When  you  go  down  there.
The  settings  so  grand.
And  you  might  see  my  friend  there.
Playing  in  his  band.

The  sun  minting  coins
on  the  surface  is  grand.
Casting  shadows
across  on  the  land.

The  setting  so  grand  there.
And  fills  you  with  hope.
In  this  mad  world.
It  helps  you  to  cope.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK. 2017.

I'm so glad there's an ocean
Between you and me
Distance and dreams
Are all that can be

If you were next door
What there would be
Is the danger and drama
Of proximity

I tremble to think
Of the crevice and *****
On the slippery hills of
Love full of hope

Windermere, Jan 25 2016

Passed  a  neglected  garden  of  late.
It  seemed  in  quite  a ­­ sorry  state.
Some  men  came  to  make  some  notes.
But  seem­ed  to  give  it  little  thought.
Up  on  high  the  grasses  gr­ow.
Beneath  the  windows  row  by  row.
The  other  plants  just­ ­ cry  with  pain.
I  guess  we'll  never  grow  again.
They  ha­ve­  taken  up  our  space  on  the  ground
Like  an  advancing  ­army  I'll  be  bound.
They  are  taking  our  water  Oh  my.
As ­ they  journey  to  the  sky.
Perhaps  it  soon will  be  resolved.­
And  peace  will  reign.
Once again

Keith  Wilson    Windermere.  UK.  2016­.

In case you forget,
In all your darkest moments,
Warmth,
Sunshine dancing petulantly on the water.
I would like to share the majesty-
Windermere.

Endless lawns of forlorn, scraggly grass
Stretches and etches hills into life.
Formed from the hand of an artist,
Stroking the countenance
And beaming beauty into its many folds,

Little hovels of black, vert and emerald
Hide like mice and voles,
Shivering in the sanctity
And uncertain security
That the upside-down mounds afford.

The lane is a wash of blue,
Smiling delicately at a distance
Flowing as it waves,
Languid and gay,
Comfortable in it's age.

Island.
But one tree,
Standing helplessly,
Hopelessly, out of place.
Feeling content, in its lovely face.

Even the sky agrees,
For there is no quarrel
Between it and the translucent, ethereal colours
Flooding the canvas.
What is the work of man compared to God?

And how much more beautiful it is than anything I have seen

When  you  are  young.
The  village  seems  only
one  field  away.
You  can  skip  it  in  no  time.

Middle  aged  it  feels
two  fields  away.
And  is  getting  a  bit  
of  a  bore.

When  you  are  old
it  seems  like  three  fields
Almost  Impossible  to  walk.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2017.

I love my little garden Lord
Which you have given me
I thank you for this heaven
Where I can feel so free

I pray each night to give me strength
To sow more wondrous seeds
And for you to bless the birds
Who fly right in to feed

I bless you for my sight and smell
To enjoy the flowers so
And all the bees and butterflies
Who gently come and go

So bless my little garden Lord
It gives me peace and joy
For I have prayed each night to you
Since I was just a boy

Keith Wilson  Windermere. UK.  2017.

The  cherry  blossom  is
beautiful  this  year.

Thick  pink  clumps  covering
all  the  trees.

Should  stay  nice  for  awhile
If  the  weather  remains  calm.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2016.

Mother Nature broke her water
But the baby never came
Our inundated world
Will never be the same

We watched slowly
With a growing sense of impotence
As an elemental army
Took our innocence

Some  left their homes and died
In another place
They never did return
To their own space

Politicians waded 'round
In their wellingtons
What nerve they had to even show
Their sorry skeletons

Pontificated platitudes
Filled the element of air
And those who had been flooded
Didn't really care

To hear the sly sermon
Those words were barely heard
Though so well-written
Practised and rehearsed

Mother Nature has retreated now
To her slumber state
One day soon she'll wake again
We do not know the date

Windermere 2016 February 14th

A  stiff  breeze
blowing  the  cherry  blossoms  away.
Petals  floating  into  space
like  tiny  butterflies.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2017.

