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anthony Brady Mar 2020
We shall be winnowed by so rough a wind
that all our corn shall seem as light as chaff
and good and bad find no partition.
William Shakespeare - Henry 1V  Part 4.
anthony Brady Mar 2020
Au naturelle
You slip off all:
I imagine before
a full length mirror.
As silken top  slides
down your contours
to reveal all aspects
of your cool beauty
the possibilities
beguile me.
Your power to charm
is palpable:
a sight none but
I see released,
showing elements
of your alchemy,
your magic.
Thus you appear
adorable, mute
in music’s sound.
while memory
sketches in the
rest of you.

anthony Brady Mar 2020
My wishes are: that they will
convey  comfort in trying times.
Smiles where sadness intrudes.
Rainbows to melt dark clouds.
Laughter as kisses on parched lips.
Sunsets to warm all hearts.
Hugs when spirits are low.
Amity to brighten their being.

A Muse to inspire them.
Faith in which to believe
in Poetry's possibilities.
Courage to know themselves.
Confidence when in doubt.

Good health and the patience
to accept what is - that they
can go on to live a long
and fulfilling happy life .
Above all I wish them
more Inspiration - less
Perspiration in their writing:
moreover boundless creativity.

anthony Brady Jan 2020
Master, of all without and within
inspire me with the need to pray;
keep me, my Guide, from every sin
and temptations not only for today.

Help me both to diligently heed
the call to work and play:
make me kind in word and deed,
rather more than just today.

Let me be slow to command,
prompt me quickly to obey;
Help me meet every demand
for  self-denial sacrifices today.

Let me no hurtful quips
in spite unthinking say;
set thou a seal upon my lips
throughout all of today.

Help me now to know my place,
but still with a leading role to play:
let me be grateful for thy grace,
Dear Master,  not only for today.

Should by night this life of mine
decline and ebb away,
bear me aloft to heaven divine,
redeemed forever there to stay.

But if in Purgatory I am to lie
brief must be my stay;
I trust  if I am judged today
in Hell I shall not fry.

As for what awaits beyond today
I do not care nor need to pray:
all I hope is that you may
close beside me ever stay.

This is a remake of a traditional  hymn: Lord, for tomorrow and it needs - I do not pray. I was taught to sing it by nuns who ran the 1940's orphanage that contained me as a child. It petitions for a range of pieties with the refrain "Just for today." A beautiful hymn set to sacred music dating from 1818. It has become for me increasingly uncomfortable as Goodness/Humanity should be for every day and not just for today.
anthony Brady Dec 2019
Deep joy in knowing everyone
I know is enjoying Christmas.
I pray: May all the homeless
experience some warm respite
in the kindness of strangers.
Here’s hoping all the horses
get extra nuts and hay;
caviar for cats and PAL -
prolongs active life - for dogs.
As for badgers and foxes:
Please Jesus - let them be snug
and safe in settes and earths.
Let piggies in their sty, upon
fresh straw and sawdust lie.
Abundance of slugs and
beetles for hedgehogs please
and let no owl go hungry in
the frosty silent night. Amen.

anthony Brady Dec 2019
Sweet Blaisdon, loveliest village of the name,
by chance I come back here to live again.
There smiling Spring its earliest visit paid,
while Summer Autumn’s blooms delayed.
Dear lovely haven of innocence and ease,
joy of my youth, where every face did please.
In bygone times I wandered Velde House Lane,
stood by its gates to watch the passing train.  
Oft, have I sensed and seen thy every charm:
strolled Nottswood height, gazed on Stud Farm,
loitered by Longhope Brook, aside the water Mill,
heard St. Michael’s bells peal over Cinder’s Hill.
Now in my Winter years The White Hart bench
awaits where often I was wont my thirst to quench.
In mind, above plum tree blossom watching over all,
I clearly see the stately tower of noble Blaisdon Hall.

Remembrance is music whose sweet refrain
echoes as I flee the spheres of peopled pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
in all my griefs, of which I’ve had my share,
I still have hopes, my final years to crown,
here in Blaisdon before I lay me down;
to trim life’s guttering candle to its close,
to fan a gem-like flame from dying. In repose.
I still have hopes, dear Muse attend me still,
to show the curious my life-learned skill,
in open forum a growing group to draw,
to tell in poems of all I felt, and all I saw.
For, as a fox whom hound and horse pursue,
flees to the place from whence at first it flew,
I still fond hopes hold, my long travails past,
here to return, recline, to die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
I find at last all I never thought was mine.
How happy man who crowns, in years like these
a toiling youth of labour with such an age of ease.

Tobias - after Oliver Goldsmith.
Aged 80 I return to a village in Gloucestershire, UK where I worked 60 years ago  as a teenage farm labourer. In this poem I use Oliver Goldsmith's poem - The Deserted Village - as a template.
anthony Brady Oct 2019
Where does it go
that hour
when clocks
go back
or forward?

Does time stop
to welcome
Spring's return,
bidding the
Winter - farewell?

Or, pause
for  Summer's
lease to bring
in Autumn's
early eves?

No: sleep lost
or gained
holds secret
the time
and the hour.

Change as you
may the hands of
watch or clock:
the sundial shadow
falls unaltered.

Tonight at Midnight in the UK the clocks are re-set backwards by one hour marking the end of Summer Time.
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