LOW CLOUD

Smoky grey cotton wool clouds hang down
As if teasing and tugging at the skies above
With mere hints of pale blue in the distance
Perhaps the sun may have some persistence
There is also a suggestion of some resistance
As a chill of the autumn morning is enough
And the day demands a return of its crown

The day appears to be like some silent duel
Yet the grim clouds hang on as if in despair
As the breezes blow it looks like they cower
A suggested prospect of a reluctant shower
The obscured sun attempting not to glower
But then it senses a subtle change in the air
As bright sunshine will be its precious jewel

NO WORDS

There are no words that can describe it
Nor deliver any reasonable explanation
As rationality no longer plays any part
While mysterious forces are at its heart
That might cause a strange perturbation
And as per the saying, it is the biter bit

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

VOICE IN THE WIND

In the wind, a whispering voice
A choice, now the end is near
Do you hear – it’s telling us all
What might befall, what is due
If it’s true, then the time is nigh
To wave goodbye, and depart
And start, beginning over again
New planes of existence beckon
I reckon that all will offer hope
As we ***** for more meaning

For now, at least we must listen
The decision is still ours to take
And make the best that we may
But anyway, we have little time
No rhyme nor reason can apply
Ask why, and a wind just blows
No-one knows any explanation
In summation, just heed the call
For us all, it may just be the last
The past is gone, greet the dawn

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

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

EMBRACING THE DARK

Enough of this light, it hurts my eyes
Too bright to allow anything to hide
There’s music as gears start to grind
Just too honest, at least in my mind
And it’s keeping back secrets to find
I love the subtlety when one has lied
And the silence that any threat buys

A whiff of honesty is tainting the air
Knowing that it is not welcome here
Darkness has a scent one can follow
All the way to some haunted hollow
To pools of mud in which to wallow
Mist and murk are preferred to clear
Each to their own I say, it’s only fair

I respect that the dark has its appeal
A sigh of relief as day turns to night
Even the moon hides behind a cloud
No spotlight on truth can be allowed
As a bright star must wear its shroud
Words extolling sunshine sound trite
It may not be logical, it’s how I feel

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

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

STYLE

Can one have a style of love
Swung open like a gate, inviting
Or perhaps a door slammed shut
Trapping all within its space
Feelings are the sculptor
An image forming, chisel in hand
Or even a seasoned potter
Hands around spinning wet clay
Yet love can turn inside out
Once a soft smile, now hard stare
Passion spent, mixed emotions
Still trying to make sense of it all
Trust love to be like vapour
Swirling around without form or shape
But always nearby, ready to hug
Taking over once again, ready or not
And it alone determines its span
Whether minutes or decades
A secret never understood
But a style that can be

IN MY SHELL

I might at times give the wrong impression
My upbringing was always about discretion
With being carefulo about any intercession
Less tempted about always hitting the spot
And generally saying little rather than a lot
But a lack of interest well, it’s certainly not
Sometimes a muted approach may be right
Rather than loud arguing or starting a fight
In the long run, trying to stay out of sight
That one can be easily misjudged, it’s true
I would rather be counted among the few
Than the many, and part of a motley crew

Perhaps my mission in life was to be a spy
Despite my hating to ever to pursue a lie
Yet it has little appeal, I cannot think why
Always holding all cards close to my chest
To say little or nothing, just might be best
And if there’s choices to make, take a rest
At least I’m someone who can be discreet
And demonstrating trust should feel sweet
Yet it’s never the same as accepting defeat
But then can anyone really know who I am
No outward display that I do give a ****
Nor fake courtesy with a thank you ma’am

It’s not that I am scared or nervous at all
As my capacity for being brave isn’t small
But it is never anything like taking the fall
Sometimes it takes strength just to observe
Is it better to hit the car ahead or swerve
And it takes courage to hold one’s nerve
But in the end, it is all about appearance
Just hoping for a little bit less interference
Yet there are rules that require adherence
Stand back take much of life on the chin
It’s more about the truths that are within
But that is still somewhere one may begin

MEMORIES

Can memories really be made
Maybe they just happen at will
Does tempted fate decide it all
To be another brick in the wall
Making a crease in cotton twill
And stains that will never fade

Forever subject to recollection
A memory may be permanent
Its place is not only in the mind
But even as images one can find
And out there in the firmament
A kind of studio backprojection

