jeremy-wyatt
Welsh
hmmm..... moved to Scotland to fade into the warm loving atmosphere of Dumfries and Galloway. Now living in Dunblane. / Been writing poetry for a wee while and love it. / Wrote one in 1982, and one in June 2010, now..! thank you to my friends who pointed me here.
Quietest in the white expanse of winter,
Waiting, watching, the landscape open to my sharp eyes.
A pin dropped in snow would make more noise
Than my perfect, crouching form.
I mark the crows as they flit across the sky,
Warm memories of summer stalking in the hedgerow.
My ears flicker to a distant voice,
As you walk up towards the farm.
I will glide over the crisp snow to rub around your legs,
You and I, both finding our way home.
Jeremy Wyatt.
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 1:16 PM UTC
Warm as soil beneath spring sun
banishing memories of januarys frost
time has not dulled your light
my skin heals
my scars soften
your flowers bloom again each spring
as nesting birds begin to sing
Roses grow within you
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 3:46 AM UTC
We drifted through the grey stones,
Looking left.
Looking right.
Always looking wrong.
43 women with your name lie here,
amongst the trim green grass and dried, bunched flowers.
43 women who share a name.....
Do you all begin to blur in memories,
as time blurs days of childhood ?
Or are you still sharp in someones mind, as you are sharp in the picture in my hand.
All those women who shared your name,
and we could find only two.
And neither of them was you.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
Flying bloom to bloom,
but no mere dance this faultless path.
You favour puple,
so it seems.
Clover, thistle, orchid, no dream-like drift this bustling march.
In each quick kiss no flower touched twice,
no frantic frenzy,
"keep on, keep on" your gentle buzzing seems to say.
Until, pushing through an orchids sweet embrace,
head buried in the blooms,
Your tiny heart
quietly
ceases
to beat...
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
The thing is Boy,
Yes, YES! I did need a shower this morning, and ****** lovely it was.
Aye cracking........
Let me tell you three things I got just right with my shower this morning.
First of it was HOT.
Not warm, definitely not lukers, as you said when you where a lad, but ****** lovely and hot.
Like the shower after a shift in The Pit.
Now, notice the capitals there, on The Pit.
Not to make it a loud word, I am simply showing due respect to The Pit.
I spent enough years down that colliery to show it that due respect.
The Pit indeed.
Secondly, there was enough water.
In my shower, not the mine now, pay attention!
It can be hard for folk to hang on to my words, I digress so much, hanging on to my words is like trying to grab a slimy mackerel on a sunny day at Porthcawl Pier.
Now that is a ditry pier, due to littering.
And fishing.
Speaking as a fisherman, with you will notice, a SMALL f, as I do not profess a great degree of skill in that area, but speaking as a fisherman, I will admit that there is an occasional tendency towards the dropping of litter.
On the pier, that is.
Quite likely elsewhere as well, but then I only fish the pier, see.
Anyway, yes, water.
Enough of it.
Not a ****** half-hearted trickle, an apologetic drip, but a deluge!
Fair flooded me out, it did.
****** marvellous.
Smashing.
Now, there was a third good thing.....
Ahh. THAT was it..
Someone to scrub my back.
Very important indeed.
You see, in The Pit, or at least, in the colliery shower, after a shift, we had good showers.
Hot, they were. Hot and wet, and we would stand there, warming ourselves under the water.
By Christ, my arms were sore after a day on my side with a pick.
And the soap was hard too, like a ruddy brick.
But the water helped see, took the pain away, it did.
Aye, and all the Boys, we would wash each others backs.
That was the way then.
In the showers.
Aye.
I new my mate's backs better than my missus'
Thirty years scrubbing them.
"Whiter than white" I would say.
When they asked me.
"How is my back Bryn?"
"Whiter than white".
Aye
Good days.
Now this shower.
A ****** good one too, It was today.
The Girl who comes in got it just right.
Halfway between five and five and a quarter.
Bang on.
And she washed my back.
Not as hard as the boys would have done,
but good enough for a youngster.
Not bad at all.
All in all, a good shower.
And that means a good day.
I can wheel my chair to look out the front later.
You'll pardon me for going now,
but I have to go to the bathroom see.
A big ****** task for me now.
Still, no-one in till teatime, and I can manage,
if I take it slow.
And thursday I get another shower.
And I will tell you about the days in The Pit again.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 6:57 AM UTC
You carried me,
fed me,
but no debt I owe.
Centuries cradled,
King of your dank filth, bearing upon me the power to change a world.
And then came the day I raised my eyes to see your nations quail amidst the ruin of your flesh.
Perhaps one day again I'll bring to thee
Hell carried long in the belly of a flea...
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
Old stones weep in the rain
their darkling gaze unblinking
Glowering with ancient pain
of distant glories thinking
Preening Lords arrogant in imagined might
would quail could they perceive
The majesty of osprey flight
True rulers still of Threave
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 6:34 AM UTC
Fierce falls the rain
Summer's spite.
Beats down my wheat
and steals the light.
Like the raging wind
which bends and breaks the tree
The wrath of Amaryllis is to me.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 6:09 AM UTC
Of all the torments of the north
I hold the wind most grim
Scything the very hope from my heart
tears of ice thrown raging back
to scour my soul
folorn curses fail and falter
till mute I quail before its barren ire
eye imploring mercy
from uncaring natures might
are blinded by its savagery
As it tears away my sight
Of all the torments of the North
I hold the wind most grim
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
What can I show you in this town..
The drear of horizons blocked,
tired light slumping over callous concrete cubes.
The background smell of estuary mud,
God forbid we scratch the surface, let the stench out.
Broken men in stained trousers walk their dogs
House, shop, cigarettes, cider.
Wind , trying to carry the scent of green, merely stirs the dead hopes that writhe drily in the gutter, earthworms caught in the sun .
Women sit, brightness long faded, waiting for daylight to cough its way through misery stained-glass.
Cathedrals of emptiness echo hollow, as the wait for nothing to happen drags by.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 10:31 AM UTC