Tag: villanelle

The ancient holy song

Although it’s dark, out there the blackbird sings
His territory  is the same as in the past
An ancient ,holy sound begins the Spring.

These birds are little dinosaurs with wings
Like the spider they adapt so last
Although it’s dark, out there my blackbird sings.

What other pleasures will the season bring?
The crocus flowers the daffodils,long grass
An ancient ,holy sound begins the Spring.

In my leafy wood, birds wisely throng.
We have no cat nor greenhouse with its glass
Although it’s dark, out there my blackbird sings.

In my heart, for Northern moors I long;
The heather where we loved, the sheep shorn grass
As ancient ,holy sounds began the Spring.

Yet I am rarely mournful for the past
God lives in each moment,Life’s our Mass
Although it’s dark out there the blackbird sings
An ancient ,holy sound begins the Sprin

I find myself in happy joyous dreams

Walking on the Pebbles with bare feet

Children took  their shoes off by the Stream

The water clear and warm in summer heat

The Dentdale grass is sweet for hungry sheep

The rippled water plays with each sunbeam

The water clear and warm in summer heat

I picked up pebbles in my hand so sweet

The colour’s almost never what it seems

Back onto the Pebbles with bare feet

Hear the lark ascending as it greets

Happiness can never be consumed

I lose myself in nightmares and in dreams.

I find myself in plans and joyous schemes

Walking on the pebbles with bare feet

The water’s clear and warm with summer heat

Where are we going?

I’ve wandered off the long known,beaten track

I did not see the warning signs commence.

Can either love or money bring me back?

I have no common sense I feel the lack.

I need support while living in suspense

I have wandered off the lonely track

I have no map or compass, life is bleak.

I have no witness for my own defense.

Can either love or money bring me back?

The sun has gone and all the world seems black

I see the signs but nothing makes much sense

I have stumbled of the beaten track.

Wave the wand and let the play commence

Spontaneous living needs no high finance

I have stumbled off the beaten track

Neither love nor money bring life back

Listen to the voice that is distinct

Instead of sweating blood I’m bleeding ink

In my dreams I’m writing my best book

I hope the still small voice speaks while I think

Why do spirits rise, why do they sink?

I wrote a poem but was it just a fluke?

Instead of losing blood I’m bleeding ink

Elijah hid and then his courage shrank

God was angry yet he was astute

We hear the still small voice,who says it’ counts?

Light come through a crack or through a chink

Whoever is inspired is rarely thanked

Whose voice was the little voice extinct?

Instead of blood my veins are filled with ink

We’re told that god is dead but he still speaks

I hear the still small voice and then I think

I write it down I want to be correct

I always treat my voice with great respect

Instead of using blood we write with ink

We recognise the voice it is distinct

Your face is etched upon my heart

Your face is etched upon my heart.

I knew you in the morning light

Love is wise but never smart.

We have no need of others charts

In the mornings and the night

Your face is etched upon my heart.

As we waken sleep departs

To see your face is my delight

Love is wise and sometimes smart

Intuition, craft is art

Love is silent, hatred fights

Your face is etched upon my heart

Human Love can see in part

Face to face we’ll see aright

Love is wise love is not smart

Your face is etched upon my heart.

Love is wise but never smart

Is love blind? Who etched the lines?

Sacred, human, love is kind

Walking on forever,so we think

Everyday we walk upon our path

Where did it start, who told us to do this

Thinking life’s forever, blind to death.

We must keep moving whilst we have our breath.

Somewhere on the way we learn to kiss

Everyday we walk on the same path

We all travel to the same address.

Imagined heaven, who can can bear the bliss?

Thinking life’s forever,blind to death

Who made demons, full of ancient wrath?

We know the target, we never think we’ll miss.

Everyday we walk on the same path

Forgetting that in Eden snakes did hiss

The wanderers of the world cannot desist.

All we do not want, we must resist

Everyday we follow our own paths

We think this life’s forever blind to death

Blindness does not benefit the blind

Suffering does not benefit mankind.

Retaliation causes further horm

Blindness does not benefit the blind.

Brooding will embitter suffering minds.

bitter are the lessons we must learn

Suffering does not benefit mankind

God the artist plays with shape and lines

It’s we who have to distribute the alms

Blindness does not benefit the blind

We try to find what Jesus left behind

Perception is more moving when we’re calm

Suffering does not benefit our minds

Remember Blythburgh church and angels’ arms.

Even demons can’t resist their charms

Suffering does not benefit mankind

Blindness does not benefit the blinds

Creating tragic plays and untold wars

In my sleep I dream my unthought thoughts

Creating tragic plays and loathsome wars

I feel the feelings which i have not sought

Healing is not created with an ought

Neither does it come from Santa Claus

In my sleep I dream my unthought thoughts

When I waken up my dreams feel short

They’re more akin to poetry than prose

I feel strange feelings which I have not sought

I feel the pain in my unclothed heart

How little children suffer loss uncaused

In my sleep I dream my unthought thoughts.

I will feel the feelings I abhorr

This is love and we must feel far more

In my dreams I think my unthought thoughts

I will feel the feelings I’ve not sought