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Aug 2020 · 452
anthony Brady Aug 2020
I gaze up at the sky:
all day cast in shades of blue
as clouds move in harmony
when night shades of darkness
etch textured moonlight watching
in the wake of this passing day.

I think of you in nautical miles:
for in whatever distance we are
we share the same sky
over a smooth or rough sea
reflecting the same drops of water
in hues of blue in my imagination
forming you on the horizon.

It is then I listen out
in the solitude of my room:
some times in the same dark
some times in the same light
for the still sound of your voice
for the plain sight of your smile.

Jul 2020 · 353
Distance lends Enchantment
anthony Brady Jul 2020
I imagine the sound of your
voice, the words you spoke
of love that linger  echoing
in my quiet corners of time.

I miss you in the sense
that separate from you
I am no longer whole:
only part of a poem
sketched in the sky, forming
for your eyes only to read.  

I am not of the passionate kind:
I love too softly, too shyly,
mostly a  little too deeply.
Still: soothed by touches of your
remote hands - I rest content.

Jun 2020 · 298
anthony Brady Jun 2020
If words were water
I’d never drown
but float wave on
wave of them
over stormy seas
to  you my only
certain landfall.

There to cascade
into a pure  haven
of heart’s desire,
safe under shade
of your protecting
wings my words
will flow to tell
the endless tides
of ageless time
I am in love
with you as
long as our
hearts beat.

May 2020 · 263
Direction of Travel
anthony Brady May 2020
Whatever distance
my mind and body
travels in time,  
journey’s end
is us united
in the same
sacred place.  
There, in our
loving hearts
where our eyes
magnetically met.
From here on,
our souls
twinned as one.
We fell  in love
far longer than
a lifetime’s span
forever bonded
fixed for eternity.

May 2020 · 252
Direction of Travel
anthony Brady May 2020
Whatever the distance
my mind and body
travels in time,  
journey’s end
is us united
in the same
sacred place
where it began.  
There, twinned
loving hearts
where our eyes
met magnetically.
From here on,
our souls are
twinned as one.
We fell  in love
destined to last
far longer than
a lifetime’s span.
Fixed for eternity.

The love poems in the six book series -The Treasury of Twin Flame Poetry - are by the pen-named Isis and Osiris.  Published by
Apr 2020 · 226
Pure White Light
anthony Brady Apr 2020
You  etch  your
words upon my heart:
in pure white light
I read them.
I sip the nectar
of your pure
spoken sincerity.

I breathe in your
warm compassion.

I touch the tender rays
of infinite white light.
You meet me in the space
between your words.
Together  we talk
and walk on sacred ground.

Apr 2020 · 226
anthony Brady Apr 2020
April will be remembered
as truly the cruellest month.
Deep in careless slumber,
we woke up in dismay.
Centre Parcs no longer magical
Paris no longer romantic.
The Big Apple confounded
China’s Great Wall breached,
Mecca’s Kaballah pilgrims bereft.
We dig deep into politician’s lies
in hope of finding the truth.
Overnight the vulnerable elderly
are locked-in social-distance lepers
all acts of affection to them denied.
Winnowed they will be
our mature corn as chaff
while good and bad
find no partition.

Mar 2020 · 233
Virulent Virus
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.
Mar 2020 · 248
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.

Mar 2020 · 233
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.

Jan 2020 · 164
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.
Dec 2019 · 198
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.

Dec 2019 · 226
THE RETURN - 1 & 2
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.
Oct 2019 · 282
The Lost Hour
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.
Oct 2019 · 238
A Shaggy Limerick
anthony Brady Oct 2019
Henry The Eighth - a most randy King,
from Monday to Saturday lived in sin.
But on Sundays he  left his Royal "mare"
and spent the whole day in pious prayer.
Tho' his sins were scarlet his bible was read.
Then on stroke of midnight - so it is said,
with his latest mistress he was soon abed.

inspired by a poem by Modelrolex Augustine
Oct 2019 · 252
These Golden Days
anthony Brady Oct 2019
Golden days, recalling erstwhile happy youth
precious days, time of passions - full of truth.
Thus in aging days we retain them all else above
Autumn days of deep affections care and love.
We know for sure that life-long love never dies
nor ever is it dimmed in song or memory's eyes.
Though life has nothing sweeter than its Spring
its magical times to a wondering memory bring…
…fondest tunes of glorious days, to us forever young.
These Golden days - so many love songs still unsung.

