And now the night shades fall,
Day's brightness leaves sway for evening's gown.
Tall shadows join and darken all
And naught but spires remain of our old town.
This night, our herald of tomorrow's coming dawn,
Warmed by the heat breathed back from these old walls,
Now wraps close all deeds and sorrows drawn,
And soothes us as her darkening curtain falls.
Despise us not who sit and meditate
For 'neath thy cloak reason has its way
And comforts in those silent hours late,
The toils and hardships of departing day.
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 12:22 AM UTC
By any measure
Accomplishing your goals is called success.
Yet in and of itself
When all is said and done it means little.
Success is not the measure of the man,
But what comes after it -
After the struggling and the inward perspective
Comes significance,
That greater purpose
For which we all should strive,
To matter, not to ourselves
But to the lives of others,
“Hello”, he said
Eyeing me in the football stand,
And with diminished accolade
Expounded, “Your Roddy’s dad.”
And in a twinkling
The true measure came to me,
That in his world, and that of my son
I had attained significance.
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 9:44 PM UTC
It sits there on the sideboard
Or on the mantle shelf,
And after such a long time
You don’t notice it yourself.
But should you have a visitor
Or younger child come by
It will spark interest anew
And gasps of “Me oh my!”
It’s then the curious wonder
How the ship was put inside,
And where the opening’s concealed
And was it hard to hide?
And if you put it in there
How many times you tried?
And if it went in through the neck
How could it be so wide?
It’s then you tell the story
Of going to the store
To find a bottle of good clear glass
With a shape worth planning for.
Dimple Haig is famous,
Carduh’s pretty fair,
The first one is triangular,
The other one is square.
The bottle must be decanted,
When empty cleaned and dried,
And a careful measure taken
Of the dimensions inside.
It’s then you render drawings
Of the ship you want to make,
And plan out going backwards
Every step you’ll have to take.
First you carve the hull
Of wood with grain that’s fine,
Then step the masts with hinges
So they fold down in a line.
You add the sails and rigging,
Check how they’ll *****
When’s time to pull the halyards
Through the bottle’s neck.
It takes months to finish
Doing a little every night,
I had my children watching
And remarking at the sight.
They saw me put in plasticine
To mold and shape the ocean
And carve wave crests with a spoon
To give the water motion.
When at last the time is right
And everything is ready
You carefully set the ship upon
The sea and hold it steady.
Then pulling on each halyard
The sails are slowly raised
And those who watch the process
Stand enchanted and amazed.
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 9:21 PM UTC
The pages of your letters,
Coloured and scented,
Are the flowers of my day.
From my fingers they drop,
Like dry petals in the breeze,
When sleep drifts over me
And thoughts of you become my dreams.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 4:41 PM UTC
When ever I touch the ground that’s hot
With the sole of my foot that’s bare,
I never fail to recall a time,
And the memories lingering there,
Of a day when I was just a boy,
Beneath equatorial skies,
And the tactic used to keep me indoors
While the missionaries rested their eyes.
My mother was sick with malaria
The curse of the tropic zone,
And while my dad was away on the hunt
Their station became our home.
And after lunch when the sky was hot
And the morning’s work was done
They took my shoes away from me
To keep me out of the sun.
The veranda air was still as a grave,
Not a sound to could be heard outside
Save the click-click-click from the beetles
And the grasshoppers jumping to hide.
Or the scratching scaly slither,
Of a snake on the flowerbed verge,
Or the distant cry of the crested crane,
These are the sounds that merge.
The sight of the distant Koru hills
Shimmering in the haze
Beyond the frangipani trees
Return once more to my gaze,
And the prickly spiky Crown of Thorns
That lined the garden ways,
These are the sights that ribbon back
From my early Kenyan days.
The smell of the room was a mixture
Of scents on the garden air,
And creosote coming up through the floor
From the pilings under there,
And paraffin from the pressure lamps
Which hissed as they gave us light.
