"dray" poems
My red wagon, in my youth,
Kept things some thought quite uncouth,
Like fishing line, crawdad bait,
A model boat, old door plate,
Copper rupees from Nepal,
Ancient skull, an old softball,
And I still wish I had them all,
Those fine treasures of my youth.
Though years have past since that day,
I, again, still lug that dray,
But I often can recall,
All the stuff I used to haul.
Though no longer filled with junk;
I don't use it like a trunk.
This lesson I didn't flunk.
It's filled with my kids at play.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 9:04 AM UTC
He put a flint to the lantern once
They’d walked across the crest,
Were lost in a group of headstones that
Lay hidden from the rest,
And down in a slight depression he
Lit up a certain tomb,
Where the name of Elspeth Trelawney
Was reflected in the gloom.
Trelawney held up the lantern high
While Corby held the *****
And Gordon Bracks with an old pick-axe
Stood back, he was afraid.
‘I fear the spirits are out tonight
In this graveyard of the ******
‘Get on, and turn up the sod,’ he said,
Trelawney forced his hand.
The Squire was quiet and ashen-faced
As the two had bent their backs,
Corby tipping the earth aside
Then standing aside for Bracks,
‘The earth is solid, it’s packed right down,
We need to pick it loose,’
‘Just do whatever you have to do,
There’s little time to lose!’
The Squire had buried his Elspeth back
In eighteen twenty-four,
For seven years he had held his grief
But he couldn’t take much more,
‘I have to see her again,’ he said,
To kiss her pale, dead lips,
To stroke the hair on my darling’s head
And caress her fingertips.’
She’d taken the coach and four one day
Way out in the countryside,
The coachman, used to a horse and dray,
Had begun to speed the ride,
He whipped the horses and lost the reins
As the coach began to slide,
Tipped the coach in the watercourse
Where Elspeth drowned and died.
He hadn’t looked at his lover’s face
Before she was interred,
But tried to avoid the loss of grace
In her face that was inferred.
‘I only want to remember her
As she was in the flush of life,
Not in the throes of death,’ he’d said
When talking about his wife.
They’d rushed to hurry the burial,
On the day that she was found,
Popped her into a coffin, then,
Planted her in the ground,
Trelawney later had agonised
That he hadn’t let her lie,
‘I couldn’t bear her to be around,’
He said, with a tearful eye.
But now he wanted to see her face,
They lifted the coffin lid,
While Gordon Bracks had turned his back
To see what Trelawney did,
The horror showed on the Squire’s face
As he gazed into her eyes,
For Elspeth lay in a bleak dismay
As her fate was realized.
Her hands were raised and they looked like claws
They’d scratched at the coffin lid,
The clumps of hair she had torn right out
Was the final thing she did,
And on the lid she had scratched his name
In the torment of the ******
‘Trelawney, may you be cursed by God!’
She’d scratched, with her dying hand.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
Lord, I bow down to You today
Whatever things that come my way
Please be with me, please always stay
Help me to be happy and gay
Despite of all the struggles each day
Of all the games of life to play
Make me stand, I don't want to lay
Like I am nothing day by day
Pliant like bamboo, here I stay
I only move like I do sway
But I will never fall and decay
And leave nothing in this world's array
So my dear Lord, these I say
Please guide me in this thorny way
To see beyond things in display
Let me feel You in every bray
Let me see You whenever I bay
Show me Your light, show me the ray
The beam of hope, please I do pray
Let me escape from this shade of grey
Pull me from being astray
Set my feet to ride on Your dray
Going to where I should stay
A place for me with no more games to play
Instead pure love to offer each day.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
I look in the mirror, the subject framed--
A monster-- scarred with decades of conflicts,
But others see a youth perpetually tamed.
The battle fought was all within, only to me explicit.
Strifes with friends all in my mind
Overthought words clog reason. Reserved, but virtuous,
Always expecting the golden rule to apply, though none are kind.
