Category: poetry

WILD GEESE ARRIVE

Though we use the language we were born into, maybe creating a completely new vision or description of our worlds; we may even invent new words but we are born into a society and a language which structures our perceptions and relationships from infancy onward

English is a very rich language as it has been formed out of a large number of languages of different peoples who have lived here [invaded] from the Romansonwards. Celtic tribes ,Ancient Britons, Anglo Saxons,Vikings,Normans,Flemish immigrants etc etc.We also have many words emanating from classical Greek.
I think that is because until a hundred years ago Education,for those privileged to have access to it,was almost entirely studying Latin and Greek,[ both language and philosophy from the works of Plato,Aristotle etc]
It you wanted to do maths at Cambridge you did Classics first.So all those higher up,educated, wealthy people were familiar with these languages and the classical authors.They would also be very familiar with the writings in The Bible,but probably not Hebrew,Aramaic and related tongues.The Bible was probably read in Latin until the Reformation.So the English Bible is a translation of a translation at the very least

WILD GEESE FLYING OVER OUR GARDEN

Leaves have gone so suddenly

Small birds float on the wind

Like boats astride a choppy sea.

Their swaying soothes my mind.

Wild geese fly past at dusk again,

They head towards the North.

The holly berries glow in sun,

Holy is joy’s birth.

I gaze intently at the sky,

The clouds hang dark and low.

If I were a mere wild goose

I’d know which way to go

But I am left with just these words

To tell my destination.

Words can carry down to me

Wisdom from past generations

We use old words in unique ways.

We structure them to form

A new design not seen before

A new sentence is born

I send my words with love to you

I hope you safely catch them.

Give me answers from your heart

And I’ll do my best to match them.

The footstep on the stair

Absolution’s for sins not for crime.

You will still have to serve out your time.

Yet we find change is hard

Even when our soul’s marred.

Too easy to pass on the blame.

Lightning strikes near the town of Searchlight, Nevada as the first storm of the season passes through the western deserts of the United States in the early hours of June 8, 2006. (REUTERS/Gene Blevins)
Lightning strikes near the town of Searchlight, Nevada as the first storm of the season passes through the western deserts of the United States in the early hours of June 8, 2006. (REUTERS/Gene Blevins)

So we look round to find someone to bear

The  weight of the sins and our care

A scapegoat is chosen

It’s not Michael Rosen

But Jesus  passed him on the stair.

IMG_0011 1 23

Sometimes it’s an entire ethnic group

That we sacrifice, as if we’ve been duped.

Satan accepts.

We  become moral wrecks.

God knows how low humans stoop.

Round the bend

The Wash, Lincolnshire, England | Images of england, Lincolnshire, England




Oh,Mary is in horrid pain
It’s her sciatica again.
No pills can cure but nettles might
She will roll in them tonight
Emile is aware of this
He gives her a loving kiss

Emile, I’ve told you it’s not done
To kiss your mother though in fun
What would Stan think,were he here
Drinking from a can of beer?
What would Annie think of this?
Go, give her a big wet kiss

Oh,mother I might bite her lip
As my teeth are made to nip
Take my emery board and smooth
Your pointed teeth and any grooves
Can I use Stan’s old toothbrush
No, I threw it in the Wash

Maybe seals will use it there
Send them combs and do not swear
I did not mean to curse again
My back is aching,I’ve no pluck
Mother, dearest, don’t say fuck

Well, that’s Irish, it’s ok
The Catholics wlil offer prayers
I pray too for all my friends
Those bereaved or round the bend
Do you mean those who see ghosts ?
Maybe it’s the heavenly Host

As long as you look clean and neat
Noone will see your hooves or feet
Noone will know you see and hear
Emissaries from other spheres.
Don’t meet eyes nor stare at men
And always write with a good pen

You may be in another realm
Dave can see you’r overwhelmed
He will pat your head this day
For this he gets his kicks and pay
When you feel yourself again
See it you can spot old Stan

Where is Annie,Mary’s friend?
Where the Spirit which descends
Where are our neighbours whom we love?
Singing with the turtle dove
All the Saints will chant along
As Jesus sings his ancient songs

Spirits rise and Love is here
Drinking in the atmosphere

The fields are burning

It’s been too quiet in Europe for the men

Testosterone urges them to fight.

Some fight with their fists and some with pen

Some cannot enjoy the peace, trust men.