With the hint of oil of pyrethrum
Sprayed round the eves at night.
The step to my door should I venture
At noon was as hot as a stove,
The soil on the paths and driveway
Would burn if ever I strove.
And the thorns in the earth would pr ick me
As I cautiously picked my way through
To the shade of the frangipani tree,
From there I took in the view.
So, when ever I touch the ground that’s hot
With the sole of my foot that’s bare,
I never fail to recall a time,
And the memory lingering there,
Of a day when I was just a boy,
Where the images I find,
Set smells and sights and sounds of
Africa sizzling in my mind.
Redding, California July 4th 2005 temperature 105° Fahrenheit
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC
A little bit of ***
In a canvas bag
And a wallet full of notes
And a piece of rag
A tooth brush and comb
And a letter pack
And a bit of paper
With a number on the back
And a crisp old sheet
From a writing pad
Is a folded memory
And a poem so sad
Yet with joy in the lines
That live on still
While the love they were for
Will no longer thrill
For the cause is lost
Like the canvas bag
Left by the seat
With no name tag
How can I find
That fleeting two?
They won't be in Oxford
They were passing through
I met them in London
By the cold roadside
They wanted a lift
So I gave them a ride
They'll pass on
Down Exeter way
The cost of that lift
Was dear to pay
For now I am left
With a canvas bag
With a leather flap
For a naming tag
All covered with names
That student wrote
So when standing so cold
At a glance he'd note
The words of his subject
Written thereon
And his mind would warm
As he pondered on
The lecture from where
The thought first came
And the hour of the day
When he wrote the name
Nameless he was
And his lady too
Till the old bag
Was sifted through
Then a card
Came to light
With a name upon it
Plain to sight
And I remember
The college hall
Goldsmith's was
The name let fall
So to the English
Scholar then
I may return
The bag again
With a little bit of ***
And a sad love poem
I'll return them all
To their former home.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
Do not ask me to say I love you
And look sadly up to me with those deep dark eyes
Do not be like some timid furry animal
Unsure of my affections and fearing I shall say go.
Do not ask me to say I love you
Those words rob me of my free choice to say I truly love
And compel me as though I were cornered
And have to argue.
If I say nothing you'll stir and sigh,
Or answer, you'll doubt the reply
For no more than an idle phrase
Rather say come love, then kiss me
I shall follow till from the wave's crest
I'll say the real words.
For like the waves love comes and goes.
So do not ask.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 2:30 PM UTC
You may never have stood and looked down the sight
At the tommy buck out in the breeze
With the barrel on the side of the truck
As your father says, "Gently now, squeeze."
You may never have felt the kick of the ****
Then heard the report with a crack,
Or seen the buck just scatter away,
Leaping this way and that.
You may never have smelt the smell of the air
After a fire on the plain
When fresh grass shoots are pushing through
With mushrooms, after the rain.
You may never have heard the kru kroo of a dove
When at dusk to its mate it is calling,
As shadows are lengthening out to the east
And the African night is falling.
You may never have felt the pump of your heart
As you slam the truck cab door
Then lurch on the seat as you cross the plain
To the prey when you're only four.
You may never have ridden with game in the back
As rain clouds blacken the sky,
Or heard the clank of the tail-gate chains
And, never again shall I!
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 12:44 PM UTC
I was strolling down the aisle
We were shopping there in style
With my daughter sitting smiling in the cart,
I was stretching out my hand
For the Martinelli's brand
When the apple of my eye gave me a start.
With the bottle in my grasp
I saw, coming toward us fast,
A high heeled damsel, scarfed and towing her caddie
And she smirked as I, condemned,
Stood up to comprehend
The reason, as my child said "Whisky Daddy?"
There was nothing I could say,
To make it seem another way,
To vanquish the conviction so compelling
It was the color you could tell
And the shape she knew so well,
The question that my daughter asked was telling.
Neil Stewart McLeod
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 12:40 PM UTC