LAST FRONTIER:

I´ve been everywhere, there´s now nowhere new,

It has all been done before, with nothing left to do,

My tears spilt, run in rivers & reached oceans & seas,

My arms have embraced men, lovers & ancient trees,

My feet have walked far, wide & stood their stance,

My legs have entwined in love & too, in endless dance,

I have planted seeds of trees & kissed the passing birds,

My books I have written with love & many printed words,

I´ve gone beyond boundaries & have borne my bonny sons,

I´ve loved you, before creation of moons, stars & old suns,

I have lived for eternity & close to you, I´ll be always near,

But here on earth, I´ve finally reached my very last frontier.

 

PLUMED PERFUMES:

Powder me softly, with downy plumed perfumes,

With essences of feathers, singing faraway tunes,

So that I may fly away, to those far distant places,

To see those who´ve gone & touch their lovely faces.

 

Gently dab my wrist, brow & behind my listening ear,

Touch with puff of plume, so I may know you´re near,

Within your gentle scent, I´ll hear your plaintive call,

Through plumaged nights I´ll walk, down scented halls.

 

I shall uncork your bottled cell & set your spirit free,

So kiss my bended nape & please make love to me,

Waft me with aromas, of the times we were together,

Perfume me with plumes & your long silken feathers.

 

 

NEFELIBATA:

Nefelibata, cloud walker, where reality is to dream,

Treading softly, not to hurt & never hear a scream,

Tiptoeing through dreams, that no one else can see,

Solo & in still silence, asking, “Is it really only me?”

 

Softly wending through cumulus, within air up high,

Floating upon my misty emotions, high up in blue sky,

Gently wafting, so as not to wake the softly sleeping,

Alone in Heaven, but for all Guardian Angels peeping.

 

A novice, in the lonesome land, of silent drifting clouds,

In this place of total silence, where death is never loud,

Where softly, I am cradled, in the hand of my sweet Lord,

In this place where fight is over, I have no need for sword.

THE CRICKET SINGS TOO:

The Diva sings her opera & the lounge-lizard croons,

The country singer yodels, to the balladeer, his tunes,

The rocker blasts his heavies & pop is forever heard,

Jazz, soul, blues, all about feeling, never mind the words.

 

The nightingale loves trilling & so does the morning lark,

The blackbird prettily warbles, in country lanes & parks,

Mothers, at their daily chores, hum softly to their babes,

To everyone their joyful song & to each, their serenade.

 

But let´s not forget the cricket, gaily singing in the trees,

Chirruping in through windows, his tune on evening breeze,

Announcing change of seasons & of everything that´s new,

So let us not forget, that the little cricket humbly sings too.

I´LL PAINT YOU THE COLOUR OF THE WIND:

With paint poised, canvas blank & brushes at the ready,

You sit posing, I watch you, with my hand waiting, steady,

Do I paint your eyes in turquoise seas, or maybe olivine?

The gown upon your pearly breast, in leaf of forest green?

 

Do I paint your hair in wheaten gold, in bronze or of the earth?

Shall I kiss your skin with sun, or the moonbeams of your birth?

Shall I paint upon your face, a pretty smile, or shall it be a frown?

And upon your rounded cheeks, paint I roses, or freckles brown?

 

Do I daub your lips in juice of apricot, peach, or raspberry red?

And what about those wily curls, that I´ll paint about your head?

I´ll not take risk of being told, that I´m wrong or that I´ve sinned,

So I shall merely paint you my dear, in the colour of God´s wind.

 

 

WHO LOOKS AFTER THE DEAD?

Mama, who looks after the dead when they´re gone?

With no one to care, nobody to sing them sweet song,

With bats black swooping, the cold & the lowly worm,

Caressed by frost´s fingers, making them cringe & squirm.

 

Mama, the dead have no loved ones, to cosset them & care,

Are they trapped in inferno & within demon´s deep dark lair?

Are they haunted by serpents, lizards & poisonous red geckos?

Are they surrounded by flocks of daunting & darkened echoes?

 

Child, all the dead are well looked after & cared for by many,

By Angels with silken wings & hair of bright & golden pennies,

By all Gods, Goddesses & Saints, of all the past & olden times,

And by spirits who are good, who will upon them, always shine.

