I dreamt I sat with learned men,
who spoke on things diverse:
The effect on life by visual Arts,
and music, dance and verse.
Although at first argument was heard,
they came to one conclusion,
That mankind’s life without the arts,
would be a pale illusion.

Speaking first of Nature’s many gifts,
that observant men behold,
Those captured by an artist’s brush,
in vibrant colours - bold;
Often encourages timorous men,
should ambition slip away?
To pursue careers once set aside,
and set them on their way.

Debate moved next on how the Poet writes,
with his use of words and style:
They praised his use of subtle ploy,
by which he’ll oft beguile
A reader to attempt a noble deed,
or challenge a fearsome foe,
Or sometimes provoke others to laugh,
when sad or feeling low.

Next Composer skills were analysed,
as were their melodies:
They spoke of the pleasures music gave,
how it brought back memories.
But of music some found most pleasing,
Jazz was the best they thought,
With its free form of interpretation,
Life’s every mood is caught.

Though sentiments on dance were varied,
they did express the view,
That without masterful portrayal,
it means naught to me and you.
But should the spirit of the music,
be captured accurately,
The audience becomes enraptured,
with the artistry they see.

As the discussion was continued,
varied views were given,
On sculptors, carvers, weavers,
and how each one is driven.
When inspired by Muse and passion,
which they determine to appease,
Few will deny their vocation,
so the moment they will seize.

Although my dream was ending quickly,
still their discourse I could hear,
And conclusions they had reached,
were remembered loud and clear,
That when with talents we are blessed,
it would be a sinful waste,
If neglect allows them to moulder,
for gifts are then debased.

Rhymer  June 25th, 2018.

It is my manner when breaking bread
to think of poetry whilst I’m being fed.
Such times as when I’m eating venison,
I’ll choose the company of Tennyson.
Afterwards with my crackers and Stilton
I’ll probably read the poetry of Milton.

If it should be noted a meal seems a trifle tardy?
The cause can be squarely blamed on Hardy!
But the poems of William Barnes are preferred,
as my first choice, when the soup is stirred.
As for roast of beef, dripping in gravy drowning,
I fall back upon the writings of Browning,

and let either Robert or Elizabeth hold sway.
Later they give way to the dark poems of Gray.
Whilst the flavour of buttered, ginger parkin,
is accentuated by the simple poems of Larkin.
For tedious hours watching, as the spit turns,
I’ll resort to reading poems by Robert Burns.

But then again if someone should have Dunmore
to make my meal Fuller?  I’ve time for Moore.
For such as me, that when read, it is thought best
to be joined at dinner by the honoured Guest,
then I’ll choose the rare words of the Poet Blake,
as we enjoy roast beef, pork or a tender steak!

When one is enjoying a flagon of Draught beer,
I select and read the poems of Will Shakespeare.
But should the occasion call for a stronger brew?
One must perforce resort to one Thomas Carew.
Yes, my choice often depends on what one eats.
So whether I read Dryden, Hamilton or Keats,

the perfect match required for poetry and food,
may be augmented by the works of Thomas Hood.
Next with dessert: blanc mange or raspberry jelly,
I’ll delight in the words of Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Whilst a slice of rich plum pudding or apple ****
demands I read Wordsworth or Scott at the start.

But I’ll often leave my choice of food and poetry
until a moment when, in contemplative reverie
I’ve decided what will enhance and complement
my daily meal.  Though Poetry is thought a condiment.
I sometimes think plain food tastes by far the best
when one adds poems of renowned Sackville West.

At times when I indulge in convivial tippling,
it’s a pleasure enjoyed with Rudyard Kipling.
With careful selection, I have one avowed intent,
to ensure my every meal is a pleasant event.
So as an aid to digestion and a sop to my Soul,
Prior is to the soup, as Dryden is to the casserole.

For me a mix of food and poetry, fills a vital need.
But no matter which Poet I decide next to Read,
when the meal is eaten, I can relax and sit still,
a Poet that springs to mind, is always Hill.
But the poetry thought best, for it brings no Payne,
is to read Hardy’s Dorset poetry, yet once again!

Rhymer. June,24th, 2018.

Though I’m no thief - officially,
I did steal - and that was recently,
seizing a golden opportunity
as a moment of greed overtook me!
Oh woe is me!

I have no excuse for what I did,
my conscience was asleep or hid:
with no reason except - heaven forbid,
sensing the moment ripe.  I did!
Oh woe is me!

I make no excuses for my transgression:
or say it was nothing but obsession,
but please, exercise a degree of discretion,
when reading this public confession.
Oh woe is me!

When judging me, espouse no platitude,
rectitude, or ‘holier than thou’ attitude,
but by granting me a degree of latitude,
you’ll receive my everlasting gratitude.
Oh woe is me!

