in the earthly paradise
birds will flock and fly
their songs will be the only sound
to rise at break of day
the sky a pale cerulean
the air so pure and clear
we won’t be missed by anyone
we have no special worth
everything we ever made
was only for ourselves
Poetry
Day 5 – Isolation has strange effects.
My doorknob is keeping its counsel.
It’s been silent now for days,
Close lipped and dismissive of praise
As I attempt to flatter it open.
It’s not having any of that.
It’s afraid of a virulent virus
And thinks all doors are a danger.
It’s certainly not enamoured
Of admitting the random strangers
Who leave deliveries outside, on floors!
It’s proud of its strength of will.
It used to turn for me daily.
I went to Paris in France
Was entranced by the sights I saw.
Not anymore.
I can’t open the door
With this immovable knob.
I berate it.
I hate it.
Could I slip through the keyhole?
I wonder.
I probably could.
Not sure I should, that’s all.
My doorknob is often so wise,
Altruist and even brave
But such a failure of joy
Has caused me quite a surprise.
I surmise that the door knocker,
That hangs on the door outside
Has come out in strategic support.
They are using some mutual force.
The window’s too high.
Perhaps I can fly.
I can always grow wings, of course.
Day 4 – Cavalier
That muddy hill seemed long
as my bike hurtled along.
We were playing at cavaliers.
I was way out at the front
shifting my gears,
yelling a homespun song.
The bike was my horse
(imagined of course),
it was half a mile
to the gates,
slammed shut in my track,
level crossings were always my curse.
A steam train was coming fast.
The centuries mixed
as my wheels spun around.
I skidded and fell on my arse,
straight into the ancient past.
I haven’t got back
Cromwell won’t give me a pass!
day 3 – My Tomorrows
There is a hollow truth
at the heart of all youth,
It fades slowly away.
I don’t often yearn
for the glow of those years.
The mornings were yellow
But the sunset is gold.
I feel no burdening sorrow.
There’s advantage to being old;
I will always value tomorrow.
Day 2 – The Land, for Lizzie Sutton who showed me it.
where the imp is lurking
beside the garden gate
wild garlic plumes of scent
fill the evening air
don’t go down there late
and mind the blood red peony
don’t trust her at all
she’ll lure you with her beauty
and when the pretty daisies come
you won’t hear their call
the garden is a jungle
full of clever traps
to put a bramble in the way
or drag a poor boy off
to troubles and mishaps
regard the summer dog rose
regard the fruiting trees
regard the lovely roses
regard the fountains flow
these are things that please
but when we leave the garden
be sure to hold my hand
I’ll show you where my den is hid
beneath the hawthorn hedge
come with me and be my love
and understand the land
Day 1 – just my cup of tea
Life is like a cup of tea
We take it as we like it.
Some people drink it plain and weak,
Some make it sour with lemon.
I like my tea dark and fresh
With just a little sugar,
Rather as I like to live,
Strong but with some pleasure
homicide
there they go
in the street,
walking shoulder to shoulder,
this man thinking
it will soon be over,
this man killing his friend
Christmas in Warwick
From Westgate tower to castle walls
By gentle ways the gradient falls
And all the time you laugh and smile
Bringing pleasure to the mile.
Past little shops and alleyways
We wander on these rainy days
While in the church the choir sings
Of all the joys that Christmas brings.
Turning homeward though square
We stop in cosy cafes there
And by the fire of logs that flame
In winter warmth I’m glad you came
To spend this coldest month with me
And decorate our Christmas tree
With gifts that only you could bring
And secret notes the angels sing
A poem by Billy Collins
I had to post this because I remember that feeling too. Brilliant poem
On Turning Ten – Poem by Billy Collins
The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I’m coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light–
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.
You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.
But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.
This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.
It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.
Contactless
no one spoke a word to me
three days have past, since the last,
(a drunk outside the station
who wanted company)
in the shop I pay for milk
no hands to touch
no coins to pass
an electronic beep
contactless transaction
(shallow smiles)
(I could weep)
thanks is all we say
if I laid down
beside the road
and fell into deep sleep
it might bring some relief
but every day I walk for miles
to pass the time away
‘Is this the road to Coventry?’
‘They all are mate, I think’
*** being sent to Coventry is an expression or an action that means no-one will speak to you – you are excluded
The Dreaming Path 