on summer days
my uncle made
matchstick and paper boats
to float
on breezy bird bath currents
he was always smiling
but he wandered away
into the gloom
of the shuttered house
into darkness
where i overheard his story
told to my father
in faltering words
of shells
and bullets
and mud
and fear
and rotting feet
and friends
hung
like rung out washing
dying on the wire
i saw an old man
tears rolling down
a deep lined face
unashamedly
crying
Poetry
Nine
nine is the final number my dear friend
a rounded shape with curling thrashing tail
nine is the final pause and sudden end
related to a question mark in scale
this cliff edge vista is of sails and shrouds
but give this precipice no troubled thought
the view i see is also sea and clouds
i see no reason to become distraught
we all come round again, when we aspire to naught
~~~~~~~~
(form ~ Spenserian nine line stanza….
Rhyme scheme: a. b. a. b. c. d. c..d. d
Iambic Pentameter
Last line Iambic Hexameter with caesura)
Opening a Little Shop
https://folksy.com/shops/FortunesFool
not much in here yet – just one Green Man
and no green bottles hanging on the wall so I am absolutely sure none can fall
Lemon
how lovely it would be
to be a lemon tree
and change from green to yellow
and offer up my sourness to the sun
how lovely it would be
to be a lemon tree
stretching slender arms toward the sky
lemon has a zest that’s never sweet
how lovely it would be
to be a lemon tree in Barcelona
Angels in the Hospital
don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
in this place of many doors
those of us who blame the gods are only unaware
of angels standing at our backs when we are in despair
silent angels glide on feathered feet
don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
with all the instruments laid out bare
theatres ready, scrubbed to white,
as lives drift in and out of light
silent angels glide on feathered feet
don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
the anxious sad relations sip their cups of tea
the chapel here is open, silent, day or night
to catholics and atheists and sinners, all alike
silent angels glide on feathered feet
don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
down the low lit corridors
the trolleys come and go
with patients comatose
silent angels glide on feathered feet
don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
the final door awaits us all
some of us must morn
and babies will be born
silent angels glide on feathered feet
Omens
i see it
through the window glass
the sickle of the moon
it curses me each month
my pockets always empty
but what can money buy
broken mirrors bring bad luck
fresh water from a running brook
will break that seven year spell
good omens come in threes
so do accidents
twice the deadly lightening strikes
i shelter by the oak
the owl blinks his saucer eyes
and I become the mouse
the full moon brings me blessings
strange shapes in fallen twigs
the book i learned to read
though i was slow to talk
the trees let in a flickering light
i take the secret woodland walks
i watch the birds for signs
the patterns of their legs
directions of their flight
the music of their cries
the rapture of their song
i have the old protections
rowan berries in my hat
fingers crossed behind my back
i have sweet dreams at night
Sweet Avon
Under green summer willows my family walked,
Avoiding the shadows of serious talk.
As a child, without care, I ran on ahead,
Chasing the sunlight, alarming the swans,
Watching the ripples that spread from the banks,
I took all for granted, when time was my friend.
Now, by the Avon, I wander alone.
Clear in the knowledge that everything ends.
Now I find comfort in rivers and ghosts.
The Enigma of Anne
While plague after plague swept through the city
Winnowing lives, like corn, without pity,
The gallows stood close, the axe was not dulled,
While I, by the peace of Avon was lulled.
The play is the thing, all life is a play,
Three days and nights on horse-back away.
All journeys end in true lovers greeting.
Where the bee sucks our pleasures were fleeting,
Violets, eglantine, sweet summer wine,
Came with their season and then he was mine.
Spring time is gone, winter’s cold, he is dead.
I dream in the depths of our second best bed.
Seasons keep turning, and little remains
but wise words from sweet Will, who won’t come again.
The Shrug
the shrug,
one shoulder raised
a twist of the mouth
a hard crooked line
everything said
it sufficed
i never saw one of them cry
my mother, her mother,
my mothers aunts,
all had eyes that were dry
no funeral tears from them
over the years
the shrug passed on
mother to daughter
that’s life, so what,
suck it up
no point crying over spilled milk
they said
in denial of sadness
hiding their dread
leaving tears to be shed by old men
as the puddles spread on the floor
For One
creamed clouds
whipped into azure blue
reflected
dipped in deep spun pools
on a day perfected
by quietude
stirred
with the tip of a swans feather
on a warm afternoon
cooled by the riverside breeze
beneath hundred years old trees
taken home
and consumed
as the light starts to fall
in a dark empty room
for one
The Dreaming Path 