"albion" poems
Those feet that once stood tall and proud
Under dark obsidian clouds,
Travel now once more upon
The hallowed grounds of Albion.
Through shrines and shires the Iceni ride
To the seat of ancient power,
Cross moors and mountains
Past marble fountains
To the steps of a Roman tower.
How they shall cower!
As Boudicca comes spear in hand.
They'll soon retreat,
Give up and leave
Back to their promised land.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 8:55 AM UTC
O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away!
Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute.
Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute
Betwixt damnation and impassioned clay
Must I burn through; once more humbly assay
The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit.
Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
Begetters of our deep eternal theme,
When through the old oak Forest I am gone,
Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But when I am consumed in the Fire,
Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.
2.1k
Obscurest night involv'd the sky,
Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destin'd wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,
With warmer wishes sent.
He lov'd them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away;
But wag'd with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd
To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevail'd,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delay'd not to bestow.
But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld;
And so long he, with unspent pow'r,
His destiny repell'd;
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried--Adieu!
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast,
Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him: but the page
Of narrative sincere;
Is wet with Anson's tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.
I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:
But misery still delights to trace
No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone;
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
We perish'd, each alone:
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
2.1k
What I have is a pitch
angled at nothing
and I envy the limber crowd of bees,
and I envy the spider’s easy meal.
The low hum of a wash cycle
competes with, then dislodges my dirge,
gradually builds a golden,
natural looking wan expression.
Diffident? Go out and meander
content to accept the indifference of meaning.
This walk is not a protest.
This work was only ever play.
Suitable for all skin types
our explanations can’t help themselves,
run like British accents on trade
and explain away any need for help.
Non-streaking conceits
you know best how much you are worth.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
Midst wizened trees the ancient word
Blows through ears that strive to have heard
The magic medley of the land
The stirring Spring gestates her garland
Dribbling music to the bards
We are the bards. Long time ago
We dwelled and swelled in Nature's glow
We lived, felt Love, but now we go
Searching for rainbow, to and fro
Our path takes us high and low
To truth, which raptures us in throe
The torch of truth be ours to hold
In streams of dreams and fires of gold
Sat brooding in desire and woe
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 11:35 AM UTC
The Bells ring out great Peals of joy.
The war is won, Great Albion.
It merely cost a million dead,
a generation lost and done.
To you, fate tendered victory sweet,
to the Germans, a bitter peace.
There, fatherless boys, abed, asleep,
plot revenge for their deceased.
In the Wilfred Owen house;
no alloyed joy to meld with sorrow:
That day they learned their son had died
They’ll dress the house in Black tomorrow.
His mother knew before word came,
she had a sense her son was gone.
That he’d be among the last to fall
for the glory of Great Albion
He fought almost unto the end,
dying in the war’s last week.
When Mortal flesh and bullets meet
Poets are silenced when machine guns speak..
There is a pathos in his fate,
dying in the last week of war
Like the man who sailed the Ocean deep,
only to drown in sight of shore.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 9:40 AM UTC
[Click]
…
*"Welcome back to Story Hour on PBS. Today we have a very special guest, who’s going to read us a very special story. Do you kids know anything about Greek Mythology? No? Well, you’re gonna learn some today. Everyone… say “Hello” to Bill."
“Hiiii Billlll”
“Now, children… he can’t hear you…”
“HIIII BILLL–”*
Hear the voice of the Bard!
Who Present, Past, & Future sees;
I am the Dean
of Cosmic Beans
That grow to poetrees
Then every man will ever clime
to he that sits upon
atop this rhyme
this mythic vine
Dwells the giant Albion
The giant of the sees,
his jealousea and fierce
bid him to seize
an Odyssey
assisted by a Circe
Circe, in play, did then, inturn
the shipsmen of his Highness
and with a Feast
did tern to beasts
not one of them a tygress
As Circe distracted with the beasts
Did Albion then turn
He stole the Fleece
from Circe’s niece
and left it to the terns
The terns, in turn, interned at sea
did little to digress
flew fleece of ram
into the hands
of swift and mighty Tigris
From Milton’s tale of sim’lar tree
that of Eve and Adam
With fearful sea
and symmetree
The Tyger ate The Lamb
*“The Tiger ate the Lamb?”