The problem's within me
I am too nice, the other's aren't contemptuous.
I must work to elevate my mind, resent less.
Not my neighbors-- my thought; the catalyst of my growth.
An arduous journey, efforts must remain relentless,
But less rest makes me regress, the ebb and flow,
The didactic struggle of history, in a microcosm so small.
The flight of the mind anchored by the burden of guilt
Each new break through shows a hole in the wall
of yesterday's beliefs towards good,
now a window to a grander one built.
Does every soul struggle with this Hell?
The will to do good not nurtured by nature.
I hope for the best, will good will come? Will time tell?
First my soul must work to mature--
No hatred, love only, for all, no exclusions
For He would do the same, forgive forever.
Each hurtful word said is a soul's laceration.
The ire over, but there's scar tissue--Past's physical identification.
Apr 16, 2012
Apr 16, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
Nobody knows where the Ragman goes
In the wee, small hours of the morn,
When he’s taken the dray with your rags away
Through the pin-point eye of a storm.
He came to stay while you were away
And your sister gave him your dress,
The one with the dreams and the bright sequins
Sewn in to the lace at the breast.
She said that you wouldn’t be needing it
Since your dreams have faded to dust,
When all those hundreds of bright sequins
Were dimmed, and turning to rust,
But the Ragman knew that he’d capture you
If he made away with your dreams,
And sits unpicking your party dress
With a razor blade at the seams.
Your sister Grace has a second face
That she turns when she’s not near you,
In a zealous, jealous and carping place
That she keeps well hidden from view,
For nobody gives her a second glance
While she schemes and dreams and plots,
To plant your beauty deep in the ground
With a host of forget-me-nots.
Don’t peer too long from the balcony,
Don’t stand too long at the edge,
She’s loosened the rail you lean upon
And thrown the bolt in the hedge,
A sudden rush and a simple push
Will send you a long way down,
While she prepares her look of despair
As they plant you there in the ground.
I’m only a menial footman here
But my love is stamped on my face,
I’m going to track the Ragman down
And bring him back to this place,
I’ve seen his dray by a cottage door
In the forest of chills and frost,
And seen the women he buys and sells
Who wander the forest, lost.
Your sister sips on a nightly draught
As she sits and watches the Moon,
Plotting to see the end of you,
I know that it’s coming soon.
I’ll drop a potion into her drink
And tie her up in a sack,
Then throw her up on the Ragman’s dray,
She’ll never be coming back.
He’ll take her deep in the forest there
To the caves of unshriven souls,
Then put her up on the auction block
And sell her to one of the trolls.
The bolt is back in the balcony rail
And the potion’s in her drink,
The Ragman’s dray is coming today
And your sister’s at the brink!
David Lewis Paget
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 5:28 AM UTC
Endless dreaming wide brown land
Floods and droughts in cycles come
Long parched deserts they abound
Along the shoreline civilizations found
In horse and dray explorers roamed
Harsh bushland coastal open plains
Then the goldfields and coal seams
Steamers plied their river trade
Convict labour enshrined in chains
Bushrangers encased in metal mail
Laws and rules made across the sea
So many generations that set us free
Governors harsh like Macquarie
The common people did not see
On the sheep’s back we once did ride
Gone now that Australian way
Gone now our once countries pride
Again owned and at outsiders behest
Country strip mined foreign owned
Where now the old call of mateship true
Again the land owned and at outsiders behest
Country strip mined and foreign owned
Where again now the call of mateship true
Could our cultures time truly be through
Again the stain of religions from across the sea
Creeping forcing change from deep inside within
Even now words written such as these
They use our very laws to gag and choke
(If this offends anybody glad it served the purpose for which I wrote it )
(GE2014)
https://www.facebook.com/SilmarilliansPoetry
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
I set out on a filthy evening
Jogged the stream and under the bridge,
Headed into the pouring rain
And over St. Alban’s Ridge,
I heard some footsteps running behind
But never could turn to see,
For who would venture out in the rain
Just to be following me?
I’d heard the following steps before,
Had stopped, and I’d turned around,
Scanned the bushes and hedgerows
There was no-one there to be found,
I thought I could hear some breathing
From a bush, or hid in a tree,
Though nothing stirred but a restless bird,
Nothing that I could see.
I’d always travelled the leaf strewn path
By the early sun of the day,
But sometimes ran when the darkness fell
By the light of a moonlight ray,
I loved the scent of the pine fresh air
It made me alive, and free,
It wasn’t until I courted Claire
That the footsteps followed me.
They’d stop whenever I stopped, and then
Would start again when I jogged,
I thought at first it was just a trick,
An echo, bounced off a log,
But sometimes, there in the silence when
I stopped while catching my breath,
I’d feel the hairs beginning to stir
Way up on the back of my neck.
I turned to run by a farmer’s field
That was stacked with new mown hay,
Reflecting light from the pale moonlight,
Awaiting the farmer’s dray,
I heard the footsteps behind me squelch
In the mud from the driving rain,
I called, ‘You’d better come out tonight,
By God, or I’ll cause you pain!’
I pulled a glittering knife blade out
I’d hidden, deep in its sheath,
Scanned the track by the farmer’s field
And the heather, down on the heath,
But nothing stirred in the pale moonlight
Though I saw its tracks in the mud,
And as I watched in a gathering fright,
They seemed to be filling with blood.
I turned and ran in a panic then
And weaved my way through the trees,
My heart was beating, my mind was numb
I slipped, and fell to my knees,
I finally found the giant oak
Where I knew that a corpse would lie,
The moon was sending a single beam
And lighting the dead man’s eye.
I’d propped him there when I’d slashed his throat
To free up the hand of Claire,
She’d been bereft when he disappeared,
Would never have found him there.
I’d meant to come back, bury the bones
But still he sat by the tree,
And now the footsteps joined with him there,
His eye was glaring at me.
They followed a trail of blood, they said,
The searchers said, when they came,
And I was cowering by the corpse,
They said that I was to blame.
They’ve put me here in a darkened cell
Where I sit and stare at the floor,
And hear the shuffle of footsteps there
On the other side of the door.
David Lewis Paget
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 7:52 AM UTC
The carts rolled out of the warehouses
And trawled each single street,
Each drawn by a giant Clydesdale with
Those massive hooves and feet,
They creaked along, and they struck a gong
That excited furtive looks,
While the men that day, who rode the dray
Called out, ‘Bring out your books.’
They watched the shimmer of curtains as
The people peeked outside,
For many were loth to show themselves,
All they had left was pride,
The law brought in by the ****** left
Trapped all but the pastrycooks,
For they could retain their recipes
At the cry, ‘Bring out your books.’
They said they were saving forests from
The pulp mill on the bay,
There wouldn’t need to be paper with
The pads we have today,
And too many things were incorrect
Had been printed on a tree,
Were sitting on people’s shelves, defunct
In ideology.
The people set up resistance, they
Had loved their tattered tomes,
And many a shelf was burdened in
The meanest of their homes,
‘The government’s trying to dumb us down,’
Was the universal cry,
‘Go out and save the forests, but
If they’re already printed, why?’
The spread of ideas is dangerous
They could rot you to the core,
And too many things on liberty
Have been printed, long before,
Perhaps it would have been better if
The people couldn’t read,
Taking away the books at last
Might take away the need.
The drays that rumbled along each street
They had stacked the books up high,
But there was the odd revisionist
Who complained, and grumbled, ‘Why?’
A squad broke into each suspect house
Where the owner locked the door,
And tore the books from his fevered grasp
While screaming, ‘It’s the law!’
But mine, I hid in the garden shed
And buried the others deep,
They wouldn’t be getting their hands on them
The ones that I wished to keep,
There’s so many fake and useless things
That they’re legislating for,
But to take our books and our liberty
Would be like declaring war.
