Thursday 31 October 2013

THE SEED OF WISHFUL THINKING:



I´m sowing the seed of my wishful thinking,
Through the old slow & very elegant time,
And I´ll await with abated breath & blinking,
An early bloom, before the dawn of rust & rime.

I´m planting the seed of my dreams & yearning,
Within the softened sod, of sad & old futile mind,
Awaiting with fingers crossed & stomach churning,
And willing fate to be my friend-& I beg, so very kind.

And With my hardened heart & old soul now praying,
I urge my seed of wishful thinking, to show its final bloom,
Hopefully then, to God, I´ll stop my bleat & sadly braying,
And I´ll know my dreams shall show & be granted very soon.

Plant your seed of wishful thinking; go on now my little child,
Never sow in straightened rows & neat tight-knotted schemes,
No perfected blooms expected, but instead of posies wild,
Growing beneath the sun in random, all your wishful dreams.

ZINA:



ZINA:  (HOMAGE ON REQUEST)
Zina, you beautiful old soul of a zillion skies,
Your path now following your searching eyes,
Where comets turn, planets spin & stars play,
And where days & nights waltz & slowly sway.

Your young life too short, your soul far too old,
Following God´s voice & doing what you´re told,
Flying away upon wings of planes, Angels & birds,
Leaving behind tears & feelings far beyond words.

The mere fact that you made your field in the sky,
Your name, Zina of Zeus, the old God from on high,
Engineer of aircraft & generous lover of your kin,
Leaving behind in people, only your beauty within.

Where it rains drops of joy, those are tears of yours,
The thunder of Zeus, is you knocking on God´s doors,
And when winter winds howl & the soft breezes blow,
We shall know you are close & that you didn’t far go.

Wednesday 30 October 2013

TENDER IS THE LIGHT:



Tender is the light, upon hills, hamlet & soft lands,
Lovingly caressed by fingers of God´s gentle hands,
Pastels abound, lilac, cream, dusk rose & cool mint,
Sunflower yellow, peach & soft greys of silvered flint.

Tender touched, soft light upon the babe´s new head,
Dappled through the oaks, as boughs entwine & wed,
The green fields minted, where the old sheep graze,
Lilacs, lupines & lilies, birthing in the new sunrise haze.

The primrose sunbeams, kissing pale lavender shadows,
Apricot dusk, masquerading as the old musk tea-rose,
Twilighted breezes wafting to waiting magnolia moons,
Sky-lighted swallows, drifting towards young cyan Junes.

Tender is the light, upon the ancient village tombstone,
Sweet & soft upon the lake, who sits still, cool & so alone,
Tender is the light, touching the old man´s wrinkled cheek,
As the last of the light is carried away on the spring tern´s beak.

Tuesday 29 October 2013

FOX:



I am of emerald eye, I am the fox,
I am of brush-tail & snow-white socks,
I am of red scarlet fur & fleet of paw,
I am sharp of tooth & even sharper claw.
I am Fox.

I am hunted, hounded, trapped & snared,
All by hounds, horses, farmers & the lairds,
My fur is worn around cold wrinkled necks,
Ignoring my pain, my blood in flow & specks.
I am Fox.

I creep, sneak & crawl on my quiet belly low,
And beneath the Welsh moon, I sleep below,
Hidden in forest´s cover & the Brecon´s hills,
Slinking behind all men´s banal & sinful ills.
I am Fox.

I take my sustenance from wherever I can find,
Often in the land of the urban & all of mankind,
I have no choice, as my home they have robbed,
Now it is me who weeps, where they once sobbed.
I am Fox.



LONELY SOUNDS:



Walking away from the hurdy-gurdy, hum-drum bustle of life,
In search of the lonely sounds, taking me away from all strife,
To the lost lonely call of the hawk, as it soars up high in the sky,
To the crackle of the last burning embers, as the fire ebbs & dies.

The crashing of the seas & oceans, upon cockled & salt brined rocks,
Streams running over stones, where old suns are eternally blocked,
Through dark woody forests, where the last of summer leaves drop,
To the rustling of trees & their tears, as the autumnal raindrops plop.

And I hear the soft falling of the squirrel´s last & sad harvested nut,
The calling of the leaving geese & the deer in their hot forested rut,
Whispering breeze, through the fingers of dried & wheaten sheaves,
Call of those Black Mountain winds & the whine as they tightly squeeze.

Upon faraway stars, the lonely wolf´s howl at the dead-night moon,
I hear that spade deep-digging, at the wet, cold & grey-stoned tomb,
The snow sodden footsteps, silent in the colourless & icy winter blur,
The plodding paws upon cruel cobbles, of the poor & the lonesome cur.

Slow soft dripping of grey raindrops, weeping down cheeks of the pane,
And the painful crying of the beast, as he lies dying alone on the plains,
Carefully & with dread, I tread through these distant & very lonely sounds,
Listening deeply to my heart, that place where my old soul softly pounds.

That lonely & sad “goodbye,” as my sons walked out of their childhood door,
The tearful “adios”, as in the parting of love & “I do not love you anymore”,
The final farewell, of the departing loved one´s last gasping breath, sighing,
Lonely sounds coming together, in last prayer, upon the tongue of the dying.