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.
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
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
I will be beginning this soon for my 6th year – vowing to write a poem a day throughout April. I have succeeded each year. I have a blog dedicated to it where you can see the previous years. Visit~
When politics sucks
Principles fly out the door,
Those values enshrined in our myths,
Those things the old heroes fought for,
Honour, valour, trust,
When the knights always stood up
In aid of the downtrodden poor.
When we created these stories
We already knew, we were sure.
Virtue was not often practiced
But it was enshrined in old lore.
When did we change the story?
When did we tip the scales?
When did our idea of justice
Fundamentally change?
When did the villains gain praise?
Isn’t life very strange.
Forget the alphabet of facts.
Savour sensual sound,
roll it round and round,
feel it on your tongue,
let it be your guide.
Use the harshness of the axe,
use the gentle kiss,
whisper, sigh and shout.
Cast ideas out,
dream and quest,
forget yourself,
follow words where they lead,
open wide your mind
and let the image in.
Turn beauty upside down.
Make the ugly beautiful.
Make beauty out of darkness.
When summer comes, rejoice,
jump up and down and sing.
In savage waves be sure to drown,
lose your breath and meaning,
experience every feeling.
Ask what life’s about,
seek the truth,
accept no less,
make an honest, brief beginning.
By the river the blossoms are falling,
Disarrayed by unseasonably storms,
And worn weathered gravestones outside the church
Are granite grey, cold, threatening forms
Sheltering ash of anonymous dead.
Under stained glass windows inside the church
The genius poet lays his sweet head.
Rosemary’s remembrance overcomes age.
Words unforgotten repeat his own tale.
Across the long years his thoughts pace the stage.
Ill fated fortunes are storms we must sail
and love can win through to make good amends.
Love overcomes all that savage time ends.
On the footpath by the sea
the tourists come and go.
the summer flowers gleam,
salt breezes softly blow.
On the footpath by the sea
the children run and play.
Pirate games and treasure maps
sweep their hours away.
On the footpath by the sea
tadpoles swim in drying streams,
the dogs lap all the puddles up
while walkers eat ice-creams.
On the footpath by the sea
here come the volunteers
to clear away the plastic
and gather mermaids tears.
On a burning hot day
in the shade of an oak
a chestnut mare laying down,
chewing on buttercups, clover.
Young filly,
Arabian head,
with a star on her brow.
Essence of unicorn.
Blue sky, white clouds.
red horse,
vibrant green grass
nourished by summer showers.
Her skin quivers,
shaking off flies,
but it’s me who disturbs her
not they.
She raises her head,
poised to stand and depart.
I hold my breath and her gaze.
This magical moment can’t last.
I was a painter.
I still am I suppose.
It’s the way I look at the world.
Light, form, colour and line
and all the spaces between.
But how do you paint
The scent of a rose?
Or the touch of your hand on my skin?
They both have some essence of pink, dusk, white?
For this I would rather have words
and the freedom to speak my own heart.
The Dreaming Path 