Could they be subject to change
And be self-adjusting over time
Perhaps some censor is at work
In thought, wherever it may lurk
Without a voice, it is just mime
But with age, open to rearrange

FAMILIARITY

Comforted with what you know
It’s what to do, and where to go
Viewing the same old TV show
Familiarity is like the warm scarf
Worn with a smile if not a laugh
Yet, a cool fresh breeze is good

All classic jokes, funny and slow
Always reinforce the status quo
In an aisle seat, never front row
The pleasant nod from the staff
Avant Garde ever off the graph
Try something new, you should

Through change, one shall grow
Step sideways to go with the flow
It will be experience, high or low
To realise in full, not just by half
And not sacrificing a golden calf
Don’t be looking under the hood

SOFT CHAINS

Heaviness in life is a weight to carry
No chance to shed it and let it drop
To just leave it, and then walk away
Yet strangely, it will help to balance
And anchor a soul trying to be free
Although that may be short sighted
As any prisoner will become restive
And the focus sharpens day by day
A chance to breathe fresh air again

POESY

All this poetic flim-flam, it’s enough
But if something inspires, then write
Yet many chosen words and phrases
Seem to ignore metaphorical mazes
And slap on paint that is off-white
Unlike artists who know their stuff

With the rhyme one selected before
Adopt a rhythm that says the most
If one sets limits on a syllable count
Then pick the steed one can mount
Galloping hard to the finishing post
Should it be all about the metaphor

Known forms can try stealing hearts
Emotion reluctant to follow the rules
Yet if it’s unstructured is it free verse
None stop to salute an empty hearse
And seeing a gap between two stools
Spelling and grammar play their parts

TRUTHS

With each day that now passes
Truths are getting ever nearer
Just a glimpse is never enough
With all the boring detail stuff
One day soon it will be clearer
Hopefully I won’t need glasses

They do say that full realisation
Comes only with accurate vision
Like translating an ancient tract
The focus isn’t so subtle, in fact
It can make a very deep incision
No anaesthetic for an operation

It comes from a very cold place
And melting ice forms a puddle
Insight could be a powerful blow
At least from above, not below
No confusion, nor in a muddle
Yet will always haunt this space

NOT JUST ABOUT LEAVES

Yes, it’s always about autumn
For so many, the best season
Perhaps it is a time to ponder
Or in morning mists, wander
But winter’s ice is not treason
As is proven in post-mortem

One can always sense the turn
As the span of a pretty bridge
Crossing from a summer’s joy
To fields of brown courduroy
And colder air from the fridge
Of the change, much to learn

As ever a remarkable transition
It resonates well, often in verse
And as a favourite time of year
Whose progress it tries to steer
Its language is full and not terse
Metaphor needs no permission

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

THE LINE

In determining what is good or bad
There’s a sort of line that separates
Running down as a kind of division
For words or ideas needing revision
No ignoring it, as one contemplates
But all fashionable choices are a fad

Whether written or just in the mind
The line cuts through it like a blade
To one side, it’s what should survive
On the other, no reason to be alive
A clear distinction will be displayed
And rejection never does feel kind

If only justice were as simple as this
Innocent or guilty, right and wrong
For many, it’s like a line in the sand
Yet difficult for some to understand
It’ll be left or right before too long
With only a smallest chance to miss

FALLING

I suppose it may have been a message
When that picture just fell off the wall
Maybe it was never really appreciated
Or perhaps, by at least one, not at all

They have a sort of instinct, you know
About what every passer-by may think
And whether loved, dismissed or hated
Brings their self-awareness to the brink

But it’s such an act of self deprecation
It’s almost committing suicide, in fact
In art, imagery is everything of course
Whether style is traditional or abstract

Some paintings can appear overblown
But this canvas was so modestly sized
It is an unusual act of self-deprecation
Being sensitive, when cruelly criticised

But this curator held a different view
Sympathetic, with a wide perspective
Modern art, a form of free expression
Demands that all should be reflective

Just five inches square, it was re-hung
The fall incident reported as appalling
Quite the ironic twist in the coverage
When its title was revealed as ‘Falling’

RECOLLECTIONS

So why, as we get old, do we remember
Is it just that we have that bit more time
Other than living, having little else to do
And risking the recall of a distorted view
Even looking back it didn’t always rhyme
But for some of us, it’s already December