An eerie mist descends
just above the water level
as daylight begins to fade
All the trees are bare
and the ancient mountains
are stubbornly standing there
All the boats are in shore
having their winter makeover
Odd flickers of light
quickly come and go
adding to the mystery
of those who have perished there
in Lake Windermere

He  stays  with  us  in  winter  storms
And  when  the  garden's  bleak
He  hops  around  in  sleet  and  hail
Appearing  pale  and  weak.

But  once  the  days  begin  to  lengthen
And  the  worst  of  winter's  gone
He  perches  high  up  in  a  tree
And  begins  his  joyful  song.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

A  beautiful  laburnum  tree
as  just  come  into  flower
outside  my  window.
Drooping  clusters  of
yellow  flowers.
Hanging  down  like  jewels
on  a  chain.
Truly  beautiful.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

I walked along the mountain stream
Where dancing sunbeams shone and gleamed

It was such a peaceful place
The gentle breeze carressed my face

I came across a country stile
Where I could sit and think awhile

Far  away  from  this  dangerous  world
The  natural  beauty  just  unfurled.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2016.

I'm stuck inside
The psychosis
I know this

I have a doctoral degree
In Reality

I have been taught
The architecture
And structure
Of the grand psychosis
I know this

I have been goaded
I have been guided
I have been shown
Inside
The minds of men
Who whirl around
Their imagined worlds
Boys and girls
Unaware
Fighting phantoms
In thin air

I should dis appear
Yet
I find myself
Still
Inextricably
Involved
In ordinary appearances

I'm inside
The psychosis
I know this

HELP!

Sean Hunt
Windermere November 9  2015
https://vimeo.com/145132005 (recitation)

I'm not in a rush to leave this place.
I'm in no hurry, it's not a race.

I'd like to take it real slow.
So many stunning  places to go.

I want to travel far and wide.
See much more of the English countryside.

Beautiful beaches that surround us in Cornwall and Devon, remind us we live  in our own corner of Heaven.

Mystical places with tales of legends to tell.
So much to do and see, I'll do my best to make it sell.

Tintagel such a mystic place, where legend has it King Arthur had his chair.
He had a roundtable it held many Knights, all ready to defend, always ready for a fight.

In York a Viking museum to tell how they came upon our shores, with longboats, a 60 man crew, paddled with their oars.

Bath has the best Roman baths to be found, laze and spoil yourself in the steam rooms built in Roman surrounds.

In Wales, there's Snowdonia for you to climb, or the less active can take a train ride.
A castle in Caernarfon where Princes are appointed by H M The Queen, the sword on the shoulder duly declares arise HRH Prince of Wales, the crowd are waiting for the new Prince to be seen.

In Scotland there's Edinburgh with a castle tall and round sits atop a very high mound.
The lowlands and the Highlands are a sight of well known beauty, driving around the lochs at night keep your eyes open for a monstrous sight, nessie fact or fiction,

Of course there are the lakes of England too, Windermere the largest draws the biggest crowd. Find a cottage out of sight, snuggle up with a loved one, cuddle tight.
Put on your water skis, hire a boat, sail your wind surfing board, fire up your jet ski any of these activities can be fun and available to be done, daily.

The Cotswolds, for take your breath away beauty, small villages, luscious village greens, cricket playing in the field, Large Houses, Lord of the Manors, old worldly pubs, thatched pubs and rivers waiting to be seen.

There are Dartmoor, Bodmin Moor and Exmoor too, Peak District, Lake District mountain ranges, many a zoo.

I'm not in a rush to leave this place.
I'm in no hurry, it's not a race.

I'd like to take it real slow.
So many stunning  places to go.

So much to do, so much to see.
On your doorstep, no need to stray.
Whatever you do, wherever you go, have a happy holiday.

A  flock  of  wild  geese
have  just  flown  by.

Very  pleasing  
to  the  eye.

I'm  in  the  heart
of  nature  here.

Quite  content
with  little  fear.

Mother  nature  works  away
something  new  turns  up  each  day.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK. 2016.

Went  down  to  the  lake  today.
The  vast  expanse  of  water
shimmering  under  the  baking  sun.
Had  some  food  and  drink
sat  on  a  bench.
The  swans  came  up  from  the
water  begging  for  food.
Truly  amazing  how  they
cope  on  dry  land.
. Slender  legs  supporting
a  bulky  body  mass.
They  certainly  belong  
in  the  water.
Crowds  of  people  about
mainly  Chinese  tourists.
Really  warm  day.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

I am a pen
Safe in a warm hand
I can write poetry short stories
Even novels
And I am always put away safely
Ready for the next time.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2017.