Mindful meditation, comes again

A few hours more and they might see the light

We’ve never had true peace it’s just a sham

The restless peace in Europe troubles men

In the heat and madness trees ignite

The fields are burning but there is no crop.

The widespread paranoia must be stopped

Like swallows

Homesick for the home I used to have
The two of us and friends who were much loved
The  parents who had never had a car
We took them out to Essex  near and far

We went to Henry Moore’s home,saw his shed
Collections of old seashells,spiders’webs
The monumental scuptures   touched my soul
The grass so green, the lawns precisely mown

We went to Whipsnade Zoo  which Ma much liked
A tiger and her cub  were a great sight
Then we went to Berkhamsted  then home
Graham Greene grew up there, Chilterns roamed

Now all but I   like swallows  have flown high
Migrating to   far lands where earth meets sky

Blythburgh angels

By Blythburgh church, the cottage was unique
At night the floodlight  made me catch my breath
So beautiful the sight,I could not speak
I felt my soul awaken from its sleep
The Cathedral of the marshes is unique
The  soaring space,the stone, the river deep
The images that fade, the angels’ laugh
By Blythburgh church, the cottage was unique
In  the  dark , the floodlight caught my breath

Soaring soul

A  robin came in after you had died
The little bird is missing you like me
After hopping round, away birds fly

You sat there in the kitchen looking kind
The birds were eating crumbs left from our tea
The  robin looked in after you had died

Should I see it as a  subtle sign?
Once a bird tapped on the window here
I  knew   the meaning as I sadly sighed

After hopping round, away birds fly.
Their delicacy, their size haunts me like fear
The  robin looked in after you had died 

I wish the  bird  had stayed a little while
I wish I were up North near Windermere
On a  boat that sails  till my heart smiles

Oh, for another  one to  share , to steer
I miss your hands so warm and once so near
A  robin called by after you had died
With your soaring soul the small birds  fly

The burning stubble , earth’s deep fires

  1. Oh,doctor I  have a brought a sample
    I hope you will find it ample
    There is no coffee left today
    Drink my sample, then we’ll pray

    If I’ve got a new infection
    Can’t you give me more protection?
    My immune system’s  gone on away
    And I have to write a Play

    No Shakespeare  am I as yet
    No bookmaker’s taking bets
    But if I write a sonnet new
    What will all the critics do?

    Meantime I get up at night
    Stumble to the bathroom bright
    I don’t know why my pee’s  so green
    Now it is aquamarine

    Green the sea at Hythe in Kent
    Down the Saxon cliffs we went
    The burning stubble , earth’s deep fires
    The inner work  that purifies

    Steep,steep road in our old car
    Smoke around us  where we were
    From the depths my soul cries out
    The cry is answered , do we  doubt?

    As we reach the lowness deep
    In our conscious mind we weep
    When we touch the lowest place
    We will    feel, angelic grace

    So the symbol  of  deep fires
    Filled my mind as we drove by
    Glory , for the Burning Bush
    Burned again  as stubble’s crushed

 

Destruction  of all our intent
Is itself a  sacrament
For it makes an empty space
Where  new creation can take place

Maps and roads

London is bewildered by its roads
The Circular, the North,the South, the Codes
The Morse and the Enigma Turing broke
So now we have new bicycles with spokes

Once we had the A to Z in hand
Turn it upside down and you’ll be grand
New technology has made gigantic strides
Carrying us to Eden ,what a ride

The motorways are empty for tonight
God decided we had too much Light
He taught the bare cheeked Moon on Jesus’ mount
To turn the other side when love’s about

I liked to use a compass and a map
But now, my dear, most everything’s on tap
I crouch beneath my sister as she drives
In the dark on the M 25

But if it’s closed, we are completely foxed
We left the old Road Atlas in a box
Along with all my ex’s underpants
And naturally his principles of Kant

We may be in Watford or in Bucks
I often wonder what will rhyme with luck
We may be near St Alban’s, we can’t see
The car ran up the trunk of this oak tree

We rang 999 and they are her
A fire engine filled  with Kentish beer
A ladder for the ladies to climb down
Now they are just women on the town

London won’t exist ,destroyed by cars
Angry men who cannot find a bar

Sculpture as metaphor

Sculpture makes a metaphor look real
We can use more senses than our sight
We see the body hollow where we feel

Seeing, touching,sensing all appeal
If there is sufficient sun and light
Sculpture makes a metaphor look real

We feel it in our gut, how can it steal
The feeling of our innards in the night
We see the metal hollow where we feel

The heart has broken up and disappeared
No more time to love or lust ignite
Sculpture makes a metaphor too real

To admit another’s sorrow makes us fear
Denial as the cock crows ending night
We see the body’s hollow where we feel

Oh, will such bald agony take flight
Can we hold the grief in our insides?
Sculpture makes a metaphor so real
We see the grieving empty and unpeeled

A single rose

The fewer our possessions are, the better.

