Walking down the gravel drive
Wide Oxford bags
Flapping in the breeze
Tall and erect
A good days work behind me
I might talk about that one day
But right now
It feels like I'm eighteen again
Saturday, 14 November 2015
Boy To Man
Feels like I'm eighteen again
Walking down the gravel drive
Wide Oxford bags
Flapping in the breeze
Tall and erect
A good days work behind me
I might talk about that one day
But right now
It feels like I'm eighteen again
Walking down the gravel drive
Wide Oxford bags
Flapping in the breeze
Tall and erect
A good days work behind me
I might talk about that one day
But right now
It feels like I'm eighteen again
Friday, 13 November 2015
I Or Almost Or I
I make this mark as a way to begin
A doorway through which to enter
The music is vaguely religious
With deep folk root overtones
The heavy curtains are drawn
Spotlights cast long shadows
I have read from Edgelands; learnt of an artist by the name of Chell who might well have captured the verges that I hoped to draw, or at least to write of
I have read from Falling Upward; of the two halves of life, reflected on my strong similarities to the failings of others on the road to immaturity
Before the fever takes hold
As I fear the fever no doubt will
I stretch full to say then take me
To write as would a man possessed
I make this mark as a way to end
A doorway through which to depart
Thursday, 12 November 2015
At The End Of Night
Daylight creeps into the valley
In search of the crowing voices
Beat of the pheasants wings
Brings vibrations physicality to glass
It is all that stands between human warmth
And the strut of winged courtship
The clocks tick-tock
Yet the alarm is silent
Once again I have woken
Before the time to wake
To peer across the flat frosted grass
Over the stream to the woodlands
Banks of trees that rise in an instant
A vast array of intense greens
And golds, and browns, and yellows and cherry reds
Yes, also the girlish wisp of the eastern silver birch
We all, so it seems, stand erect
In search of the photosynthetic energy of light
In search of the crowing voices
Beat of the pheasants wings
Brings vibrations physicality to glass
It is all that stands between human warmth
And the strut of winged courtship
The clocks tick-tock
Yet the alarm is silent
Once again I have woken
Before the time to wake
To peer across the flat frosted grass
Over the stream to the woodlands
Banks of trees that rise in an instant
A vast array of intense greens
And golds, and browns, and yellows and cherry reds
Yes, also the girlish wisp of the eastern silver birch
We all, so it seems, stand erect
In search of the photosynthetic energy of light
Wednesday, 11 November 2015
First Word (Definitive Article)
Black & white
Underlined in red ink
For me
That’s where the poem began
The denouement or duende
May have arrived later
But for me the poems
Always began at the beginning
Underlined in red ink
For me
That’s where the poem began
The denouement or duende
May have arrived later
But for me the poems
Always began at the beginning
Tuesday, 10 November 2015
Between The Lines
You are
Better read than I
Your intellect
Positively on fire
Yet actively restrained
One day you will give me your take
Tell me who
The vulgar-upstarts represent
For my part
I will wallow in the Pastoral passages
Though I note a certain lack of flow
Unbecoming of such a refined writer
My guess – there will be a purpose
To the unfortunate juxtapositions
No doubt you will elaborate, elongate
Raise to the surface my submerged view
Better read than I
Your intellect
Positively on fire
Yet actively restrained
One day you will give me your take
Tell me who
The vulgar-upstarts represent
For my part
I will wallow in the Pastoral passages
Though I note a certain lack of flow
Unbecoming of such a refined writer
My guess – there will be a purpose
To the unfortunate juxtapositions
No doubt you will elaborate, elongate
Raise to the surface my submerged view
 |
| Fury Poems - A short collection Read free on Issuu |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)