(crying)*
[Click]
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 6:04 PM UTC
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove:
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, belov’d are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war:
Though cataracts foam ’stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy, wander’d:
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;
On chieftains, long perish’d, my memory ponder’d,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover’d glade;
I sought not my home, till the day’s dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheer’d, by traditional story,
Disclos’d by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
“Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?”
Surely, the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind, o’er his own Highland vale!
Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car:
Clouds, there, encircle the forms of my Fathers;
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.
“Ill starr’d, though brave, did no visions foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?”
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,
Victory crown’d not your fall with applause:
Still were you happy, in death’s earthy slumber,
You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar;
The Pibroch resounds, to the piper’s loud number,
Your deeds, on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.
Years have roll’d on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse, ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion’s plain:
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic,
To one who has rov’d on the mountains afar:
Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep, frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr.
1.7k
O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away!
Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute:
Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute,
Betwixt damnation and impassion'd clay
Must I burn through; once more humbly assay
The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit.
Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
Begetters of our deep eternal theme,
When through the old oak forest I am gone,
Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But when I am consumed in the fire,
Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.
1.7k
Albion. Our circle. Our home. Our world. Our land of the rose. The land of lime and stone. Our ***** Our Native Land. Our Father Land. Our Mother Land. Our Home. Oh Albion!
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:12 AM UTC
Tis done—and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o’er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh’ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.
But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen—
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest—
I should not seek another zone,
Because I cannot love but one.
’Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.
As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev’n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.
And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne’er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.
The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where Friendship’s or Love’s softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But friend or leman I have none,
Because I cannot love but one.
I go—but wheresoe’er I flee
There’s not an eye will weep for me;
There’s not a kind congenial heart,
Where I can claim the meanest part;
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.
To think of every early scene,
Of what we are, and what we’ve been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe—
But mine, alas! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.
And who that dear lov’d one may be,
Is not for ****** eyes to see;
And why that early love was cross’d,
Thou know’st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.
I’ve tried another’s fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
’Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o’er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.
1.6k
The spirit of Jacksonia lies in the tides. But sometimes we never see what the moon hides. The spirit of Albion lies everywhere at all times.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:32 PM UTC
let’s love the lawn
sweetheart
let’s trim the lawn;
let’s get it cut
and neat and fine;
let’s do the groovy lawn dance
baby
so the neighbors will be
green as nourished grass
let’s feed the lawn
sweetheart
all chemicals and fertilizers;
let’s read the warnings first
baby:
*keep away from eyes
wear a face mask
and spread generously
on lawn*
let’s keep the lawn beautiful
and pleasant
like the ancient fields of Albion,
sweetheart;
it’s time for the weed-killer sprays
and conscientious as we are
we use only enviro-friendly
so let’s read the instructions
baby:
*Keep spray away from drains
and eyes and skin
and do not spray before rain*
Ah, come on
ladies and gentlemen
of our distinguished
blue ribbon suburbs;
out all with your chemicals
and all our pesticides
to **** the grubs and such pests
come all, Old Ken
and newly-weds Lily and Peter
and new-arrivals Tan and Goh
we’ll show you how;
come sweethearts
come let’s dance in the fields of cherished suburbs
and let the earth yield a great big burb
this is the way
we spray chemicals
this is the way we **** our weeds;
this is the way we fertilize our lawns
this is the way we spray pesticides
early morning
every Spring and Summer
this is the way we do it
early morning
every Spring and Summer
so let’s love the lawn
sweetheart
let’s trim the lawn;
let’s get it cut
and neat and fine;
let’s do the groovy lawn dance
baby
so the neighbors will be
green as nourished grass
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 2:58 AM UTC
Through dreams I learnt to live
And in waking how to die
The golden hand of the morning sun
Would pull, tear and rive
Culling my verve, plucking life away
Time spent nether the burning sun
Never seems worth staying awake
I have seen the land of roses
Whilst skimming the blue tract
I know how Albion looks
Two hundred metres up
Towers that sink into the soil
Transposing themselves as trees
All wonderful things i have seen
Through nightly visions and dreams
Jan 13, 2010
Jan 13, 2010 at 8:41 AM UTC
Some nights as I fall asleep,
There is music that plays in my head.