Love is a blazing star forced into a tiny, red-hot, searing iron,
and if you press too hard while you're trying to iron out the wrinkles,
you might end up burning your hands and drop the iron
along with the heart of the man you were supposed to be keeping safe.

And if you go ahead and mix up a drink to cut out the tension and pain,
be careful that you don't stir up an emotional cocktail from the bottom of his soul,
because there will be pain there that hasn't quite settled and let's face it,
navigating a sea of love is hard enough even when the waters are crystal clear
but if you cloud up the water with curious intentions, it just makes it that much harder to see
past all of the stains left on your chest and the loose threads in your voice.

And on any give Monday you could see the world in his eyes,
but today all I could see were two confused storms trying to weather
the question of whether these things were dear memories shared with passion….

Passed  the  lake  last  evening.
It  looked  dark,dank  and  threatening.
In  the  fast  fading  light.
The  moody  mountains  stood  tall.
With  thick  mist  swirling  across.
In  ghostly  fashion.
A  complete  contrast  to  the  summer  view.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

.

A creeper once was planted,
On a cold North-facing wall,
The gardener wanted her to spread,
To cover the bricks and all.

In the weeks that followed,
She strove her best to grow,
But the sun was so unkindly
And the frost so cruel so.

Alas, one day a child at play
Broke off her slender stem.
'It's no use' she cried
'I'll never grow again.'

But she was so courageous,
A brave, hidden spirit she found
And started sending up new shoots,
Directly from the ground.

One day she got her just rewards,
For all her courage and strife,
The gardener came and transplanted her,
To start a brand-new life.

Now on a warm, South-facing wall,
Where the sun kissed her all day
And the gentle breeze caressed her,
She grew and grew away.

She grew so strong and beautiful
And when the tale is told.
Her crown of joy was autumn,
With her leaves tinged red and gold.

Keith Wilson . Windermere  UK  2017.

A  pheasant  is  strutting
around  my  garden  today.

He's  a  very  beautiful  bird
and  he  knows  it.

Strutting  around  as  if
he's  the  king.

Calling  out  now  and  again
disregarding  all  the  other  birds.

I  must  be  close  to  nature
with  him  in  the  garden.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

And  when  his  usefulness  had  gone.
They  just  cast  him  aside.
And  on  the  final  downhill.
He  began  to  slide.

Rejected  after  all  his  work.
Visions  now  all  gone.
He  knew  full  well  his  time  was  near.
He  knew  he  had  not  long.

As  an  old  man  disillusioned.
And  weary  from  his  fight.
He  spent  in  sad  remembrance.
His  final  lonely  night.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

I do not write poems
About the world we see
Because the world we see
Does not interest me

Landscapes inside my mind I find worthy of words
Internal curiosities appeal to me
I am bored by birds,  and clouds and flowers
Lakes, and trees and bees

Sure there is sadness enough in the mind of a bird
To fill an ocean with the tears
From trillions of heart-wrenching words
But you may prefer that I write about birds
With innocent human minds
Cute as pie, flying by, in the sky
Not terrified ravenous hunters
Constant killers of anything smaller
All through the day,
Like a child’s sinister play

Or should I write of cuddly cats
Who ambush innocent birds hopping by
Silly birds who should have stayed in the sky
‘Tis nothing to do with a need for food
‘Tis wanton bird abuse for cats' amusement

Our Earth family is Dysfunctional
The truth of Mother Nature
Is not what we want poets to write about

Sean Hunt  Windermere

I was mothered by
A *** slave
And a servant
She never had
A life of her own

She was
Crippled
By Irish
Catholic
Crap

He taught me much,
All that he knew
Of poetry
And misogyny
I am still
Extricating myself
From silly
Inherited habits

No wonder
I live alone!
All the women
Have known
In their bones

Sean Hunt
Windermere Jan 22 2016

Inana Shlash

How I wish I knew you
I would have melted
And oozed into
Your shoes
lingering many hours
Before you finally
Took a shower