Though without prior intent to steal,
having the chance to think, and feel
the opportunity was there, my zeal
overcame my conscience’s appeal.
Oh woe is me!

You may well ask for a reason why
I allowed myself to steal?  I’ll not lie!
It was a moment which, in the by and by,
was perfectly opportune, and why I cry:
Oh woe is me!

Admittedly, the timing was prime.
Even so it was an unpardonable crime,
with effects affecting me, for a long time,
so I feel neither secure nor sublime!
Oh woe is me!
I no longer think it a minor infraction,
so a confession is my chosen action.
Taken to absolve myself, there’s no retraction
of this statement: no matter what the reaction!
Oh woe is me!

What may be the effect of my sinful intent:
or what may be considered just punishment,
by those who sit in righteous judgement
upon my fall from grace?  Never meant!
Oh woe is me!

My sin? I stole some ‘Time’ to write this verse!
Should you consider it bad, or even worse,
I must live with the knowledge this was a curse
to steal, even for reasons deviously perverse!
Oh woe is me!

I had an urgent need to write this rhyme,
on which I have spent the stolen “time”!
Perhaps you thought it a more heinous crime?
If so?  Shame on you!  You’re no paradigm!
I declare: Oh woe is thee!

Rhymer.  June 16th, 2018.

Like grains of sand, that slip through the hand:
     Where’s the sense in counting?
Years pass quickly by, so soon we die,
     for sins we’ll be accounting!
Some meek - some bold, times hot - times cold,
     the life that’s ours, too fleeting.
To where winds blow?  No one will know:
     naught but momentary meeting.
We plan - we scheme, we act - we dream,
     all comes to end at death.
Friends met - then lost: we count the cost,
     they’ve drawn their final breath.
We live each day; our chosen way;
     count not the hours we’ve spent.
As some will say, to live each day,
     must be our sole intent.
From Nature’s earth, at dawn of birth,
     ours, but a passing presence.
So count not grains, for Life soon wanes:
     time always of the essence.

Rhymer June 15th, 2018

A reflection in the mirror, seen in reversible review,
gives me cause to wonder, if I’ve found someone new?
For the bleary eyed persona, a ghostly manifestation
seems but an ancient relic, in advancing dessication.

Wondering on the person, stood there before my eyes,
reluctantly I’ve concluded, once all details were apprised,
that the image there reflected; and so very plain to see,
is a bona fide rendering, of an older, careworn me.

The face therein reflected, shows skin weathered tough,
but for ample indication to those who think him gruff,
the laughter lines etched deeply, regarded as the best,
are an ever needed asset, when for life one has had a zest!

Hair that once was bushy black, has thinned, turned to grey;
whilst still bushy eyebrows, grow whiter by the day.
Blue eyes though paled, from an earlier deep azure hue,
still possess a twinkle, when they’re looking back at you.

Standing in contemplation, many thoughts run through my head,
as I recollect on places seen, as well as what I’ve done and said,
and on the people met, who helped to shape the man you see.
Often the willing help from others, made life enjoyable for me.

At the twilight of my years, there’s much that I would do,
but years are quickly passing, and to tackle something new
is not an option.  For there is much that needs my attention
if I’m to set my affairs in order, as is my avowed intention.

I hope to ensure that the poetry I wrote - a passion chose
for me, will be orderly, when my days come to their close.
Only when I face my destined fate, with a conscience clear,
will I rejoice in thoughts and memories of those I hold dear.

Though looking glass reflections, allow an introspect view,
and portray a passing likeness, that may be physically true,
life’s lessons learned, which may have left lines upon my skin
leave but few signs of the inner man, that still resides within.

Rhymer.  June 1st, 2018.

It is said, there's a Fate which shapes our ends
and it's a long, long road, which never bends!
But don't you think, we alone decide our fate?
Why is it so hard to stay on a path that's straight?

You'd think we could walk a path true and level,
to ignore all overtures from the Devil.
It should cause us no strain, and little distress,
to lead faultless lives, and admit to no excess.

But such is the frailty and nature of mankind,
alongside the narrow  path he'll always find
temptation which, bids him 'tarry.  Step aside!'
But once off that path, it's a fast, downhill slide!

To say we've no control over what we can do,
or where we might go, is certainly not true.
We decide, with acceptance or rejection,
to select the path we tread.  The direction

we travel through life, is of our own choosing.
When we stray from the path -  we end up losing!
If we're true to our Faith, keeping to the trail,
we'll find the way easy.  The Devil will fail!

Sure, it might well appear to be a long road,
for an upright life, means living by a tough code,
but if we’d shape the end we finally meet>
We have to put ourselves in the driver's seat!

While we must be prepared to stop and give aid,
and carry the load which, at our feet is laid,
we must strive to travel the narrow path of life,
and avoid temptation, with which this world is rife!

Rhymer.  May28th, 2018.