It is soft and melodic and sad,
And it is never the same.
Upon waking, sometimes I find
The music is still there, lingering
On the edge of my conscious memory.
But I can't make my hands write the notes
down.
I'd sing it for you but
I cannot sing for an orchestra and
It would not be the same.
I compose unwritten symphonies
In the back of my tiger mind, conduct
Strange and ethereal orchestras, become maestro,
Master of the music, queen of the opera,
Of the stage of the whole world if I want,
I can become anything, anyone -
I am a pirate on the high seas, I am a dragon
Soaring over Albion, I am a snowflake,
A child, an action hero, an astronaut,
I am beautiful and powerful and strange
I am hideous and weak and sad
I am all, and none, and the music reaches it crescendo,
The seas of my subconscious roil and churn,
My story reaches its fever pitch and
In bursts the dawn.
And all that was created is destroyed,
The music lost to hand that can't write it down,
A throat that can't sing it out.
Some nights there is only the sound of my breath
And the sirens in the distance as I fall asleep.
But some nights, I hear music.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
Silence
Silence everywhere
A world of myst and trees
A world of no one, nothing, not a solitary dream
A creature walked before me
It’s skin as grey as stone
A creature of no gender
A creature of no home
It was naked as the night was cold
Veiled by an inverse wing
Not metallic nor of feather
A transcendental ethereal thing
I asked it all my questions
And it spoke not a word
I asked it for redemption
And i heard just the sound of birds
It took me by the hand in silence
Warped me in its wing
I finally saw the truth of all
As the Albatross did scream
It was no messiah
No god with beard of white
Just protection of the watcher
The Albion in the night
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 6:39 PM UTC
I found him
Shooting up on ****** and making art with his
Blood-filled needles;
He was beautiful,
I wish I was in the midst of Albion where you roam the streets
With crumbs of rock hiding in the lining of your jacket,
Cigarettes and romance embodies you and I’m too weak to not find you
Alluring, Chains and guitar strings around your neck
Imprisoned as the starved poet you are
Oh, I think I love every fiber of your being
I met him down in Albion
In the black swan where he bought me a drink
And we shared cigarettes whilst reciting,
Old French poetry, I wished I knew
What he was thinking as he stared off into the distance
With his black hat on askew,
Covering his brown, jagged and beautiful hair
He was much taller than most I’d ever met,
And I loved the feeling of his arm over my shoulder
His slim frame surely protecting me,
From the dangers only to be found
Down in Albion
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
Albion, thou art my guide
To thy truest words I do abide
Albion, thou art a friend
My care for you has no start or end
Albion, your daughters sweet
Make my life with love replete
Albion, I see thy anguish
And in your sorrow I also languish
Albion, we will transcend
This pain, and make thy spirit mend
Albion, the peoples song
Will be sung, above the evil throng
Albion, this incantation
Is an immaculate creation
Albion, let me stand
On thy shoulders, to shout psalms to the land
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
Beating steady beating fast
ancient rhythym of Albion's Green
dweller in earth and lair and field
lying close in grey and green
Your tunnels are like winding veins
that thread this land and never rest
eternal footsteps mark your path
wrought deeply into Gaia's breast
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 9:38 AM UTC
The world in unison
The world as one
Hearts sink at sight
Of the setting sun
The world in unison
The world as friends
As if one constituency
To each other we tend
All hearts in unison
In grief and sorrow
Knowing that some
Are bereft of Life's tomorrow
All hands in unison
To steep in prayer
Devoting homilies
Filled with perfect care
All life in harmony
Will find it's way
This song is for Albion
And the warrior spirits there
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 8:49 AM UTC
In Albion’s realm, where misty moors do lie,
‘Neath ancient oak and silver sky,
A question stirs in hearts so deep,
A debate where souls and morals meet.