I would have been a blanket
Embracing your back
Nuzzling against the nape
Of your neck
Until you wandered away
To a cool breeze
On the deck

If the gods would have
Smiled on me
I could have been
A billion water droplets
Easing into the hundreds
Of thousands of pores
In your silken skin

Alas
Our missile
Blew you away
And I don't know what to say

 Sean Hunt  
Windermere, December 6 2015

Mary moved ever so slowly
At the end of her years
She was naughty and nice,
And a friend to everyone, even the mice

Her every step a journey
Through the gardens green
Announcing edicts to the mice
Our ‘constitutional’ queen

“I don’t hear so well” she’d shout
But then I did surmise
That Mary heard quite well
Through her wide open eyes

I will miss her glinty glare
Through steely eyes of blue
Her spark, and piercing stare
This queen, I’m glad I knew

Sean Hunt March 13 2016

It's about me
Not about you
Or what you do

Sean Hunt
Windermere Jan 16 2015

I Am A Rainbow
I come and I go.
Where from where to?
Few know
You think you see me up in the sky
Touching the ground, from on high
In days of old, tales were told
They say at my feet,
Lay pots of gold
If you search, you'll not find any thing
The gold is illusory, just like me
Fondness for foibles, fiction and fable
You've been hoodwinked, I'm unstable
I look down below and what do I see?
People coming and going just like me
They think they're different; they don't know?
We are the same, we're all rainbows
We wear our art, iridescent garb
Like sound in a seashell
We're all special
Hello and goodbye my colorful friend
We will meet again, in the end.

Sean Hunt  
Windermere  May 2015

The  Deluge

Heavy  thundery  rain
Cascading  down  from  the  heavens.

The  sheer  volume  of  water
Causing  a  sinister  mist  across  the  rooftops.

A  waterfall  suddenly  fell
In  front  of  my  window.

The  gutters  unable  to  cope.

For  a  few  moments
It  felt  like  the  end  of  the  world.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

Another  day  is  over.
Another  day  is  done.
This  week  went  past  so  quickly.
This  week  went  by  so  fast.
My  life  has  gone  so  quickly.
Old  men  told  me  so.
And  now  I  tell  the  young  men.
That  life  to  quickly  goes.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

My  next  door  neighbor
as  just  died.
I  knew  he  was  dying.
But  it  still  came  as  a  big  shock.
I  was  just  thinking.
Life  is  so  fragile.
You  can  be  snuffed  out
at  any  given  moment.
R.I.P.  Norman.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016

The  tulips  lift
there
smiling  faces
To  the  afternoon  sun.

­Keith  Wilson  Windermere  UK  2017.

The  large  Ash  tree  in  my  garden.
I  thought  it  was  dead.
I  told  everyone  it  was  dead.
Now  It's  suddenly  sprang  to  life.
Very  late  though  nearly  end  of  May.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

Red headed
fancily dressed
All of eight
four feet tall

I was all of six.
when at ten years
She emigrated
to Windermere

Now she's my next door neighbor
I emigrated too
After eighty years
We're both in Windermere

Home is the place where all hearts turn
When Christmas comes again

The place that draws you through the fog
The snow the wind and rain

To take your place beside the fire
Wherever it may be

And hope for peace, and good cheer
And gay festivity

Year by year the same old words
Of greetings we repeat

But never seem to tire
When friends and families meet

So rejoice right through to Christmas night
And  over the world's dark shadows
Cast some some heavenly light

Keith Wilson. Windermere, UK 2016

It's  a  nice  crisp  frosty  morning.
All  is  still, no  wind.
Trees  and  bushes  motionless.
Birds  rushing  around  hunting  for  food.
Sky  clear  with  a  hint  of  sunshine.
We  must  make  the  most  of  it.
Rain  and  wind  is  waiting  in  the  wings.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2016.

The  daises  within  the  grass  are  sleeping.
While  slight  fr­osts  up  above  are  seeping .

They  are  waiting  for  the  new  born  sun.
Then  they  will­  arise  and  have  some  fun.

They  shine  and sparkle  all  day  long.
Till  the  departing  sun  has  gone.

A­s  the  day  has  run  its  course.
They  settle  down  without  ­remorse.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2017.