This poem draws on the lyrics of a 1950s popular Mario Lanza song
Oct 2019 · 328
Welcome Direction
anthony Brady Oct 2019
Perhaps it is meant to be,
that I must bear alone as such,
all these blazing passions for thee.
Nevertheless, I know this much,
my true love for you will never die.

Beauty is never all physical
perfected it is quite mystical
also mental and emotional.
so let us see what lies beneath.

Come to me as evening falls
the voice of darkness calls
out to you my long awaited
guiding light of love.

Enfold me just as you are
at sundown, the first star
that glows for me all night.
By day, once more you are...

…. my sunshine bright.
This truth is in each of us,
let’s never let it go astray:
it is our path - marked in love
our hearts will point the way.

anthony Brady Oct 2019
I tried to be a man that's patient:
someone kind and calm,
open and understanding.
Someone who felt other’s pain
who didn't let it turn him cold.

You see, their lack of trust
wasn't entirely their fault...
they grew up stunted:
watching their father
abuse their mother.

Or, in his absence they grew up
without him ever there:
erratic, extreme emotions;
thunderclouds of anger,
thus implanted self-hatred.

Then he would return, amusing,
funny - the centre of attention.
Other times he was miserable
or an erratic, manic-obsessive,
a hopeless compulsive mess.

Their mothers stayed quiet
took the lashings, the outbursts
to keep the fragile peace,
while they internalising them,
kept feeling it was their fault.

Innocent, naive, hurt, numb
always feeling like a stranger.
Home?  a war zone where
words were irrational, erratic
weapons of mass destruction.

They learned to hurt others
to protect themselves.
They witnessed human weakness;
the unreliable became friends,
the consistent the enemy.

They grew shy and reserved
couldn't stand the spotlight
their skins  made them anomalies
spectacles, defectives, tattooed
victims with emotional scars.

Rejected by the outside,
no place to call a home
let alone a safe haven.
They numbed every inch of pain,
outcasts. Or so they  thought.

Once in a while their anger
would burst out unexplained,
their heart would pound and
their body would shake
over the slightest inconveniences.

Their  thoughts expressed:
"Am I like:my father?
Bipolar, violent, irrational?"
Often flooded their minds.
I believed their words – empathised.

“I deemed myself unworthy
of consistency, reliability,
happiness, trust and love.
I preyed on the weak
they reminded me of my mother.

I destroyed my body
with any drug or liquor
that I could get my hands on.
Denying myself of food,
Starving myself of love.”

For years and years and years,
I helped them stumble  upon peace:
once I explored the inner crevices
They surrendered to the war within
and stopped abusing themselves.

Years of therapy.
Countless hours of running
notebook after notebook
Of poetry and musings,
they learned to let go and love.

The trouble, you see
is often lack of self-love:
my perceptions revealed it.
They finally learned to trust:
I've fought one hell of a battle.

I was a Social Worker.

Oct 2019 · 243
Just read the directions
anthony Brady Oct 2019
Does love have a shelf life?
“A best before date?”
All I know is it lasts,
does exactly what it
states on the tin,
on the package,
where the labels say:
Love Poetry and Prose:
use as soon as possible.

Oct 2019 · 409
It's All in The Can..
anthony Brady Oct 2019
Do all the good you can,
by all the means you can,
in all the ways you can,
in all the places you can,
at all the times you can,
to all the people you can,
as long as ever you can.

John Wesley
Sep 2019 · 301
anthony Brady Sep 2019
Goblins, gremlins, ghosts, galore
tricksters,  treaters: not anymore.
Parties, parades, toffees, galore
masks, costumes, gowns to adore.
My black teeth sharp anticipating gore
I’m up on a chair behind the door
wielding something special in store.
So whatever you do, I implore
don’t you dare enter my yard
since you won’t leave unscarred.
Hee. Hee. Hey! ******! ******!
Whatever neat and clever your riddle
my axe will split you down the middle.
Though you scream, squirm and squeal
You kids will be my very next meal.

A grateful nod to Christopher P. Wyman and other Halloween themed poems by HP poets.
Sep 2019 · 212
anthony Brady Sep 2019
I could feel my heart
breaking like waves
on an alien shore:
shards of my soul
being put back
piece by piece though
not in the correct order.

My emotions dragged
every which way
by relentless tides
then I heard a voice
familiar calling to me
from a distant ship
passing in the night.

