joyfully frolicked in the hay;
Do you remember those resonating bells?
Enchanting the vale with their spells,
And choirs captivating heavens with praise?
It was more than the happiest of days
With sloe eyed doves shimmering in white
Within the gentle dispersion
Of a rainbow’s spectral light.
As church bells were ringing
When spring lambs were springing,
And bold doves a- gleaming
While rainbows were beaming,
So filled my soul with sylvanian sadness,
At this discordant display of pastoral madness.
But we both knew in each resolute heart,
That we were destined never again to part.
Do you remember that day not long ago?
Ten years, perhaps, not a day more,
When you said you loved me;
A happy day when lambs skipped
And joyfully frolicked in the hay;
Do you remember those resonating bells?
Enchanting the vale with their spells,
And choirs captivating heavens with praise?
It was more than the happiest of days
With sloe eyed doves shimmering in white
Within the gentle dispersion
Of a rainbow’s spectral light.
As church bells were ringing
When spring lambs were springing,
And bold doves a- gleaming
While rainbows were beaming,
So filled my soul with sylvanian sadness,
At this discordant display of pastoral madness.
But we both knew in each resolute heart,
That we were destined never again to part.
IN ALL ITS BEAUTY
Though long winter has departed
From within the little garden,
The magnolia, blatant in bloom,
Is sad victim to vernal delusion.
Shivering in bitter isolation
It is not alone in ignorance,
For beneath its sagging branches
Cold campion and dying daffodils
Tremble together in hibernal frost,
Though cowered by fog of early dawn,
Battered and bruised by daily storm,
They share the complacency of their host
And believe winter’s pain has passed.
In title, spring nestles with them,
But they hear not the groaning of glaciers
That crack and plunge into turbulent seas,
Nor heed the rise of waters in smug vales
And the ruthless rush of destructive storms
Tearing land from precious coastline,
Nor perceive the withering of grassland
Which fail to nourish disparate beasts,
Or smell flesh rotting in new deserts.
These, the pixicato trappings of nature,
Warn of the breaking of the sacred link
Between man and the soil of mother earth.
But tonight it is too late. For
The sky grows pale and crystal clear.
Pressure drops and in cloudless skies the moon
Swells to a gigantic balloon,
A transparent mobile that holds still
Until plunging temperatures
Unleash devastating forces.
The blossom fuses to a glacial shroud,
Then as energising saps congeal and freeze
The magnolia burns from within.
And with a splintering crack the woody fool
Explodes into myriad pieces.
Drawn into a decaying world,
And befuddled with sorrow,
God wearily enters the little garden.
And, surveying the dereliction, weeps,
For he has given so much to so many,
For so long and at such little cost,
He blesses the earth but it is too late.
For the people, lying hands on him,
Take him to the magnolia tree
And cruelly crucify him.
And as son can be father of the man
So what can be done with son,
So with the father can.
A red mist separates the earth
From the sun, moon, and stars,
The music of the spheres is silenced
There is no morning noon or night
No whine of the winds on sail
No waters wash the shore
No sign of beasts, no breath of man
The black planet will dislocate
And in outer space relocate,
And silence will prevail
Behind the little garden’s gate.
Though long winter has departed
From within the little garden,
The magnolia, blatant in bloom,
Is sad victim to vernal delusion.
Shivering in bitter isolation
It is not alone in ignorance,
For beneath its sagging branches
Cold campion and dying daffodils
Tremble together in hibernal frost,
Though cowered by fog of early dawn,
Battered and bruised by daily storm,
They share the complacency of their host
And believe winter’s pain has passed.
In title, spring nestles with them,
But they hear not the groaning of glaciers
That crack and plunge into turbulent seas,
Nor heed the rise of waters in smug vales
And the ruthless rush of destructive storms
Tearing land from precious coastline,
Nor perceive the withering of grassland
Which fail to nourish disparate beasts,
Or smell flesh rotting in new deserts.
These, the pixicato trappings of nature,
Warn of the breaking of the sacred link
Between man and the soil of mother earth.
But tonight it is too late. For
The sky grows pale and crystal clear.
Pressure drops and in cloudless skies the moon
Swells to a gigantic balloon,
A transparent mobile that holds still
Until plunging temperatures
Unleash devastating forces.
The blossom fuses to a glacial shroud,
Then as energising saps congeal and freeze
The magnolia burns from within.
And with a splintering crack the woody fool
Explodes into myriad pieces.
Drawn into a decaying world,
And befuddled with sorrow,
God wearily enters the little garden.
And, surveying the dereliction, weeps,
For he has given so much to so many,
For so long and at such little cost,
He blesses the earth but it is too late.
For the people, lying hands on him,
Take him to the magnolia tree
And cruelly crucify him.
And as son can be father of the man
So what can be done with son,
So with the father can.
A red mist separates the earth
From the sun, moon, and stars,
The music of the spheres is silenced
There is no morning noon or night
No whine of the winds on sail
No waters wash the shore
No sign of beasts, no breath of man
The black planet will dislocate
And in outer space relocate,
And silence will prevail
Behind the little garden’s gate.
SUNSET OVER SULLY ISLE
It is when the warmth of late evening wanes
And twilight falls on placid sea,
And when above the sinking globe of heaven,
The moon rests unobtrusively,
Then I believe there will never be
A vision that is lovelier to me
As it scatters fiery threads in western sky,
Than summer sunset over Sully Isle.
It is when the warmth of late evening wanes
And twilight falls on placid sea,
And when above the sinking globe of heaven,
The moon rests unobtrusively,
Then I believe there will never be
A vision that is lovelier to me
As it scatters fiery threads in western sky,
Than summer sunset over Sully Isle.
SARAH'S PRAYER
In the wetness and dreariness
Of endless, chattering rain,
Young Sarah was sighing
And sorrowfully saying,
‘I have been wicked today,
So wicked that God is crying!’
Tonight, sad Sarah praying
Is sorrowfully saying,
‘I know I have been wicked today
But please God, if only for me,
Please stop crying?’
But tears, through skies, grey and bleak
Fall still, hot from heaven
To moisten caring Sarah’s cheek
In the wetness and dreariness
Of endless, chattering rain,
Young Sarah was sighing
And sorrowfully saying,
‘I have been wicked today,
So wicked that God is crying!’
Tonight, sad Sarah praying
Is sorrowfully saying,
‘I know I have been wicked today
But please God, if only for me,
Please stop crying?’
But tears, through skies, grey and bleak
Fall still, hot from heaven
To moisten caring Sarah’s cheek
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