A circle of friends met,
On a cold October night.
Seated around a wooden table,
Holding hands by candle light.
Who dared to call the spirits?
An invitation to the dead.
So cold the glass,
That spells out words,
Ungodly message read.
Like ice a chill descended,
Cold enough to freeze the soul,
A spectre came among.
This group of searching people,
All wanting to belong.
Selecting only by random finger,
The weakest or the slight.
Cruel trick, or fairly treated,
On a cold October night.

The poet sees the line,
Before it’s been read.
It has already been written,
Somewhere in his head.
An idea that settles,
To shape and to mould.
Something reused,
That is no longer old.
Repeatable rhyme,
Or overworked verse.
Through low timbre tones,
Let critics converse.
Discounting so many,
Is judgement a whim?
Tell me dear poet,
When did you begin?
In answer unknowing,
Thought, though not sure.
This is not the first time,
I have written before.
On deeper reflection,
All ages, all minds.
There is no criteria,
All patterns, all kinds.
So why do I bother?
I have need to say more.
I think, so I am,
And I am, so therefore.

The Ghost Of Bobby Jones. (Rhyme )

The mist had cleared, when he first appeared,
By moonlight good fortune met.
A life after death, a ghostly breath,
That I shall not forget.

From off the sea, over St Andrews tee,
A cold wind strongly blew.
I watched in awe, as his well struck ball,
Into the darkness flew.

The ball ran long, and smooth gliding on,
A pale and graceful light.
Who paused to turn, at the Swilcan burn,
Soft fading from my sight.

I hastened after, drawn on by spirit laughter,
And the knowledge of his game.
To hear a gallery, somewhere close to me,
As they called out his name.

From the bunker of hell, he played out well,
By the road hole drifting, with darkness lifting.
I watched his putt roll in.
His last drive sounding, on firm ground bounding,
Towards the valley of sin.

The last hole played, he turned to wave,
And speak in mellow tones.
" Goodbye" said he, it was the last I'd see,
Of the ghost of Bobby Jones

Afghanistan A Portrait Of.


In my mind's eye
I see a canvass
An empty sky
Where Kites no longer fly.
Before a rising sun
A Helicopter comes
Black Angel of death
Framed by a crimson backdrop.
While on a dust choked plain
A improvised exploding device
Claims another soldier's life.
Villages and towns appear
Where women walk in fear
Avoiding direct eye contact.
A heat haze trails, a vista
Zig  zagging  through the canvass
To a remote mountain post.
Where a mirage of
The Grim Reaper laughing,
Looking down,
Dances with the Taliban.

It was a still life watercolour,
I could picture in my mind.
From
'The dangling conversation,'
Of a song,
I could not find.
Down the street a dog was barking,
And
'One too many mornings'
Disturbed my reverie.
As the words of Dylan's song,
Came floating back to me.
Like a play on life unwritten,
And
This poet's unpublished desire,
For an ambition not forgotten,
I'm still wishing on a star.
And
So I'm oft defining,
What measures I should take.
With
Random thoughts of words and prose,
That keep me wide awake.
And
When at last sleep has taken over,
And silent words have been said.
How many lines of treasure?
Have been lost within my head.
And
How many times do I wake and rise,
And hurry off to write.
A line or two, to see me through,
Another sleepless night

Thoughts Meandering.

Thoughts meandering,
On a river of subconscious verse.
A motion for a notion,
Of unfulfilled liaisons,
Between memory and fact.
Too many meanings,
The poets curse,
Has seen me slip behind.
And litany’s and melodies,
Play havoc with my mind.
A punnet for a sonnet,
A play about a priest.
A painting to believe in,
Of believers at a feast.
Thoughts meandering,
On a stream of unwritten rhyme.
There’s a island in the future,
Where I may garner some relief.
If only I can bridge the gap,
Between fantasy and belief.

In dreams I do not wander lonely,
Or as a passing cloud.
Nor does my sleeping inward eye,
Or heart or mind feel dissatisfied.
For in my dreams I realize,
The beauty of my view.

While walking gently on familiar grass,
Remembering places from the past.
Of bygone days and Butterfly’s,
And Dragon insects in the sky’s.
That settled on wild flowers that grew,
And how so few of them I knew.

A host of Bluebells in a wood,
And pretty Blue birds in the trees.
Lakeside hills and Daffodils,
All dancing on the breeze.
Paths and streams and other dreams,
That put me in a Wordsworth spell,
Rydal mount and Grasmere lake,
And striding Rydal fell.

The dreams conclusion is drawing near,
For silent words that miss the ear.
Float out and away over Windermere,
To greet a changing sky.
Reflections before I wake,
Of moonlight dancing on a lake.
A soft wind blows a lullaby,
And somewhere close a poet sighs,
And now my dream is done.

April in Paris
Nightfall, rain falling,
Soft along a Boulevard.
Catching a poets glasses,
As he wanders,
Hands in pockets,
Lost in thought.
Pausing to wipe the vision,
That raindrops leave on a lens.
Images of Monet gardens,
Magnificent in moonlight.
The distant sound of bells,
Catch his ear,
And a horse and carriage,
On cobbled stones.
The poet ponders,
On his muse,
And words written.
Couplets and stanzas,
Columns,
Words that stir the soul,
And cause,
The heart to beat faster.
Inspiration,
That puts pen to paper.
April in Paris,
Lost in thought.
Caught up in a dream,
Drifting through a reverie,
Searching for a theme.

Under summer sun,
Closed eyes,
Visualize.
A soft hue of  Crimson.
Where pictures blurred,
Images, obscure,
Drift unordered,
Through a uncluttered mind.
Thoughts of a serene nature,
Content just to be.
While the nostalgic sound,
Of an aeroplane's engine,
Echo in a cloudless sky.
Time idly slips on by.
And the call of one’s youth,
chime the ages.
Each season,
That  falls under the sun.
Like old memories,
That  hang  on the breeze.
Amid the beauty,
Of nature's sweet rhyme.
caught  up  in a few precious moments,
Slowly fading, falling backwards,
Through time.