Category: Poetry

(For Emily, my Muse)

Neither poet with a hand gun, nor killer with a pen,
Are worth the price of anything, that’s worth the time of men.
The former’s lacking bullets, the latter has no aim,
It seems to me their weaknesses amount to much the same.

Berlin beckons with its treats, and all of its temptations.
What can I can do? Just wait for you, in panic, trepidation.
The voices in my head will taunt: “she’s never coming back!”,
And all that I will do is cry, and hope that I don’t crack.

When you’re not here, when you can’t talk, I die a little daily,
Fear in all its many shades, a visitor who plays me.
Melodies of doubt, deceit, and dissonant refrains,
Are constants in my aching ears and driving me insane.

So give the killer back his gun, let’s ink the poet’s pen,
They’re worth the price of many things, including lives of men.
The former’s bullet takes a soul, the latter’s ink breathes hope,
Let’s write a brighter story, so my poor frail heart can cope.

Those mountain slopes of change are steep, the summit’s far above,
But though the route seems too complex, our energy is love.
And every challenge will be met, we’ll conquer gradients high,
These climbers will forge paths to meet, the needs of those who cry.

So come on all you doubters, ugly sceptics, chanting loud,
Failure’s an impostor, hiding there in darkened clouds.
We are made of sterner stuff, fearing not foul weather,
Our future’s place is everywhere, so long as we’re together.

(22.10.23)

(For Emily, my Muse)

Lucky blows the gentle breeze,
That rustling in her hair,
Creates a flowing, endless wave,
Of colour in the air.

Lucky fall the drops of rain,
That cool her burning face,
And soothe her skin on summer days,
Then leave without a trace.

Lucky shine the sunny beams,
That bathe her room at dawn,
Displaying gently in her sleep,
The beauty of her form.

Lucky flow the waves of sound,
That leave her lips so smooth,
With whispered voice, they warm my heart,
And never fail to soothe.

But luckiest, of all the lucks,
Is one that she holds dear,
The many gifts that she can bring,
Ensure that he stays near.

(18.10.23)

(For Emily, my Muse)

Go with the flow, where your brush strokes lead,
Flow with your heart, paint what you need.
Capture the spirit of things that invite you,
Landscapes and seascapes and forests enchanted.

Go with the flow, where your canvas guides you,
Flow with your heart, like a bird on a breeze.
Bend the light and the form as it strikes you,
Of waterfalls, mountains and all that you see.

Go with the flow, where silence invites you,
Flow with your heart, searching for peace.
Wander your brush, across ocean and desert,
And magical places that only you see.

Go with the flow, wherever you want to,
Flow with your heart, exploring for love.
But never forget, in all of your searching,
The love that you found when close to me.

(17.10.23)

(For Emily, my Muse)

Tide ripped the straits, dividing our islands,
On flood I rowed east, the ebb drifted you west.
I glimpsed your sail, under darkening skies.

My keel kissed your soft, shingling shore,
You forced your gaze back, as if searching for more.
Dab drying salt tears, under darkening skies.

Climbing the hills of your island of sadness,
Scanning the cold empty vista, heartless,
I searched for your love, under darkening skies.

And there, where only the blind can see well,
Through gaps in the shadowed dark labyrinth.
A flicker of light in your eye, under darkening skies.

Slowly the twisted roots untangled,
Nourishing your essence, and I sensed,
That all could be well, despite darkening skies.

(15.10.23)

(For Emily, my Muse)

I wake in darkness and silence.
Feeling you, but aware of your absence.
“Come closer”, sighs my warm thought’s embrace.
Then comforted and drifting, grateful for your gifts.
I taste our mystical dreams.

Tranquil autumn walks, on cliffs high above the ocean,
Calming to gentle, done the week of gales and stormy seas.
Dawn’s choristers bright fanfare up the new day,
But I dream on, let them sing,
A finer melody plays in my heart.

(14.10.23)

(For Emily, my Muse)

A crazy surf was raging up the beach from out at sea,
Hurling bits of weed and wood and lumps of wild debris.
Parts of smashed up fishing boats, sections of old signs,
All the things you’d rather see intact at calmer times.

A counterpoint came into view, two lovers crossed the sand,
Leaning into strengthening wind, they struggled hand in hand.
She a tall young woman, he an older male,
Not the kind of couple you’d expect in such a gale.

The forces that perform the task of grouping things together,
Can chop and change and mess about as madly as the weather.
Piles of broken bits of things, amassed upon the shore,
Perhaps the couple that you saw were merely two bits more?

As they moved on further, their shapes now quite unclear,
The ocean spray, on such a day, obscured and interfered,
Creating strange illusions, and mysteries of light,
Causing you to doubt the things, you thought you had in sight.

Curious, but mindful of not wanting to seem rude,
You followed down the pair of tracks, that in the sand they drew.
But as you neared the beaches end, where sand gave way to rock,
The pair of tracks had merged to one, before it made a stop.

You cast your gaze about you, as you strained to understand,
Where had the couple gone to, while all about was sand?
For nobody had told you, you never could have known,
The couple on that stormy beach were ghosts on their way home.

Cursed by spell for daring to diverge from norms so proud,
The people called the magus and right there before the crowd.
The sorcerer performed a rite and when he left for home,
A dreadful fate befell the pair and they were turned to stone.