I can't contain it
not anymore
the pain of being
alone - it gnaws
at the hopes I once
had flying high like sails
I felt my remaining pieces
slowly cracking.

Until one day,
sooner than later
all of me in broken pieces
is washed up on a beach
making me officially

Sep 2019 · 210
anthony Brady Sep 2019
Now is the time for the burning of the leaves.
They go to the fire; the nostril ****** with smoke
Wandering slowly into a weeping mist.
Brittle and blotched, ragged and rotten sheaves!
A flame seizes the smouldering ruin and bites
On stubborn stalks that crackle as they resist.

The last hollyhock's fallen tower is dust;
All the spices of June are a bitter reek,
All the extravagant riches spent and mean.
All burns! The reddest rose is a ghost;
Sparks whirl up, to expire in the mist: the wild
Fingers of fire are making corruption clean.

Now is the time for stripping the spirit bare,
Time for the burning of days ended and done,
Idle solace of things that have gone before:
Rootless hope and fruitless desire are there;
Let them go to the fire, with never a look behind.
The world that was ours is a world that is ours no more.

They will come again, the leaf and the flower, to arise
From squalor of rottenness into the old splendour,
And magical scents to a wondering memory bring;
The same glory, to shine upon different eyes.
Earth cares for her own ruins, naught for ours.
Nothing is certain, only the certain spring.

R L Binyon
Sep 2019 · 207
anthony Brady Sep 2019
Bathed in moonlight
are my love and me.
Under the trees,
rays spreading,
through woodland:
a sylvan canopy of
boughs lighter each day.
Autumnal - not dying,
retiring, destined to return.

Plants and creatures,
taking refuge in
mother earth,
mother nature.
such delight,
each night,
sitting outside,
my Love and me.
together - yet solitary.

No other humans
distracting us.
Silent and still
only nocturnal
creatures stir.
What magic,
what sanctity,
mystical delight.
together with THE ONE.

Our senses feeling our nature,
always here - never apart.
Not fearing death, loving life,
relaxing, laughing, pure and free,
forever more, just being,
revealing the truth of what
we have become,
that which we are
who we always were.

Such sweet life:
my love and me,
sitting here in
this place - this Autumn.

Inspired by his poem - The Burning of the Leaves - by Lawrence Binyon
Sep 2019 · 268
anthony Brady Sep 2019
We thought it would come, we thought the Germans would come,  
were almost certain they would. I was thirty-two,
the youngest assistant curator in the country.
I had some good ideas in those days.

Well, what we did was this. We had boxes  
precisely built to every size of canvas.
We put the boxes in the basement and waited.

When word came that the Germans were coming in,  
we got each painting put in the proper box
and out of Leningrad in less than a week.
They were stored somewhere in southern Russia.

But what we did, you see, besides the boxes  
waiting in the basement, which was fine,
a grand idea, you’ll agree, and it saved the art—
but what we did was leave the frames hanging,  
so after the war it would be a simple thing  
to put the paintings back where they belonged.

Nothing will seem surprised or sad again  
compared to those imperious, vacant frames.

Well, the staff stayed on to clean the rubble
after the daily bombardments. We didn’t dream—
You know it lasted nine hundred days.
Much of the roof was lost and snow would lie  
sometimes a foot deep on this very floor,
but the walls stood firm and hardly a frame fell.

Here is the story, now, that I want to tell you.  
Early one day, a dark December morning,
we came on three young soldiers waiting outside,  
pacing and swinging their arms against the cold.  
They told us this: in three homes far from here  
all dreamed of one day coming to Leningrad  
to see the Hermitage, as they supposed  
every Soviet citizen dreamed of doing.  
Now they had been sent to defend the city,  
a turn of fortune the three could hardly believe.

I had to tell them there was nothing to see
but hundreds and hundreds of frames where the paintings had hung.

“Please, sir,” one of them said, “let us see them.”

And so we did. It didn’t seem any stranger  
than all of us being here in the first place,  
inside such a building, strolling in snow.

We led them around most of the major rooms,  
what they could take the time for, wall by wall.  
Now and then we stopped and tried to tell them
part of what they would see if they saw the paintings.  
I told them how those colors would come together,  
described a brushstroke here, a dollop there,  
mentioned a model and why she seemed to pout  
and why this painter got the roses wrong.