In halls of law and homes alike,
Where whispers rise and thoughts take flight,
Assisted dying’s call is heard,
In hushed tones and measured word.
Through corridors of time we trace,
From Hippocratic oaths to modern grace,
A journey long, both fierce and bright,
Through shadows cast by life’s last light.
In England’s green and pleasant land,
Where life and death do hand in hand,
A plea for mercy, calm and kind,
In final moments, peace to find.
For those who suffer, bodies frail,
With voices weak and faces pale,
A choice they seek, with dignity,
To end their pain, to set them free.
Yet in this isle of storied past,
Where traditions hold and shadows cast,
A struggle brews, both old and new,
Of ethics deep and justice true.
The lawmakers and healers stand,
With heavy hearts and steady hand,
To ponder laws and futures bright,
In sleepless thoughts through endless night.
For some do fear a slippery slope,
Where lives are weighed with loss of hope,
And others see compassion’s glow,
In helping those who wish to go.
Within the courts, the voices blend,
Of those who seek life’s gentle end,
And those who guard with fervent plea,
The sanctity of life’s decree.
In parlours warm and hospital halls,
The echoes rise of earnest calls,
For choice and freedom, calm and clear,
To face the end without the fear.
Yet also rings the cautioned cry,
Of hasty laws and who decide,
For life’s great gift, both pure and bright,
Must not be dimmed in darkest night.
Oh Albion, with heart so fair,
In this debate, take utmost care,
For every life, a tale profound,
In every heart, a sacred ground.
So let the voices blend as one,
In search of wisdom, never done,
To find a path both just and true,
In shadows cast by life’s last view.
Through trials hard and thoughts so deep,
In sleepless nights and dreams that keep,
May mercy guide, with steady hand,
In life’s great arc, from birth to sand.
Oh, Heavenly Father, light our way,
With wisdom’s glow, both night and day,
Grant us the grace to choose what’s right,
In shadows cast by life’s last light.
In Albion’s realm, where misty moors do lie,
May wisdom reign and spirits fly,
For in this choice, both grave and bright,
Lies the soul of mercy’s light.
Dec 13, 2024
Dec 13, 2024 at 1:07 AM UTC
renewing ancient vows made "not in jest"
just
honest stupidity
concerning
what we knew to know
about
naked ladies
knights in armor
bound
by
loyalty
to kings like
BP
or GOLDMAN SACHS
tiredly angelic
in the morning
walking the OIL SPILT LANDS
oh albion!
oh yeah
what now?
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 10:29 AM UTC
Transient summers,
Forbidden Bluebell fields,
Tough times symbolise the pouring of ales.
Manicured lawns,
Cider drinking Saturdays,
Routine discussions about the sun and rain.
Hijinx down the watering hole,
The great unwashed congregating on Market Day,
Smog penetrating the lungs,
Forlorn eyes, social decay.
Leaders of austerity,
Riddled with oppressive policies,
The tedious endurement of the morning commute.
Sirens cut across Westminster,
A quintessential rave anthem,
Boxing Day sales,
Sheer pandemonium.
Revelling in satire,
And curtain twitching,
Reading racists newspapers,
Disenfranchised youth.
Icky dance floors with raging hormones,
Breath heavy with hops and acrid tobacco.
**** drops and winding waists,
Ladies bathroom, evil eyes exchanged.
Sundays spent hanging,
And Mondays depressed,
Holy communions,
Cladded in your best dress.
Suppressed thoughts,
And baited breath
An Albion filled with oppression and dread.
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC