The Many Stages of Life.
Shakespeare wrote: that in Life,
we pass through seven,stages,
and for each stage, we fill many pages.
Recording details, joyful and sad:
of deeds done, be they good or bad.
Lifestyles led - be they short or long:
a mournful dirge or joyful song?
they’ll mark times of joy and strife
each book recording a stage in life.
But of all events therein, there’s no doubt,
The Rhythm of Life, runs throughout!

Herewith my attempt to describe poetically,
the Seven Phases, of life in metred rhyme:

A baby’s first cry, a Mother’s sigh,
a Father’s joy, be it girl or boy!
The Rhythm of Life - renewing.

Tho not adept, a toddler’s first step:
an excited giggle, a hesitant wiggle!
The Rhythm of Life - exploring.

A chilling dream: a piercing scream:
a splashing bath, a show of wrath!
The Rhythm of Life - revealing.

It’s off to school, playing it cool,
friendships made, twixt lad and maid,
The Rhythm of Life - inviting.

In the Class, shy looks pass:
Girl dates boy, flirting coy:
The Rhythm of Life - delighting.

Embarrassed flush: a girlish blush.
With proposal made, plans are laid,
The Rhythm of Life - maturing.

Lovers matched, a wedding hatched,
with banns said, the twosome wed.
The Rhythm of Life - inviting.
Twixt a couple paired, love is shared.
Next it’s three, maybe more to be?
The Rhythm of Life, expanding.

Heaven be praisedACA, the family’s raised,
then comes the desire, to retire.
The rhythm of Life, now slowing.

After happy years, and some tears,
walk grows slow, soon time to go.
The Rhythm of Life, is waning.

When The Reaper calls, the curtain falls:
being time to leave, some will grieve.
For The Rhythm of Life, has ended!

Rhymer.  May 23rd, 2018.

every poet the world deems great
has written an elegant legacy
dedicated to himself
tallying all his wisdom
as he glorifies in his shame
he decidedly exalts his ego
and spreads the infamy of his name

so my muse, accept my invocation
as I write myself into epic proportion

collecting the vast library of my life
I eagerly fold back the cover
of the first volume in mint condition
but as I open it I learn astonishment
every page shines in unblemished white

in my fearsome excitement
I **** each book carelessly off the shelf
tearing pages and breaking spines
as the discarded books crash to the floor
and when it is completed all I have
is a pile of broken futures
and only a slender volume represents
the object of my reckless search

this book now my chief treasure
I sit down at my cluttered desk
to incline my ear and listen
and discern what material is worthy
for inclusion in my great work of art
but I am shocked to discover
that the pages hold insufficient promise
except the whisper of future possiblilities
which I have just hurled into dust

in the grand tradition of yesterday
I must finish in the same way I began

every poet who has written
a heroic tale of self
has exausted all his wonder
and reduced his life to metred lines
the good things are all gone
and all that remains is bleak and empty
when seen in the light of dawn

Birthed purely of Godly intellect.
Words of a language, perfect;
Curved from the divine alphabet-
With not a single flaw or defect.

Like wordy pieces of fine fabric-
Not too light, yet not too thick,
With every rightly purposed stitch-
Making me more and more unique.

Like the footprints of fate's pen-
Trekking down pages of life's lane,
I'm those words; that mark; that line-
Fathomed solely by few special men.

Fluent rushing blood, surging dreams,
Like waters down divine streams,
Hopes and wits like emptying seas;
Into lifeless pits through many limbs.

I'm the very primary meeting spot-
Of ink and page, deed and thought.
The expression of genuine mental might,
The last puzzle piece, the connecting dot.

I am food for thought in every verse.
The right for wrong the better for worse.
I am a reflection of power and greatness,
The written miracle, the lift of a curse.

I'm a sweet ballad, penned just right-
With a touch of metaphorical insight.
A metred meal for a hungry mind,
Corrective lenses for mental sight.

I'm the union of ugly and beauty;
The matrimony of wish and duty;
The product of pollute and purity;
Black on white, from God to men,

I'm poetry.

Keep Smiling

Shakespeare wrote: that in Life,
we pass through seven,stages,
and for each stage, we fill many pages.
Recording details, joyful and sad:
of deeds done, be they good or bad.
Lifestyles led - be they short or long:
a mournful dirge or joyful song?
they’ll mark times of joy and strife
each book recording a stage in life.
But of all events therein, there’s no doubt,
The Rhythm of Life, runs throughout!

A Challenge was issued to write a poem,
based on the theme "The Rhythm of Life."
Herewith my attempt to describe poetically,
the Seven Phases, of life in metred rhyme:

A baby’s first cry, a Mother’s sigh,
a Father’s joy, be it girl or boy!
The Rhythm of Life - renewing.

Tho not adept, a toddler’s first step:
an excited giggle, a hesitant wiggle!
The Rhythm of Life - exploring.

A chilling dream: a piercing scream:
a splashing bath, a show of wrath!
The Rhythm of Life - revealing.

It’s off to school, playing it cool,
friendships made, twixt lad and maid,
The Rhythm of Life - inviting.

In the Class, shy looks pass:
Girl dates boy, flirting coy:
The Rhythm of Life - delighting.

Embarrassed flush: a girlish blush.
With proposal made, plans are laid,
The Rhythm of Life - maturing.

Lovers matched, a wedding hatched,
with banns said, the twosome wed.
The Rhythm of Life - inviting.

Twixt a couple paired, love is shared.
Next it’s three, maybe more to be?
The Rhythm of Life, expanding.

Heaven be praised, the family’s raised,
then comes the desire, to retire.
The rhythm of Life, now slowing.

After happy years, and some tears,
walk grows slow, soon time to go.
The Rhythm of Life, is waning.

When The Reaper calls, the curtain falls:
being time to leave, some will grieve.
For The Rhythm of Life, has ended!

Rhymer.  March 16th, 2018.

Come and learn to dance with the clubfoot children,
the lame and the deafened who hear not our beat.
Come on! follow their steps, fractured, untimely
and see where they take us on our broken feet –
for we too are fragile, distorted, un-mended;
we too live life with offence, are offended
and struggle with dancing while missing the beat.

Listen for their song beneath the cacophony
loud and un-metred, assaulting our ears.
Hear in their song the snippets of clarity
telling us how it is they fight their fears.
Improvise counter-point, fit to their melodies
affirm what they sing with our fractured harmonies
and struggle to sing though it bring us to tears.

Look on their visions of horror and cruelty:
swallow the ***** that threatens to choke.
Glimpse now the messages in the *******:
recognise what they are asking is hope.
Then in the vision, the dance and the song
reach for their hand and help them belong
and though then both hurting: together we’ll cope.