 

Child, the Ancestors will always be, besides them, to softly tread,

And God Himself always stands, behind their sweet gone heads,

But remember my little one, it´s within your memory´s keeping,

To protect your dead loved ones, deep within their silent sleeping.

 

 

GOD´S GIVEN GYM:

“No pain, no gain”, that hype sold & the spin,

Get fit, get buffed, get toned, muscled & thin,

Work those biceps, with panting tired tongues,

Breathe in & out, get breath into those lungs.

 

Move those legs on treadmills, zumba & the step,

Lift weights, turn wheels, now don´t be so inept,

Dumb-bells & sweat, under monitor´s stern look,

If not done properly, he´ll throw at you, the book.

 

Don´t eat that fat, no gluten, no dairy & no carbs,

Colonic irrigation & fasting, to suffer no more barbs,

Encased in tight lycra, that cuts off normal breath,

Is this really necessary & preferable to welcome death?

 

God gave us legs to walk & we had no need for wheels,

So use them to move, no need for high & painful heels,

He gave us good food, for our body´s perfect machine,

And oxygen to breathe, through air that´s good & clean.

 

Incorporated within our being, God´s good & given gym,

He never said, “Go & get neat & trim & better be so slim,”

He gave us all the equipment, then sensible & bright brain,

But did he ever say the words, “Without the pain there is no gain?”

 

WHEN WORDS COME WOOING:

When words come wooing, with their seductive cooing,

They shall make their old stand & I´ll take their soft hands,

Then we´ll start to dance & over new pages we´ll prance,

To sweet melodies of soul, those, that makes us all whole,

To music that beckons & calls, we´ll dance down white halls,

We shall waltz out in style & in verse, we shall tarry awhile,

We shall flaunt in hot tango & shall quaff wine of gold mango,

We´ll ever clasp in tight cinch & in deep kiss, we shall clinch,

Knowing, that by being so bold, our sweet love story is told,

Words, rolled around tongues, rhymed, written & then sung,

Toyed with & with fun, played, scribbled, scribed & displayed,

Some blatant & erotic, while others being, downright exotic,

Some make us happy or sad, others, just cross & plain mad,

Upon flight of bright birds, I´m wooed, by seduction of words.

 

MY BAY:

The bay sits shimmering, in the sunrise breeze,

Lapped by taunting tongue, of the teasing seas,

Pulling silken sheets, over white beach stones,

Seeking solace, in the surrounding tree´s bones.

 

Silent water´s of tides, that softly ripple & sway,

That little blue inlet, where the fish love to play,

Where, upon rocks, cockles & whelks come to stay,

That little blue haven, my small summer-time bay.

 

THE MIGHTY STEELY SWORD:

Blade etched & sharply honed, of noble steely sword,

Used from eons past, to cut down men & dying cord,

By men of honour, sat upon the stealthy faithful steed,

Crossing blades, sealing treaty with quaffing of the mead.

 

Upon grimy battle ground, where men are sliced in mud,

By tapered point & wicked hearts, sealed & signed in blood,

At dawn´s red duel, for the maiden, honour, oath & code,

Where the victor, upon the beast, to distant horizon rode.

 

From the turret within blue sky, watching, is young maid,

Will her hero die, or save her? Of the doubt she´s so afraid,

The day is saved by Knight, with his gallant sword engraved,

Venerated honour & villain in dungeon, safely now enslaved.

 

With kingdom, from the enemy, overtaken, shaken & freed,

Sunrise gold arrives, with love & the planting of new seed,

Gentleman in his amour, with triumphant pennant ablaze,

And with goblet, toasts, “It´s due, to the mighty steely sword”.

 

DYING MOMENTS:

Change, from living, then to die,

What swoops down, used to fly,

What came low, once was high,

What´s now rain, once sunny sky.

 

The season changes, goes too soon,

Once December & then comes June,

Once silence, now broken with tune,

Once the sun, now kissed by moon.

 

All changes, in life, it is our plight,

Where black embraces the white,

Where day ends, in gentle night,

Where peace overtakes awful fight.

