I pray thee sun thou should set,
or take thy leave better yet,
wouldst at last my thirst be gone,
But alas thee linger, and linger on.
There be no flower not yet dead,
no water flows in yonder river bed.
'Tis a heat where nought doth grow,
nor doth thee ever mercy show.
Dry of skin and parch of throat,
a man doth need no overcoat.
Thy rays doth burn mine eyes,
they do not hear mine mercy cries.
If there be a place where chill be found,
'Tis there it be that I be bound,
A place where there be no burning sun,
show it to me, so to it I shall run.
(c) 26th January 2010
with apoligies to all you Shakespeare freaks
The butterfly and the bee pollinate,
the unknown flower of memory,
then fly off through the gaps,
of the spiders web into the blackness,
of the vast midnight of the mind.
Words shower down into a torrent,
that falls upon a bewildered numbness,
remaining incoherent, they flow on,
into the stream where perhaps a child,
will gather them and weave them into a melody.
Slowly the poet slides away, unnoticed,
into the mist of time and unconsciousness,
Hidden deep within the flower bed of memory.
an unknown flower not yet pollinated,
still waiting in the realm of the midnight darkness.
In the childs mind the sun shines brightly,
as she brushes the words she has taken,
from the stream of life, with the days light,
The poet breathes, renewed and alive.
so it is in the universal garden of life.
Through the shattered pane,
of a broken window,
I look out and see a fragment,
of a day that was, but is torn.
A flower growing without a name,
in the ever shifting garden,
of my minds vague mirage,
it's petals crumbling into dust.
The image of what was,
now drifting in the lake of time,
the ripples distorting it's features,
as it disappears beneath a lily pad.
Clouds racing across a blue sky,
searching in vain for the sunset,
weeping for that which they have not found,
As I retreat to hide within the spiders web
4th January 2011
The old man sat somewhere twix bemused and bewildered,
Staring out at the mist that lay upon the puse horizon of twilight.
Horace, the brown and white dog with the shaggy coat,
came and curled himself around his masters feet,
The old mans hand fell upon the dogs faithful head,
gently he stroked the dog, yet without sentiment,
but rather with a sense of habit, formed by years of ritual.
and so each day he sits and awaits the coming twilight.
21st December 2010
Did you see the poet?
Did he pass this way?
Did the poet speak to you?,
What did the poet say?
The poet said to dream,
'tis dreams that make you strong,
The poet said to admit your faults,
whenever you are wrong.
The poet said to stand together,
yet apart enough for each to grow,
love and trust your children,
enough to finally let them go.
The poet said wear life loosely,
share with others what you own,
learn to laugh at troubles,
and you will never be alone.
The poet said to live life fully,
don't run to deaths embrace,
the poet said he loves us,
and you could see it on his face.
The enemy's at the gate,
weapons of mass destruction,
heat seeking missiles,
the atomic bomb.
going to rape your women,
burn your house down,
eat your children,
and drink your blood.
REMEMBER THIS AT THE POLLING BOTH
AND VOTE ONE------FEAR!
8th November 2010
There was a time I trusted you.
A time you would never lie,
but something happened,
it changed as time went by.
You protected me from accidents,
and your concern was well founded,
but then you frightened me,
in ways that proved ungrounded.
You fed me with lots of lies,
things that just were not true.
Confused about what was real,
still somehow believing you.
Fear I have learned the hard way,
that though I have to live with you,
I have to be very honest with myself,
before I act on what you say or do.
(c)c 6th November 2010