Saturday 30 November 2013

I SHALL HOLD YOU:



Before your conception, you danced deep in my mind,
As an idea & a plan, I held you close, for us to tight bind,
And then in my womb & for nine months, you I had held,
Blood, bone & soul, with a heartbeat to name & to meld.

In my arms you were placed, where I held you so safe,
You filled my emptiness, where the world used to chafe,
And I promised to hold you through all life´s thick & thin,
When you ran to my arms, with tears running down chin.

Then when you stumbled & fell, I just held you some more,
Even when you grew to a man & you walked out the door,
And when you were gone, to fields far scattered & wide,
I still held you tight in my heart son, so deep down inside.

Now I am old & my time on this earth is soon duly done,
There´s one thing I want from you, my own precious son,
Please hold me close to you now, as I leave this old earth,
Just as I held you to me, long, long before your sweet birth.

BREATHINGS:



Breath, furling around fetus in the new fruited womb,
Dancing around the living, until the tired sleep of tomb,
Curling around in mists, caressing damp cloister walls,
And whispering in sad echoes, down old haunted halls.

Seething, leaving in winds & over oceans swelled heavings,
Through gossamer webbed rooms, of spider´s weft weavings,
And spinning in the vortex, of Angel´s lightly breathed sighings,
Ending in the gentle breathing, of lover´s orgasmic soft dyings.

Breath spun upon the loom of tender & summer loved breezes,
Whispered upon steaming of words, as winter´s breath freezes,
Wafting through old cemeteries, around stones of icicled bones,
Whistling down history, of cold clutched hearts & sad lost homes.

Breath whispers in harsh ancient stories, of sorry whipped slaves,
Wailing in the tales of garrotted Knaves, buried deep in wet graves,
In the inhaling of all life & the exhaling at all imminent death,
Breathing, the essence of being, in the intake of our first breath.

Friday 29 November 2013

LAST RITES:



On her dying bed the priest held her old hand,
“A prayer now, before departing for God´s land?”
She sighed, cried & looked him straight in the eye,
“Yes Father, I´m a sinner & must confess before I die.”

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned in my life,
My husband left, so maybe I was a very bad wife,
My children grew, flew & never again returned,
When I bowed to the moon, by all I was spurned.

“The only sin is upon your husband´s own head,
He who found pleasure in another´s love bed,
Your children flew, as all the young fly away,
No sin of yours, it was not you who strayed.”

“Then why on this day of my lonely departing tide,
Am I so alone with nobody here at my dying side?”
Priest answered, “The sin´s theirs & you’re not alone,
You´re surrounded by Angels who will carry you home”.

The sweet lady smiled & then closed her tired old eyes,
Feeling Angels lift her aloft & carry her to God´s blue skies,
“Thank you Father & now in tranquility & peace I may go”,
And all shed sins left her soul & upon soft winds did blow.

Thursday 28 November 2013

IN THE VOICES OF STONES:



From rocks, boulders, pebbles, stones & scree,
I hear the hard skinned voices calling out to me,
“Beware my friend for surely the time will come,”
Their singing chorused, by moon, stars & mighty sun.

From the wailing of winds & threatening harsh breeze,
From throbbing hearts of beasts dying on their knees,
From the weeping of iced mists & the teardrops of rain,
 From the newly hewn souls of old trees crying in pain.

I hear in the pleading of plants & the sad ebbing of tides,
I hear it in the cracking of lakes & as melting ice slow slides,
I hear voices in the bleeding of earth & erosion´s sad plea,
As the plastic world chokes oceans, forests, deserts & seas.

I hear the old warning voices that are unheard by all men,
Echoing over Stone Mountains, in forests, cove, hill & glen,
I hear the pounding blood of the old ancestor’s bones,
All is heard in the voices of boulders, pebbles & stones.

Wednesday 27 November 2013

THE PAINTER OF POEMS:



Painter of poetry, please paint me a poem,
Hue words for my soul to find its way home,
Old odes daubed in pinks & cyan blue skies,
Paint away tears from the little child´s eyes.

Wash whispers of breezes in soft summer trees,
Wax me lyrical cold whites of frosts that freeze,
Please dab me green forests in which I may wend,
In ochre paths of old history which leadingly bend.

Painter of poems, let your quill be your paint brush,
May paintings of words make me swoon & red blush,
Colours of life, of past times & of sweet given love,
May your works of art let me soar up, high like a dove.

On your pages & canvas, let your rhymes be ode birds,
From your quill & pen, soft painted sonnets in words,
Flow me & swirl me in the still paints of your breath,
So I may say, “I´ve loved a poet”, at the hour of my death.