Trapped together in the rock and firmly held in place,
They’re free to walk across the beach and see each other’s face.
Just once in every decade when the wind disrupts the sand,
He looks at her with kindly eye and offers her his hand.

A million, million fallen tears will never ease their pain,
Those sad forbidden lovers, as they cross the beach again,
To join as one within the rock and wait for ten years more,
When on a stormy winter’s day they’ll walk along the shore.

(10.10.23)

(For Emily, my Muse)

Beyond the last turn, down a winding path.
There’s a house on a pier by the sea, with a raft.
A welcoming light, there beckons you in,
Where maritime charts and tables of tides,
Seaworthy things, never met by your eyes,
A stack on the table is joined by a sign.
It’s written in some kind of ancient line.
But you know that its meaning, means something like this.
“We sail when you’re ready, returning at dawn.
No need for a ticket, but please bring a yawn.”

The raft slips the mooring, the sails are filled,
By a gentle wind urging, your mind to be stilled.
Your berth invites you, calling in peace,
As the rudder by magic, now steers on with ease.
There you can rest from the stress of the day,
Hardly sensing the light as it slips away.
Your mind starts drifting, you stare to the stars,
Musing the features of Pluto and Mars.
You wander through wonders too countless to note,
At last your sleep deepens, with dreams as result.

Scented islands, in small clustered groups,
Where spices are ground, from dry fragrant roots.
The sweet smell of rain on a still summer’s night,
Watching the sparks from a camp fire bright.
Aromas of leaves, piled to burn in the woods,
In Autumn’s bazaar there are all kinds of goods.
A bright market stall, selling trinkets and treats,
And wonders of basketry, china and sheets of
Handmade papers of all kinds of hues,
Specifically made, and especially for you.
For sketching and painting and stories to write,
Telling those who might read them of all these delights.

But wait, you’re now turning to cross stormy weather,
A new set of coastlines, with cliffs topped with heather,
And huge waves that crash and that beat on the rocks,
Of a headland that barely can stand to these shocks.
Now washed on the shore of a steep sandy beach,
Your dream calls a friend, though neither can speak.
Breakers of white frothing surf surge the strand,
As silently walking you cross, hand in hand.
And reaching the point that is farthest from harm,
At last you feel safe and that all can be calm.
Holding each other for warmth and for comfort,
And safety and hope and in case it’s not true.
Neither quite sure if the other is real,
Two dreamers paths cross, as dawn breaks through.

And waking refreshed, you hold fragments of dreams,
Things that you know of, but never have seen.
Knowledge of languages long since ignored,
And memories of journeys and places explored.
But who was that mystery friend in the dream,
The one that the dream called when things got extreme?
Who shared and halved and then quartered your terrors,
And how was it he could ignore all your errors?
Why did you need him and what was his role,
Maybe he’s just some old odd random soul?
But later that day, what struck you as odd,
Like the sand on your shoes from the beach you’d forgot.
There in the pocket of yesterday’s jeans,
A free pass for two to the Raft of Your Dreams.

(09.10.23)

(For Emily, my Muse)

I listen to the melody,
Your fingers etch,
In silence on my palm.
It is the music of the universe,
Commanding I should never harm.

Your rhythm bears a message,
Notes overlap in rich harmony.
Revealing a tranquility few could ever sense.
Most will never feel the wonders you can share.

They don’t know how to listen,
They are deaf to your silence.
They unlock doors that never needed keys,
They listen for sounds, but never hear.
For there is nothing for them here.

And of I, new student in this art.
Admitted to study by chance alone.
How might I improve my feeble skills?
Can gentle hours in silence teach me?
Could I recall the forgotten traces,
Of silent melody?

I hope so.

(08.10.23)

(For Emily, my Muse)

There is a ghost that once was alive,
A creature who crushed you, or maybe just lied.
He carelessly treated your innermost needs,
And whipped up a storm, now that tempest won’t leave.

He’s round every corner and under the stairs,
The bogeyman waits in his best chosen lairs.
He’ll strike when you least might expect the attack,
And nothing prepares you to answer him back.

There’s never a trace on the maps of the weather,
Of where the ghoul hides, though I’ve searched them forever.
And when it’s all sunny and sky’s without clouds,
You still feel the bite of his chill thundery showers.

The terror control that he holds on your being,
Prevents me from helping, for only by seeing,
The shape, the form and the size of this brute,
Can I muster love’s forces to render him mute.

So please let me stand at your side some day soon,
And launch this dread devil to far past the moon.
His memory will fade, your strength will come back,
At last you will sleep, without fear of attack.

(08.10.23)

(For Emily, my Muse)

What terrors filled your heaving chest?
Whose callous disregard or cruelties of jest,
Twisted your gut and minced your brain?
Is this what it took to hurt you,
Was that their goal?

We sit for hour on gentle hour.
My caring glance at once provokes a viper’s dance,
With darting eyes and sharpened fangs,
Whose venom drips warn: “stay back”,
But they will not deter me.

What cruelties drained your fractured heart?
Who dared to drive the fencing stakes,
Those barbed wire twists around your wounded soul?
Is this what it took to destroy you,
Was that their goal?

We sit for hour on gentle hour.
My loving glance again provokes a viper’s dance,
With darting eyes and sharpened fangs,
Whose venom drips warn “stay back”,
But they will not deter me.

No, they will never deter me.

(08.10.23)