David Lewis Paget
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
Whenever the sun sinks down in the west
And the stars come out at night,
The birds return to their cosy nests
And a stray dog barks in fright,
I hear the click of the front door lock
And I let the blinds unfold,
Then hear the whisper behind the clock,
That says, ‘New souls for old!’
And down at the end of the darkened street
Is a man with a horse and dray,
He wears thick felt on his padded boots
And his voice seems far away,
The sacks piled up on the cart are new
And they jump about in the cold,
But his voice gets louder on his approach,
He says, ‘New souls for old!’
So nobody opens their door at night
‘Til the man and his dray have passed,
But peer in fright, and put out the light
Then hold their breath to the last,
They hide their children under the stairs
But the voice wafts in from the cold,
It seems to come from under the chairs
And it says, ‘New souls for old!’
The mirror under the hallway clock
Is hard in the dark to see,
But when I head for the door to lock
Reflects a vision of me,
The eyes are evil, the mouth is grim
And the chin is jutting and bold,
The brow is furrowed and creased with sin
As I hear, ‘New souls for old!’
One night as the gas lamps sputtered out
At the farther end of the street,
I heard the clop of his horse’s hooves
As I strode on out to meet,
The man peered out from under his hood
And told me the price, fourfold,
I’d have to be willing to take his place
To get a new soul for old!
So now I wander the streets at night
Wrapped up in a cloak and hood,
I feel the evil leaching away
As I work for the greater good,
The sacks piled up on the cart are new
And they jump about in the cold,
I’m waiting for someone to take my place
As I say, ‘New souls for old!’
David Lewis Paget
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 4:12 AM UTC
Black ravens
attack black dog-
Squirrels chase,
spiralling trees.
Holy days in the park
Canal towpath
everyday worn by
man boots-
the dray horse long gone
the timber barge drowned.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 3:34 AM UTC
tonight we are going away
just for some hours
i wont let you stay
tonight is ours
i like the way you sway
you deserve flowers
from the back of the dray
tonight we are going away
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
Sleep Arrived
She arrived early last night
for the ten o’clock shift
frock on the hook, bag on chair
moist kiss of no-nonsense shoes
I like to mimic from behind
the rim of my glass while you stifle
a snicker until it falls in step
with the papery cadence of her starch
whites and muttered imprecations.
It never ceases to amaze, the ease
with which she heaves us
over her pillowed shoulders, knees
cushioned on those ample *******
arms dangling limp to the rolling
sway of her kneading haunches
stealing a good night kiss
behind her dray horse back
as she bundles us drowsy up to bed.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 8:07 AM UTC
on a wind swept dray
snails loom a camp
as a dandelion bleets
Dec 25, 2020
Dec 25, 2020 at 5:21 AM UTC
Insincerity is paramount if worn with cap in hand
It’s spread about with great largess by the leaders of this land,
Hand shake’s calculating eye with stern demeanour set
Engaged with alacrity as duplicity’s are met.
******** by the dray load is fed to all by they
Who could not lay down straight in bed whilst on a Bible say….
That what is said is what is meant and what is meant is right
That promises to the other guy mean nought when out of sight.
That candour is forgotten here, that honesty is lost,
And the ranting heard on prime time feed is rationalised at cost!
Oh! for just a moment’s pause, a quiet moment spent,
In frank and honest discourse where both sides can relent
To share a candid, mutual trust…a thing, these days, so rare
That thunder bolts may rend the sky,
Dare we… to venture there.
Marshalg
After witnessing the disgraceful façade of accord enacted by the key players on Trump’s recent odyssey to Asia.
14 November 2017
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 9:29 PM UTC
turkey
su meant the beauty of china
dray meant the time of day
harry was ma which meant
the soverign of the lord.
drays eldest would have been calm
his second peace
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 10:35 AM UTC