The next day a dozen waited for us,
then thirty or more, gathered in twos and threes.  
Each of us took a group in a different direction:  
Castagno, Caravaggio, Brueghel, Cézanne, Matisse,  
Orozco, Manet, da Vinci, Goya, Vermeer,
Picasso, Uccello, your Whistler, Wood, and Gropper.  
We pointed to more details about the paintings,  
I venture to say, than if we had had them there,  
some unexpected use of line or light,
balance or movement, facing the cluster of faces  
the same way we’d done it every morning  
before the war, but then we didn’t pay
so much attention to what we talked about.
People could see for themselves. As a matter of fact  
we’d sometimes said our lines as if they were learned  
out of a book, with hardly a look at the paintings.

But now the guide and the listeners paid attention  
to everything—the simple differences
between the first and post-impressionists,
romantic and heroic, shade and shadow.

Maybe this was a way to forget the war
a little while. Maybe more than that.
Whatever it was, the people continued to come.  
It came to be called The Unseen Collection.

Here. Here is the story I want to tell you.

Slowly, blind people began to come.
A few at first then more of them every morning,  
some led and some alone, some swaying a little.
They leaned and listened hard, they ******* their faces,  
they seemed to shift their eyes, those that had them,  
to see better what was being said.
And a **** of the head. My God, they paid attention.

After the siege was lifted and the Germans left
and the roof was fixed and the paintings were in their places,  
the blind never came again. Not like before.
This seems strange, but what I think it was,
they couldn’t see the paintings anymore.
They could still have listened, but the lectures became  
a little matter-of-fact. What can I say?
Confluences come when they will and they go away.

Sep 2019 · 218
anthony Brady Sep 2019
You are swimming,
breasting the waves
in a wild blue ocean.
I am an incoming tide,
foaming white, surging
into  underwater cleft
probing, lingering long,
holding on, bursting in.

Then ebbing quietly into night
into stars, into fleeting sparks
of myriad fire flies flitting
over moving silken surface,
itself a ghostly glow
of phosphorescence,
a transient trail
of luminescence that
fades to reappear as light
to penetrate deepest depths
of the  ever restless sea.
I surface and breathe into you.

Sep 2019 · 272
The Wild Old Wicked Man
anthony Brady Sep 2019
'Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
'Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

'Kind are all your words, my dear,
Do not the rest withhold.
Who can know the year, my dear,
when an old man's blood grows cold? '
I have what no young man can have
Because he loves too much.
Words I have that can pierce the heart,
But what can he do but touch?'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

Then said she to that wild old man,
His stout stick under his hand,
'Love to give or to withhold
Is not at my command.
I gave it all to an older man:
That old man in the skies.
Hands that are busy with His beads
Can never close those eyes.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

'Go your ways, O go your ways,
I choose another mark,
Girls down on the seashore
Who understand the dark;
***** talk for the fishermen;
A dance for the fisher-lads;
When dark hangs upon the water
They turn down their beds.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

'A young man in the dark am I,
But a wild old man in the light,
That can make a cat laugh, or
Can touch by mother wit
Things hid in their marrow-bones
From time long passed away,
Hid from all those warty lads
That by their bodies lay.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

'All men live in suffering,
I know as few can know,
Whether they take the upper road
Or stay content on the low,
Rower bent in his row-boat
Or weaver bent at his loom,
Horseman ***** upon horseback
Or child hid in the womb.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

'That some stream of lightning
From the old man in the skies
Can burn out that suffering
No right-taught man denies.
But a coarse old man am I,
I choose the second-best,
I forget it all awhile
Upon a woman's breast.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

W B Yeats
Sep 2019 · 365
The Wild Old Wicked Man
anthony Brady Sep 2019
'Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
'Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

'Kind are all your words, my dear,
Do not the rest withhold.
Who can know the year, my dear,
when an old man's blood grows cold? '
I have what no young man can have
Because he loves too much.
Words I have that can pierce the heart,
But what can he do but touch?'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

Then said she to that wild old man,
His stout stick under his hand,
'Love to give or to withhold
Is not at my command.
I gave it all to an older man:
That old man in the skies.
Hands that are busy with His beads
Can never close those eyes.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

'Go your ways, O go your ways,
I choose another mark,
Girls down on the seashore
Who understand the dark;
***** talk for the fishermen;
A dance for the fisher-lads;
When dark hangs upon the water
They turn down their beds.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

'A young man in the dark am I,
But a wild old man in the light,
That can make a cat laugh, or
Can touch by mother wit
Things hid in their marrow-bones
From time long passed away,
Hid from all those warty lads
That by their bodies lay.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

'All men live in suffering,
I know as few can know,
Whether they take the upper road
Or stay content on the low,
Rower bent in his row-boat
Or weaver bent at his loom,
Horseman ***** upon horseback
Or child hid in the womb.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

'That some stream of lightning
From the old man in the skies
Can burn out that suffering
No right-taught man denies.
But a coarse old man am I,
I choose the second-best,
I forget it all awhile
Upon a woman's breast.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.
W B Yeats
Sep 2019 · 222
Once More With Feelings
anthony Brady Sep 2019
Come, my love, we've no time to waste,
the clock is showing half past seven:
just enough time to get one more taste
of Eros' essence -  the Elixir of Heaven

Love in Autumn is no less sublime
than when Spring's first love sustains.
See the hourglass inverted - its time
to outrun those fast-falling grains

Love is calling from a distance,
Now she sheds her glorious veils
Lest she think we offer resistance,
Seize all the joy her voice entails.

Autumn's last buds will soon depart,
As frosty breezes nip at the vine;
let nothing fail to stir this eager heart –
come love, come song, come vintage wine.

Time is fleeting pointing a finger,
The sun is setting – it cannot wait
No longer at leisure can we linger,
Come now, my love – embrace our fate.

Time has distilled to purity the love we share.
Free from realms of dreams there are no flaws.
Love thrives with a certainty we could never dare
nightly, daily  - ever ordered by joy's eternal laws.

Sep 2019 · 173
Nothing out of the ordinary
anthony Brady Sep 2019
Picture a candlelit bathroom:
I was deep in a hot bath  of
scents  and oil - reading
a book of lyrical  poetry.
Nothing out of the ordinary.

You were reading too:
I  rested my head on
your foamy *******.
Looking up at you
I saw love in your eyes

You kissed my forehead.
We both went back
to  reading poetry.
Such sweet repose.
Nothing out of the ordinary.

Aug 2019 · 314
The Tenses of Love
anthony Brady Aug 2019
Past: I loved you yesterday,
in all the days before then,
way back to when I first
met you.

Present: I love you today,
more than I can ever say.

Future: tomorrow I will love
you. From here on, come
what may, our love will lead
us into and through every day.

Aug 2019 · 348
anthony Brady Aug 2019
Be kindly, gentle, with the hoary toad,
help it whenever to cross the road.
Confused quite often with the frog,
that smooth amphibian can leap a log.

In meadows strolling, keep in mind
mound-maker mole created blind.
Another creature, it’s called a vole
please do not disturb it in its hole.

Field mice have exquisite charm.
to they and dormice do no harm.
Over fields of clover vetch and rye
take delight in fluttering butterfly.

Just think, such creatures, two by two,
in Noah's Ark, it is written, came through
the biblical Deluge and so survive
so long as we allow them all to thrive.

Life would be bleak - Nature bare
if some day we deigned  to stare
and to our dismay became aware
of precious species no longer there.

Aug 2019 · 559
anthony Brady Aug 2019
To envisage You,
body, mind, soul,
in moods of longing
when all words fail
and language is lost
in the translation,
I lay down my pen.
Then trace your heart
in outline on my
canvas  of dreams.

anthony Brady Jul 2019
Her wobbly hands  on the rudder
of state, watchers are all a quiver
commenting on Angela’s shiver.
For, she’s come all over shaky
and her reign’s looking flaky.
All because Donald Trump
who gives her the schlump
is causing her to shudder.

Schlump - terrors
Jul 2019 · 275
anthony Brady Jul 2019
There comes a woman
beautiful, so much
more lovely than
she would be on this
perfect day, because
her eyes are fixed
on me - a man alone.

She has the allurement
of a dream, a phantom
of desired delights...
...made for what only
thoughts acclaim and
fairest words describe:
this woman is a poem.

Jul 2019 · 354
anthony Brady Jul 2019
On frozen heights
I had searched
anew for you
close to sunlit
clouds, the stars..

…between dreams,
romantic fantasies,
on paths of verse
laid down for me
landmarks set out
as passion’s trails.

Just out of reach
but always there,
to find at last
you in solitude.

Alone, I traced your
steps, followed all
imprinted on pristine
snows of memory.

Jul 2019 · 428
anthony Brady Jul 2019
I held your hands, you healed my pain
onto my heart inscribed your name
shared your joys while all the while
dissolved the sorrows behind my smile.

Even before the ink began to dry
You helped me find the truth
revealed right there upon the page
the clearest meaning in the verse.

I knew if ever we went astray
the sun would still rise and set
I would read your words that guide
words such as: “Be not Afraid.”

Fate bear me now on wings
to that dear solitary place
where you in peace repose
there  I will join you...

...then until the end of time
we will wander through
a sacred world: your heart
in mine and mine in thine.

Friendship can be greater and more powerful than love. Of course, love and friendship, when intimately combined, are the bedrock of the perfect relationship
Jul 2019 · 200
anthony Brady Jul 2019
Mother mine - forever missed,
I leave flowers for you today
and light a candle in a
nearby Chapel of Repose.
Your child, a grown man
but always your infant
prays from his inner soul.  
Peace attends you now,
be comforted,  consoled.
A surrogate woman
will kiss me when I
sleep and stay by me.
Her love hold me
cherished in her arms
close to her heart,
the place that's ours
and ours alone. A
mother and a
lover’s love.

Jun 2019 · 238
I Lit A Candle
anthony Brady Jun 2019
Liberty. Equality. Fraternity.
I followed those signs
to a wayside chapel
of no denomination.
I lit a candle there
more in hope
than certainty.
My prayer was:
May its light
be ever bright
and show that
democracy is
a living reality,
a shining promise,
a brilliant ideal,
with many faces,
and always an
eternal perpetual
work in progress.

Jun 2019 · 417
anthony Brady Jun 2019
Tease my tongue with yours
so I may savour your poetry
sipped sweet from your lips

Let it flow in verses
as kisses lingering in
our memories forever.

Tattoo it in caresses
on pristine pages
of my skin.

Then I will slip from
verses of fantasy
into your arms.

Jun 2019 · 356
anthony Brady Jun 2019
You are to me what
dreams are made of.
I dream of you in lots
of different ways.
For example:
touching stars,
flying angels,
riding on clouds,
making magic
seeing fairies
writing happy-
ever-after- tales.
I count the ways
I dream of you.
Best of all  
every dream
of you - just
as you  are -
came true.

Jun 2019 · 269
anthony Brady Jun 2019
I felt your magnetic energy:
saw a face that can
make men turn from war.
Our smiles made time move
slowly, I sensed pure love
and peace in your presence.

Now I dream we are both
dancing to Eros's rhythms.
Nothing makes me stronger
when close to your fragile heart,
I fell in love with you:
sensing a love truly new.

Falling in love with you was
never my plan. Unbidden,
you spoke to me. I saw the beauty
of life in you, a beautiful soul
that captivated - I responded.

I had admired you from a distance
because afraid if I touched you,
my flesh would be tempted
to do all that is regarded earthly
and sully your sanctity.

Our hearts are interlocked
in deep communion:
thoughts and feelings
merge in graceful motion,
seeding a love ever growing

I imagine us together mute
in moonlight. You, robed
in a silk white gown:
your head bearing a crown.
Me, swaying in a white suit.

So we dance towards
the cosmos. The stars
watch. Sun and moon stare,
as heavenly music bears
us, embracing, into eternity.

From a Treasury of Twin Flame Poetry. Osiris & Isis.
Jun 2019 · 209
Running to You
anthony Brady Jun 2019
Your return is always sweet,
bliss as our loving lips meet.
Journey’s end is ecstasy wild,
I was like a motherless child.

You favour me with love and grace,
I love your humours, adore your face,
I feel so safe when I'm with you,
Now/Then - whole night’s through.

You comfort me when I'm down,
Keep me afloat lest I drown,
You sense I'm low before I do,
raising me up to pull me through.

Come the times you have to go,
My heart feels heavy, weary so,
I cling to you, restrain my tears,
kissed away - you erase my fears.

When passing days mark the week,
your absence jars, prospect’s bleak.
The wait for you seems endless times,
I endure it all by penning rhymes.

I yearn for when we next entwine,
To know again that I am thine,
I vow to make it permanent,
An eternal bond by covenant.

But until then, this patient wait,
must be endured – it is our Fate,
Soon forever we will be as One,
I promise this, as unto You I run.

Jun 2019 · 196
He Did Not Come Up Trumps
anthony Brady Jun 2019
The travelling President called Trump
showed he's a twittering insensitive lump:
though visiting as an all-American dude
about the Mayor of London he was rude.
Soon the Trump tour lost its sparkle
when he slagged-off Meghan Markle
And showed he’s no gent - just a chump.

