beauty
Briefly Narcissus
He was arrogant, self-centered,
manipulative, demanding,
and utterly, flawlessly charming.
These things can’t exist
in a vacuum.
He was propped up
by admiration,
adoration,
from those who worshiped
his beauty.
He cared not a jot for any of them.
He was far too absorbed by himself.
No one could pull on his heartstrings.
Beauty brings love
to those of no virtue,
and youth is admired
above wisdom and age.
Photographed, interviewed,
followed and praised,
his face filled the magazines.
With no special talent, he faded.
No one remembered his name.
His body was found
in a cold empty room.
He had covered the mirrors
with pages
torn from the old magazines.
Outside the window
a narcissus bloomed,
a symbol of sunshine and spring.
Cupping the sunlight
they may last a week.
They never last longer than that.
The Shadowed Queen
In a lonely, far off place,
the shadow of a gentle queen,
cast across her lofty tower,
caught my tired and vacant eye.
I was conscious of her grace
yet never once I saw her face.
I watched the shadow slowly change
through the slow revolving hours
as the light grew bright and strong
but faded fast away.
Sunlight is a harsh light,
laying bare reality,
then shadows grew too long.
I thought that in the moonlight,
when starlight lit the way,
and all the air was quiet and clear,
the mystery of a true romance
might bring the queen to me.
The castle walls were sheer and high
but where they swept so steeply down
to granite rocks in gloom, below,
I saw a single, deep red rose
cast upon the stony ground,
a bud that almost bloomed.
I took it in my hand.
I laid it to my heart,
yet she could not come down.
I spent a lonely vigil there
but I saw only shadows,
light and dark, an interplay
I’ve seen bones amongst the leaves
in many ancient forests.
They’re the bones of valiant knights
that shadows led astray.
They died consumed of hunger.
They dug their own cold graves.
I’m bewitched by beauty,
but I know dark
and I know light,
and all the shades that rest between.
Experience has taught me well,
and so I rode away
Mirror (a tritina)
Beauty seems eternal
When the evening light casts magic
Across the waters shining mirror
Mirror of the sky above,
Eternal stars reflecting,
This too, a passing magic
Eternal lasting magic
Can’t be captured in a mirror
Yet life goes on eternal
The souls eternal magic in not reflected in my mirror
Swans
the clouded sunlight through the trees
casts shadows, stilled, across the lake
the silvered white of floating swans
shines out against the gathered gloom
eyes that shed slow tears recover
with beauty there, to rest upon
Timeless
how sweetly jasmin scents the air
its petals gleaming in the night
against the dark stones of the tower
my lady never looked so fair
as she looks tonight
leaning in her window there
her gentle hand against her cheek
with tender breezes in here hair
my lady never looked so fair
as she looks tonight
i know that she is thinking now of me
her lips curved in a smile of love
and she is dreaming peacefully
my lady never looked so fair
as she looks tonight
i could watch her hour by hour
passing time in loves delight
in moonlight she’s the loveliest flower
my lady never looked so fair
as she looks tonight
time will not fade her lovely face
an endless beauty shines within
a light, illuminating grace
my lady will remain as fair
as she is tonight
Go Gently
Go gentle, gentle, into that good night
Old age brings acceptance of this last fate
Fly, fly to the beckoning, golden light
All seasons will end by pre-ordained right
The wise men know that when the hour is late
Their soul will take leave for eternal light
Good men do not fear the long, deep dark night.
Do not rage, sadly berating your fate,
Go gentle and rest, return to the light
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
Will sing in their dreams with no wish to wait
They will fly swiftly, to shining, bright light
Grave men will ponder the beauty of night
They will pray tenderly, knowing their fate,
Remembering all that was loving, bright
And you my father, in that blessed night
Look upon me, with no sadness, and wait
I will not rage at the death of the light
I will go gentle into that good night
***************************
(sorry Mr Thomas – you know this means no disrespect – you are my favourite poet after Shakespeare – and I will pray for you often)
The Dreaming Path ~ a poem
Entering this fantasy
Leave not the Grove
That is my home.
However far
You may roam
Walk straight ahead
To find me.
Let no dragon,
though he be fierce,
Bar you from this vision.
Ignore the bridge
That is not mine.
Turn right
Onto a dreaming path
Where woodlands grow
In beauty.
Walk on
Along the river bank.
The way across
Is secret.
Travel
In the midnight hour
To better see
The lighted way.
See the heavens
Crystal shine
Across the dreaming river
Where currents flow
In silence
And sunset glows
Forever.
You have the key
Inside your heart
The waters will not part us.
Nanswhyden
The white gate stands, closed,
at the top of the grey winding road.
The broad green slopes of the pasture
lead down to the shining lake,
a silvered mirror to sunlight.
At first dawn the vale fills with mist.
A line of treetops, drawn on white,
with a tender brush, nothing more.
All is hidden. Nothing exists here now.
It waits to be born with the sun.
An ancient woodland sits in shadow,
deep at the edge of the valley,
where the cry of the circling kestrel
splits the air. He calls to his mate aloft.
The sound defines the distance.
On a hot summer day
the grey road burns and shimmers,
running past old stone walls and banks of wild flowers,
wilting, in afternoon heat.
My feet on the road raise fine dust.
Woven into these hills the grey road runs down
past ruined ivy clothed archways.
They stand alone in a field,
all that remains of a mansion,
a home, and people long gone.
Beyond, is the farmhouse,
built of timber and granite.
It sits as if rooted in earth
nested into a curve,
strong enough to withstand any storm.
In the farmyard the mud is baked hard.
The old sheep dog twitches one ear as I pass.
He knows me too well to rise. He is tired.
His thick coated son wags his tail at me.
He is always on guard.
I walk on past my own cottage door
into a grove of birch saplings,
mingled with older trees, cedar and oak.
In spring this place is flooded with vibrant blue,
the sharp, pungent scent of bluebells fills the air.
In this magical wood, at the far end,
I have often glimpsed the fair folk.
They don’t chase me away. I leave them in peace.
This is a place where two worlds cross.
The door is held open, and welcome.
Now I come to rest in the shade
on this burning bright summer day.
I lean my back against the moss clad old oak
and dream the rest of the day away,
long past this, and every other, evening.
The old standing stone, at the heart of the valley,
remains always cool to the touch.
At night when the stars are out, in moonlight,
the stone is encircled, embraced by a perfect bowl
of such beauty, it takes away my breath.
Making Music
the joy, the thrill, the exaltation
when all our harmonies are right
as we weave around each other
moving in and out, the tune delights
we change the key, we change the mood
the mysteries of the minor drop
all the wistfulness and beauty
that makes us conscious of our loss
you bring the chords to a crescendo
i swoop the violin above
circling in a spiral, upward,
a melody of endless love
now the music plays itself through us
this is not our composition
it is handed down in trust
as we open wide our hearts
faster still, with wild abandon,
played in perfect resolution
at last a passage strong and tender
ending on a single note
The Dreaming Path 