There are also things some try and forget
As it wasn’t all stuff worthy of celebration
A win, and that occasional feeling of pride
So long past, now a distant memory inside
As we wait on the platform at the station
Take a breath, there’s a bit more time yet

I know why the birds will follow the plough
For some, it is buying the final lottery ticket
A wealth of experience, so they might claim
But all the served daily meals taste the same
For those who were stuck on a sticky wicket
It is true that age shall not weary them now

SPENT WORDS

As a hail of bullets from a gun
The words keep streaming out
One follows another, no pause
It’s an almost infinite magazine
A never ending belt being fed
The whole nine yards expired

Then quiet, and steaming hot
A single moment of reflection
Holes pepper across the page
And was any of that worth it
Perhaps all missed their mark
All now gone, into the ether

Eventually they fall, exhausted
On the distant soft dark earth
Someday, seen and picked up
Retrieved, yet not quite trash
Each one adds its tiny weight
To an odd growing collection

Together now as blobs of lead
Sad, and unsuitable for re-use
Yet each had its own purpose
Allocated a meaningful target
The short freedom of release
And a trajectory to remember

But each leaves behind a case
Shiny brass that was its home
With an almost perfect shape
All selected for their accuracy
Everything was about context
And for their intended impact

I AM THANKFUL FOR

I am thankful for just being me
Up until now, sufficiently smart
Yet still sharing a beating heart
And a clear perspective to see

A life both curved and angular
But such stuff may sound trite
Not so wild to need a wrangler
And a bark softer than my bite

But now, who do I really thank
Parents, or life lived to the full
School perhaps, but to be frank
After many years I felt the pull

Some parts of life may be hard
Face down risks and temptation
By learning to be on your guard
Finding good is not exhumation

Over many years, without intent
I may have acquired an attitude
Looking back at time well spent
And still able to show gratitude

WOVEN THREADS

All of life’s woven threads
Sometimes so pulled tight
Offering a restricted view
Not if loosened, it is true
Rare to ever see the light
Separate hearts and heads

There is a certain elasticity
As when spun wool is used
Comfort becomes the word
Natural fibres are preferred
But synthetics often refused
By causing static electricity

But there is also a metaphor
Complexity in knitting style
An echo of contrasts in life
Such challenges may be rife
Trying to go that extra mile
With good design at its core

The garment at the end of it
A success one can announce
Yet the size can be adjustable
But in a fire, it’s combustible
As in life, the quality counts
But most important is the fit

JOHN BRADBURNE

Beatification is a strange concept for many
In Catholic religion, otherwise not in any
For good work, stage two toward sainthood
His value to mankind being well understood
With his work in Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe
As a missionary and writing poems each day

John Bradburne, both missionary and poet
A revered name, but still few will know it
Whose poetic items received many glances
As a member of the Order of Saint Francis
Almost six thousand discrete poetic verses
Into a world of poetic writing he immerses

Regrettably for me, a belated inspiration
To compete with it needs concentration
If that large body of work total I exceed
I will have achieved little more I concede
But currently that target is clearly in sight
As I generate poetry both day and night

DOWN AND DOWN

No surprise that emotions run deep
Down, down, to the cold ocean floor
But may not lie buried forever more
As they may rise to the surface again
The white foam, riding the dark swell
And eventually returning on the tide
Haunting the coast with the memory
Rarely to be dismissed and forgotten
Yet back on land it seeks depth again
Down and down, beneath the sands
To rest peacefully, at least for a while
Until it is awakened with joy or pain
Passion and fear the heart knows well

SERIOUS

Being serious is nothing to feel ashamed about
With this common appetite for superficial stuff
Sometimes it gets to being more than enough
And with smoothness, preferring some rough
Excited, yet not quite ready to jump and shout

Emoticons are merely the thin layer of living
When deeper feelings cannot find their place
Fluttering around so lost, in a crowded space
And even to be celebrating a fall from grace
Reality’s current flows without ever forgiving

Mere smiles may not open the heavy doors
But truths are like the rare gold skeleton key
Yet few can ever make it to deep within me
Rising and falling just like the swell of the sea
Or even blowing freely in the wind as spores

But at times, some respite may be needed
From all the gritty shavings of metallic facts
And the danger from subconscience attacks
Challenging deserved relaxation to the max
When the heart’s message should be heeded