If you have no bread you need no butter.

Turn away from Envy Use your will.

If there is no illness there’s no pill

Comparisons are painful to the weak

If you and rhey persist the outlook’s bleak.

Be grateful you can see and feel and taste

The wonders of perception go to waste.

When we lose a sense we realise

Nothing can replace our ears and eyes.

Adding more possessions makes more work.

In the maze of choice do not get stuck

In the empty space perception grows

Lots of weeds or just a single rose

Joy and woe

The music of the fountain in the pond

The warmth of July sun on face and hands

How you liked sit here for an hour.

And how you loved the shrubs and little flowers.

I still can’t be here without feeling sad.

And yet inside my heart I’m also glad.

For while you lost your appetite for food

Sitting in the courtyard did you good.

And when the little tulips shared their heads

Your joy was sweet, my lover oh our bed.

When you were too weak to hug me more

The images of tulips through me poured.

I close my eyes and see them once again

This helps me survive the grievous pain.

For joy and woe are woven and are one.

The fabric of our life can’t be undone

But a prayer could ascend to its height.

Great Bardfield and Dunmow by meadows  of blue
Linseed and poppies delight
Narrow lanes curving  are leading us to
The Essex  of Constable ‘s sight

At Manningtree swans  jostle near the  stone edge
I recall we have seen them in flight
Like a god might descend  to fulfill an old pledge;
A humbling  and marvellous sight.

In Dedham,  all’s still and wisteria  hangs
From a house with the door painted white.
The church was  quite empty and no bell was rung
But a prayer could ascend to its height.

After the quiet of the village out here
The A12  was revealed as a blight
We crossed it then  turned down a lane that was near
We drove home  in the  cool of the night.

Windmills not turning and churches not used
Yet  a  beauty to charm and delight
No mills  as in Yorkshire,no  hills  to denude.
Long Melford and Eleigh ,oh wait!

Fiery air

Autumn time in Essex  where we drove
When farmers burned the stubble of the corn
The earth itself was  fiery  like young love
The smokey air rose like a  cloud  new born

The Kentish  landlocked   cliffs  are  wide and steep
The farmers grow  their grain on land beneath
And there too we  have seen the holy fire
The flames  and smoke arrest me with desire

The earth and soil, the  harvest  we find there
Give me joy  both full of wheat or bare
Why did burning stubble   make me glow?
These images affect the heart’s deep core

Now  fires are banned., they damage our pure air
And I   did not like the murder of the hare

A poet can fly

Try writing nonsense, you will be surprised
I have used a comma, that’s the end;
How hard it is to know a poet can lie.

Unless you have a calling,shut your eyes
Do not break where you can also bend
Try writing nonsense, you be surprised

When I read a villanelle, men cry.
Ask the poet never to 1pretend
For cruel it is to find a poet who lies

Triolets bear sadness to the wise
If your aim is cruel, do not send
In learning nonsense, we’ve been ill advised

Rubbish is not nonsense,realise.
Lewis Carroll’s Alice was no friend
How hard it is to know where poets lie.

Sense and nonsense travel in a blend
So it is that fiction can offend
When writing nonsense, you must be composed
How hard is it to learn a poem transposed?

Water can’t be tortured

Water can’t be tortured as it’s fluid.

0h every living creature has its bounds

Only God is infinite in size

Though as a still small whisper he’s been found.

When enraged, our hearts turn hard like stone.

Who wants to live like that for very long?

As if the heart itself was just a bone

A heart without a feeling or a song.

Life and love require a softer heart

We may be tortured by the devil’s Kin

Hope and faith aren’t measured on a chart

Nor do they lie inside our precious skin

The Russian madman starts uncivil war

As we are part blood we’re not immune

As we are part flesh that can be pierced

Our heart will dry up, lose its inner tune.

Humans birds and animals have flesh

So unlike rivers they are put to death

No religion but  a sense of awe

If we had no language,we’d be good
No communication but by sense
What devil conjured up the demon word
Made our dealings complex and intense?

