"snowdon" poems
High on the cliff path:
my fingers in wind
freshly passed across
the pewter sea
holding this pen, cold,
cold, colder now
with the sight of rain
fleeing the hills
of County Wicklow
I turn expecting to see
your profile
framed against Lyn's
sock rolled up to the calf
of Snowdon, then
nestling here against the toes
at the foot of Uchmynedd
I seek your hand and there is
only dry gorse, reluctant heather
Below these cliffs
swept by gulls and ravens
the sea touches the rocky base
in an endless, restless, breathless
turn and reflect, back, swept again,
swept back, restless, no end
only, only
a cold, cold kissing of the land
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 12:57 AM UTC
Sunrise on the summit of Snowdon
a young vagabond breathed
there was a wondrous road ahead
Oct 7, 2020
Oct 7, 2020 at 2:07 AM UTC
Gentle friends gather
some where between
A tear and Anger
As we march like silent thunder
Into cloudy hill tops higher
To free the minds of forgotten children
While lifting mist from their future
Children burned by the fires
Of societies scorn
They are rejected and rejected
For does anyone know
When someone last said
I love you Johnny
or jenny
or James
So together we march
To mark an awareness in God
Good moods are blown
Through life saying
Trust in God
Trust in existence
But they are as weak
As houses made of
Flaky straw
In a world full of hungry Wolves
So me and my friends together march
For Becki and Debbie
Who's parents cancelled Christmas
On Christmas morning
Or Rachel's lost innocence
FOR I ASK GOD
Do you even know their name
Even know they live
This shame needs a home
For I ask anyone
If you see God
Please tell him about the children
Who live betrayed in the
Shadows of existence
In the mean time me and my friends
Will march to higher states on Snowdon
Some where between a tear and anger
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
it was ivy, dead, that flapped,
strangled wire. this wind, this winter.
now these are labelled,
tidied, and wiped clean,
cloth. damped
in warm water. he came
from nantlle valley,
pretty place, gritty place
on the way to snowdon.
he talked, we watched dust,mote
imagined words, saw
the butterfly, it was the
thirteenth of this month
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 3:40 AM UTC
She was an argonaut
that paper nautilus discreet
where an edict for office
still home for a style
if their buzz did set a trend
that syndicated grams
and lingered with a spruce Cabernet
while it torched their foray
that whirred travel to the dale
of Welsh Mount Snowdon
where I sought Kopechne
if squires didn't vaunt missions
with these measured students
and were really left behind!
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
Grenfell
A big housing machine in London has burnt down
It was a place where the poor and refugees were sent, it didn't
Have a sprinkler system no fire alarm
And it was clad in combustible material to save money but for whom?
This was a criminal act perhaps 100 people have been incinerated
The fire people are still looking and they still have many floors to go
Searching for carbonated bodies
For the rich and the poor alike London is a beautiful place this summer
But the dark smoke from a burnt out building hinder the sun
And green grass has layers of ash from those who didn't have a voice.
We must not be silent push this crime way from our consciousness
For it will happen again and again if we stop demanding our right
To be respected by our leader as equal
There is no Snowdon in the building trade.
You must not sleep this summer night go out of your houses
Switch off your TV and claim you right.
There is summer in London but not a joyous one the heart is sad
But Britain can be beautiful again if you want it and not
Believe you are helpless.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 12:44 PM UTC