Oh, Well…
It’s so sad
That you dried up,
Like I did on stage one night;
And your walls crumbled
Like Jericho’s;
And apple crumble does.
Oh, Well…
I know that your bucket has a hole in
And no-one knows how to fix it
Though they try all manner of things
They still fail.
And your rope…
is ropey
Oh, Well…
Never mind.
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’twas on the Monday morning that the-
Oh, I almost forgot, I don’t do that anymore.
Quelle surprise!
That is in the past
As is everything that moves one second back from the present
And the future is coming
Here
Gone
Seconds tick by
Like seconds
Do…
And…
Will…
It is their way
They exist for a far shorter duration than the Mayfly
Eighty-six thousand
Four-hundred
Seconds
To one Mayfly.
Makes you think that in the
Blink…
Of an eye
Another
Mississippi
Moment has gone
By.
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Richard The Third has been in my life for many,many years – I studied him in History and Literature – I wrote a few poems along the way. G:)
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This is beautiful – as is Life G:)
Life, like the seasons, is cyclical;
a circle of growth, life, death and suspension.
Did I mention I’m still growing?
I’m at that mid-point between spring and summer
New buds appear from here and there.
I take care to nourish them; to help them blossom and bloom –
their beauty to share with you… and you.
It won’t be long, and yet too soon, they will wither.
I will drop my guard and fall.
My limbs will start to ache and yet… behold!
Autumnal leaves of red and gold will blanket the forest floor –
crisp for a while; underfoot percussion to our leisurely meanderings
until the rains turn all to molten mush and cold creeps in.
Come! Hither!
Put your arms around me.
Hear how the branches crackle?
How the trunk stiffens; held firm in the shackles of winter?
Blustering winds may rally to tear me apart, but I’m…
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And yet, one day does differ
So much from another;
One week apart in time
But a season also now seems to separate the two
But, a reversal of the journey
From Spring to last Autumn
When sudden showers left me sodden
And now they do again;
No, these are not the falls of Spring
That approaching April promises; but the clammy,
Cold-swamp-inducing drops of a miserable day in November.
And, yes, I still hear the woodland birds tweeting
#battendownthehatches
From their lofty shelters
As they look down upon me in my ‘inappropriate’ trainers.
The breeze is not what we hear today;
A gusting wind that trembles like a thunder;
And, the clouds ‘lower’ as in Shakespeare’s third Richard
Leaving me under no impression
That the Sun will get a look in today.
Roll on the Glorious Summer.
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From my Hanger Farm Poets site – please enjoy G:)
Hello, just an posting with some of my poetry (and Edward Thomas’) from Hanger Farm Poets this morning. A written copy for those of you there who heard and those who couldn’t make the meeting and so didn’t.
Hope these find you well
Graeme:)
A Sequence in homage to Edward Thomas’ Adlestrop
1.
Like a Bullet Train
Through the heart of my country:
Your words travelled at speeds
Beyond my belief.
On the surface, overland
They said one thing;
But, they were saying something
Deeper, darker, underneath.
I felt their bite
As they hurtled through my station;
And, although they failed to stop,
Their passing left me changed,
Like Adlestrop.
—-
2.
You are not really a poet
Unless you’ve been to Adlestrop;
It’s an old, abandoned station,
Where the trains don’t stop;
So, don’t think you’re smart
With your beat-box rhymes
And your new hip-hop;
Because, you are really…
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My heart lay broken at my feet; shattered into a million myriad motes. I gazed at the wreckage of my world, and I slumped.
Before now I had been strong; a castle on the landscape; defences in readiness; and with my armies of grit and determination honed to deal with any onslaught.
Now… I was a swamp, a quicksand land where all manner of hopes and ambitions had sunk without discernible traces. No castle stood here; no defences; no armies, nothing.
I held my head down low and scanned my feet; beyond them; to the very core of the Earth; where now dwelt the ‘once had a future’ king of all my realm.
No sound pierced my hearing; no sight passed my view; no aroma tested my taste-buds – I was inert and inactive to the world.
However, the world was still turning (though no longer around me) and if any unseen people were shoring up my fallen walls, clearing strewn debris and rebuilding the foundations of a life for me… well, I would be surprised; very surprised.
Time is a healer; I needed millennia; I had wasted so much of my life that it would never seal the wounds.
But, it would always try.
Have you ever tried to put a shattered mirror back together?
No?
That’s right; you would just wrap the shards in many layers of old newspaper and dispose of the damaged item.
And who would blame anyone for disposing of me and my shattered heart ?
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