May 2019 · 1.2k
Getting Attention...
anthony Brady May 2019
I was alarmed as nobody
paid attention to me:
if there was a Plan B -
it was to die - dramatically.

A hangman’s halter I took to  swing
snapped and failed my neck to wring.
Then I drank of hemlock deep:
all it did was make me sleep.

Wide awake I’d somehow made it back
I laid me down  on a railway  track
Alas! never once was I alerted
all trains had been diverted.

It seemed a good idea to me
to drown myself in the Dead Sea:
buoyant in such drink, I did not think
no swimmer  there is known to sink

From a high rise parapet I dropped over
and landed in a cushioned bed of clover.
I tried to cut my jugulars  but By Heck!
the blade was blunt and just grazed my neck.

A contract killer - hired off the shelf -
took the money then shot himself
after stating though he’s willing
I was not worth the killing.

By now getting frantic
on the internet I met a tantric
guru whose advised me tarry
“All I needed was to marry…

…It is a kind of death, all  near
and dear pity you - but it’s clear
you get everybody’s attention
and in obituaries never a mention”.
May 2019 · 183
anthony Brady May 2019
Your smile evokes fragrance
of a wild rose:  you waft it
generously and graciously

You display beauty effortlessly
marvellously - nature made
you to attract and charm

Bees seek you out:  nectar
on their lips as they sip
deep wherever you bloom

You, the most gorgeous flower
with the soft captivating blush
of pale pink perfect petals

You change my world to bliss
allowing me to gaze on beauty
entranced, unblemished

Everything about you
lures me to pluck this
rose without thorns.

May 2019 · 562
anthony Brady May 2019
I watch you. Unbooted,
stripping off daylight.
Bare, birthday suited,
silvered in moonlight.

I thrill - my pulses racing
you lie chilled out tracing
edges of dark and light
etched in shades of night.

You reach out to me as kin  
drawn to skin on skin
together we lie as on fire
freeing all our love's desire.

Awake in pre-dawn twilight,
we bathe in rays of delight
as you don filtered raiment
shimmering in  golden sunlight.

chiaroscuro: the interplay of dark and light. . shadow and clarity.
May 2019 · 265
anthony Brady May 2019
I could be a Titian
but can’t even draw
a straight line,
not least create
a masterpiece.
Is that Pablo,
Vincent and Rodin
giggling somewhere
at my useless doodles?
You could be a Degas
dancer that’s what:
me, avoiding your toes
holding you with
my nervous shake
all out  of rhythm
and pace. My sweaty
palms on your bare back,
my apologies –Ma Cherie!

My poems may
not make wine
out of water.
But I can try
to dance on cue.
As for my canvases
I will paint you
in every colour
including blue.

I’m an art lover:
that much I
know is true,
with brushes,
words to share,
hold it right there
just let me
show you.

May 2019 · 191
anthony Brady May 2019
There are nights that are so still
that I can hear the small owl
far off and a fox barking
miles away. It is then that I lie
in the lean hours awake listening
to the swell born somewhere in
the Atlantic
rising and falling, rising and
wave on wave on the long shore
by the village that is without
and companionless. And the
thought comes
of that other being who is
awake, too,
letting our prayers break on him,
not like this for a few hours,
but for days, years, for eternity.

Arguably the finest poem ever written on the theme of Prayer. R.S.Thomas in his life and in his poetry had a hunger for the living God. This God may have been elusive, and believing in Him not always easy, but the sense of attempting to form a relationship with the God who transcends us and all our thoughts about him is a constant theme in his poetry.
anthony Brady May 2019
The secret’s out – Hip! Hip! Horray!
Meghan Markle has had her way:
no papparazzi just a note to state.. framed upon the palace gate..
a baby born to her and Prince Harry.

It was a very private affair - narry
a Home Secretary  was there to see
the birth - a custom ended by decree:
though historically meant as inclusion
t’was deemed at last a male intrusion.

Now in an age where all is bi-
ethnic black and white tie
parently neat and true
with the royal blood line’s
red, white,  and blue.

By George! To Will and Kate
in poetry  - I must relate
there is no comparison
other than that word
rhymes with Harrison.

Hey. Nonny. Nay.
Alack a day -
I must away,
for this verse done and said
I could withall lose my head.

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