PLAY ON

It’s mostly music that moves me
As my brain does seek harmony
And some little disharmony too
Yet others take a different view
Inspired by actual visual images
Whether skies or pretty villages
But I still see these in my mind
Often in such sharp focus I find
Then hearing sounds of thunder
Yet which is more true I wonder

A melody can haunt me for life
Like painting with a pallette knife
As a line of colour spread across
Those ignoring art, it’s their loss
But surely, everyone is affected
When a familiar tune is detected
That resonates deep in the brain
It can be like turning up the gain
Hear the sound of a sweet voice
And surrender, without a choice

The genres can be jazz or classical
Yet the effects still can be magical
There’s something in those chords
It’s the joy and pleasure it affords
Being swept along in a state of bliss
Compared to a lingering loving kiss
All the other senses have their day
But few things can make one sway
Brain mix that spans left and right
Deep black turns to brilliant white

NOTHING BUT CARDBOARD

I would like to keep my stuff in a chest
One that was steel-banded oaken wood
Rigid and lockable, with a big iron key
But it’s a regular cardboard box for me
And I’d even use a metal safe if I could
But appearing as modest might be best

It never was planned to survive for years
And true that damp could shorten its life
On one side I do already see slight stains
But is dry enough inside for all it contains
The old memories of both joy and strife
Yet hard copies are still valued, it appears

All the ***** on top don’t meet anymore
A bit like the people in the photos there
Those I loved, back in my younger days
Moved on is now the much-used phrase
But each when dug out, is worth a stare
There’ll be some I’ve forgotten I’m sure

This cardboard box will not last too long
Now torn and creased, somewhat like me
But clearing the attic, cardboard will burn
To others, such memories of no concern
Viewed as trash, as far as anyone may see
If we cremate bodies, why is that wrong

THE LAST TRIP

Whether travelling by sea or air
A destination not just anywhere
An experience for he who dares
There’s always an understanding
Some have had a bumpy landing
But home is where the heart is

Whether the river Lethe or Styx
There’s good and bad in the mix
It’s all what the ferryman can fix
Just a modest final one-way fare
And quiet journey getting there
Just postcards now left in a box

Over a lifetime, so many places
All memories, a thousand faces
Yet few leave permanent traces
Despite how wide the net is cast
Except this time will be the last
The final voyage with no return

SUBJECTIVE

Taking a third person perspective
And is often easier to be selective
Yet so difficult to remain objective
But can still reflect personal views
And strange opinions one can use
Draping a character in your cloak

A second person narrative is hard
Never sure how to play that card
And likely always on one’s guard
Used, as if behind another’s eyes
With such intimacy it can surprise
As just like a stranger, you awoke

The first person is regularly used
Lesser chances of being confused
Whether one is angry or amused
Statements made from the heart
That can still upset the applecart
But smile at a private hidden joke

Whether He, She, They, I or You
In speeches, writings, poetry too
Ascribing words to someone new
The oddest subject is using None
Indistinct, when referring to One
But do not fix it, if it ain’t broke

KALEIDOSCOPE

The scene is a pattern of lit diadems
Something so beautiful in all its glory
As a splendid spectacle of coloured gems

Perhaps this device can relate its story
About viewing simple in a different way
Best represented in an allegory

Although a toy, it offers so many views
As a still life version of sparkling waters
Perfect geometry, all in countless hues

Such pleasure still seen, even if life falters
And every time it turns, the image alters

WHAT IS POETRY

Tell me, is it all about imagery and metaphor
Rather than poetic treatments that tell a tale
As in that regard, I guess I may regularly fail
There’s room for both in this world, for sure

All that soft and gentle wording may be fluff
Or always being subtle when a point is made
It may be anger too, in a verse’s sharp blade
If one is deeply affected, then that is enough

Complex structure can often get out of hand
Trailing rhyme, iambic meter, syllable counts
Yet for meaning, rules leave hardly an ounce
And for the poet, not so easy to understand

Using all those fancy words is almost a crime
As it may sometimes be close to showing off
Basic Anglo-Saxon never needs a hat to doff
And sometimes, meaning gets lost in rhyme

This may sound like I’m a grumpy old poet
Well, perhaps I am, but I still draw the line
Yet inspiration, variety and creativity is fine
If words are an unkempt bush, I’ll know it

ANOTHER VISION

It was just the bright blaze of light
Blinding, between wooden blinds
That suddenly gave me inspiration
After only a moment of hesitation
Ressurected memories of all kinds
Of that angelic figure, all in white

Spirit beings aren’t normal things
Why this image, I really can’t tell
Perhaps it’s an icon of redemption
Or hope for a timely intervention
Even some magic that casts a spell
Yet I sense the peace it now brings

Some think it might be a revelation
Such that I’ll gain an understanding
Of who I am, and what is yet to be
But is it a mere daydream or reality
Or are my perspectives expanding
Yet know that it was no invocation

I suspect it’s sunlight playing tricks
Such images, they do come and go
Yet certainly is a sight worth seeing
What looked like an ethereal being
I don’t deserve such a visit, I know
Maybe I’m overdue for my daily fix