No Tower of Babel, nothing but mud huts
Caressing,kissing,kicking, real contac
Boxing,wrestling,killing the unjust
No law except the fist. no guilt.no wrack

No religion but a sense of awe
The rising sun, the moon, the distant stars
Oh,bow before the Cedar and the Oak
Anything that is taller than we are

No books, no news no media,no war
It makes me wonder what live words are for

Theatre forms the soul

When the fruit has rotted on the stalk
Bruised and broken like the poor in need
When  leaders meet  but rarely truly talk
When children caught in cross fire lie and bleed

Don’t we see God’s Kingdom is a joke
One hundred million deaths in two world wars
Not quick death but tortured bodies broke
They lost once and  love dies in their gore

Utopia, evolution, grandiose plans
Sacrifice yourself for those to come
We saw  the  little children hand in hand
Ground mines blow them up, they could not run

One thing’s clear, God’s here or not at all
The  future’s fiction, theatre   forms  the soul

r

  Thoughts annihilate

Postmodern poetry has no formal shape
No sonnet,villanelle or rondeau there
Nor is it true or false that we are apes

A sentence made from curses aggravates
Makes   even slight hurts something we can’t bear
Postmodern poetry has no formal shape

This very poem’s ironic , it emotes
Glares with total rage at  you who care
If it’s true or false that we are apes

This poem,alas, will offer no escape
If it has no rhymes  then I have flair
Postmodern poetry has no formal shape

The forms are hung until we get to break
We shatter and we crack the poet’s lair
I think it’s true and false that we are apes

For a metre I will hang in here
Waiting with no patience for a jeer
Postmodern poetry has no formal shape
Nor is it true  that  thoughts annihilate

 

Oxford Holy Riddle

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Gold stone from Cotswold quarries young men brought

And built into a way of life for those who bought

Their lives so cheaply,And did not see

The children’s eyes,the ball,.the game ,the tree

Of life that grew in small backyards and gave all

To those who climbed into its arms.

Why should this not be you?

Oh,Eden,I see that you are nearer now

In lowly homes where love is free

Than in the temple, grove,and soft set brow

Of those who worship God in churches built of gold.

Now we must know that this is easy to behold

When sun is setting,and escapes the ashes

Thrown up and floating in the watches

Of the days of voter’e eyes cast up to skies

and,wondering fearful, what will come

when all the secret deals are done.

So take the gold of life and let it fall

Into your children’s growing souls

And let this Cotswold town and spires

Melt into sunset’s glowing orange fires.

The little black  tents,  the  wombs of the night

Opportunity knocked and I opened the door
But that’s not the room I was looking for.
The light didn’t work and I slipped on a book
Then I saw you and your smile and your look

We don’t know what we want until it comes by
I’m too ancient now;who knows when they die?
But while I am here, I’m enjoying the peace
Of being alone, smiling, and writing re geese.

Isee aaaaal them fly by when the sun starts to sink.
How like a wild god; they ‘re gone when I blink.
Then they descend ;they all move as one.
No training in music could teach us that song.

Evoking the beauty of stars far away,
I like to watch geese at the end of the day.
Patterns and poems disclose other worlds.
The hand of a baby; the fingers uncurled

The trust and the smile ; mother is home
She creates entire worlds for the one she has borne.
For chaos and panic are not far away;
Even in adults who don’t care to say.

The little hands touch me so deeply, so well;
How come the world holy is rolling to hell?
How can we kill little wains by the score?
Was it for this that I opened your door?

Was it for this love electrified us?
We were lost in each other, as moved the white dove.
Was it for war that we lent love our wombs
Making more soldiers and building more tombs?

The bombs, they are loading; they’re having parades.
It’s not North Korea, it’s Washington, dude.
Let the tanks roll on Corrie and the Bedouin tribes.
Let the allies laugh blindly as weak Jesus dies.

O take me, dear mother.Please take me away
I can’t see no point in saying my prayers.
The leaders’ religions are making God frown.
The desert is empty, the tents all dragged down.

The centuries of living , so free, so mobile
The Holy Land blessing; they pause for while.
The little black tents, the wombs of the night,
Are all gone to shredders; they’re out of our sight.

By the sea

Photo by Rikonavt on Pexels.com

Her voice was low and kindly yet discreet
Describing all the summer flowers,ah sweet
William,poppy,rosemary, striped bees
A little play we heard when drinking tea

His face was gentle, did not seem aggrieved
He could not see and yet he looked well pleased
Her voice caressed him tenderly and strong
I hoped that she would burst into a song

Loving touch can come from hands or voice
We are not taught such differences or choice
Indeed with teachers stern and parents rough
We may experience touch as cruel and tough

Let our voices do no harm nor hurt
Hell is made of lovers now turned curt


Leave evil for good

From anguish,pain and paranoia flee

Into calm and joyful states of mind

Keep your balance so that you can see

To yourself and all the lost be kind

Do not linger in the shopping mall.

Do not meet the ladies as they lunch

Flee to parks and gardens, flowers and soil.

Flee to sandy beaches,find a bench.

If you feel such hatred, what’s the evidence?

If you have been wronged oh do not sulk.

Much good in life arrives by happenstance.

Do not cling to angry thoughts in bulk.

Exercise your body with romance

Even nasty places give a start

To finding the true path with mind and heart

No fixed àddress

Noone saw me,no one met my eyes.

I felt the life inside me wilt and die

Of no value to the human race

If no-one saw them they would not exist

Leonard Cohen”s name was on a list.

I almost burned away in hot distress

The charred remains would have no fixed address.

Like the Jews who wandered for a space,

No eyes no gold ,no teeth, I am a Jew

I have no tongue to speak, nor language too.

I dream into your mind

I wish I were at Whitby by your side
From the Abbey Steps we saw the.whole
The sound of gulls aswirling round our minds

The atmosphere of Yorkshire blunt and kind
Salty air,the North Sea,winds that groan
I wish I were at Whitby by your side

See the children taking donkey rides
The fishermen look anxious , happy, worn,
The sound of gulls is swirling round my mind

From Saltburn,Staithes to Bempton bold cliffs rise
Then Bridlingon where Hockney was a boy
I wish I were at any by your side

The two weeks break seemed long when we arrived
Now all my past seems like an old map torn
The sound of gulls is calling you to mind

To be in Whitby and to be alone
The pie shop’s open yet I feel forlorn
I wish we were at Whitby side by side
The sun and air, I dream into your mind

My watercolour love

Joseph_Mallord_William_Turner_-_Norham_Castle,_Sunrise_-_WGA23182

Though our colours mingled, the earliest remain.
Two watercolor paintings without frames,
Became one picture over time,
Yet two of us still there.
Our colours blended naturally,
Now all the hues are shared.

I love your colours flowing into mine:
Together they have made a new design.
A Watercolor painted by the rain;
We shall go, but our Watercolor Love will still remain

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Praise these creatures in the grime

Winter weather, frost, grey sky,
See white geese and silver stars.
Two cooing doves with collars red,
Are watching out for seeded bread.

From the sun, low in the sky,
Light falls slantwise to my eyes.
Trees bud, though invisibly,
Nothing that our eyes can see.

Bulbs shoot up from dark cold soil
Where worms and beetles quietly toil.
We take for granted air and sky,
Love the birds we see fly by.

But who can love the worms and slugs
And those creatures we call bugs?
So in our dark cold winter time,
Praise these creatures in the grime.

Without these worms, our crops would die.
No cornfields for us to lie,
Amidst the poppies’   wild red  blooms.
So we forget all winter’s gloom
.

Praise the snails and bees and ants
For these and spiders, let’s give thanks.
As the lightness needs the dark,
From darkness come life-giving sparks.

Enrich darkness with our gifts.
Look not always to the swift.
Slow and patient like these worms,
Nature’s lowness is my theme

In the local park

By the flowerbed Dad and I would talk

In 1952 he still could walk

We spent the afternoon in Willows Park

At least there were some sparrows if not larks.

He wore a jacket made of thinning tweed

He felt cold in summer hence the need

He smoked cheap cigarettes I love their smell

Though they killed you Daddy I know well.

I did not understand that God was frail

I prayed for you but all to no avail.

The Jews in Auschwitz must have prayed at first

Then singing Kaddish stumbled to their deaths

God cannot be judged though humans can

Each Jew was a real person like I am

Wounded by Katherine

Every living person is another world

In its Imagination Europe failed

But could Daddy have been saved for ten more years?

Does even the best neighbour really care?

Few will help us mourn the ones we lost

Their feeble hearts just cannot bear the cost

Am I a saint myself for I am frail

Hiding from the lightning and the hail