 

 

TELL ME MR JOHNSON:

"Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford."
— Samuel Johnson

 

Mr Samuel Johnson, essayist & poet of some great note,

You´ve coined a famous phrase & left us with that quote,

If a man does tire of London, then he tires of his very life,

Perhaps all men globally, are merely tired of living strife.

 

So please tell me Mr Johnson, if it is really so very true,

That when a man tires of London, he tires of living too?

Maybe it´s not just London Sir, but too, of other places,

Maybe, looking around him now, he sees no familiar faces.

 

So pray, tell me Mr Johnson, now I´ve got you on my own,

Would man weary too, if he tired of Paris, Madrid or Rome?

Maybe, Mr Johnson, man just wants to close his weary eyes,

Tired now of everything, of all the wherefores & the why´s?

SMALL, DISTANT, SILENT PLACES:

From hurdy-gurdy towns & rushing city faces,

I go seeking those distant & silent, small places,

Where pace is slow, life quiet & folk are so kind,                                         

To far-away idylls, where I´ll find peace of mind.

 

To the village, forgotten by time & this old world,

To the forest, where no cruel barbs are so hurled,

To the island, where waves whisper only of love,

To those open wide spaces, to see stars up above.

 

To coppice, where one may sit & quietly muse,

To any place, where nothing can hurt & confuse,

I think I´ll just go deep, within my very own soul,

To that special place, to be made again whole.

DROPLETS:

Little droplets, all falling & gently drip-dripping,

From unexpected places & corners, softly slipping,

The unexplained emotions, summon them to fall,

When the heart whispers & to them, gently calls.

 

Dewdrops upon petals, the flower´s thirst to slake,

Moon-drops scattered, upon quiet midnight lake,

The raindrops of life, sent from Angels in grey skies,

Now, dry those errant teardrops, I see within your eyes.

DUSTBIN:

Recycled, cans, paper, plastic & all that´s torn & tinned,

Together with old misgivings, regrets & errors, badly sinned,

All human drips, dregs, ripped, stripped & sadly discarded,

Without a thought, tossed, unlived dreams so disregarded,

Binned, lived pasts, old loves & old lives, to be recycled anew,

But always hoping, I´ll come back & still be so in love with you.

OH SILLY HUMAN BEINGS:

I´m the Guardian of higher ether, watching from above,

Sadly I despair, at what is seen, instead of peace & love,

With no respect for yourselves & nothing left for others,

It´s so easy to love yourselves, with plenty left for brothers.

 

Destroying habitat of your home, your only place of birth,

When there is nowhere else to go & only this one earth,

Flora & fauna down the drain, please, just listen to it weep,

But, as long as you´re OK, under carpets, truth, you´ll sweep.

 

Far too many of you all, killing off those, who´re far too few,

For fur, tusk & horn, just to sport the fantastic trends anew,

All bemoaning illness rife, yet all living on knife´s sharp edge,

And when it all goes wrong, you´ll be left dangling from a ledge.

 

All wanting to be thin as sticks, yet, stuffing like fatted swine,

Sniffing & snorting all there is & guzzling copious ale & wine,

Red crisping skin, in too much sun, yet yearn to be milk smooth,

Spending far too much cash, then wanting to be solely soothed.

 

You now live in boxes high & tall, yet, you´re wanting to be free,

But living as you do dear human, tell me, how can this now be?

 I´m Guardian of the higher ether & you, I´m watching from above,

It is not the “Things” you need, believe me; it is simply & only love.

BANGLES, BAUBLES AND BEADS:

Here she comes, in her bangles, baubles & rattling beads,

A tinkling of tin, rustle of reeds & a dried singing of seeds,

Her jewelry made from everything & all she could find,

Made by her hands, in anything that came to her mind.

 

Shapes moulded & painted, of river mud & fine bone clay,

Threaded by delicate fingers, at night & in very short days,

Earrings, of studs & those that dingled, swayed & dangled,

Necklaces that loop & swing & her arms wrapped & bangled.

 

On her long fingers & bare toes, she wore pretty shiny rings,

Shaking anklets & bracelets, that blings as she happily sings,

Around her burnished bronze hips, chains shimmy & shake,

Leaving a long trail of young men, agog in her passing wake.

 

Pretty little maiden, of bangles, baubles & rattling beads,

Sashaying in your coloured jewels, a merry dance you lead,

Gemstone butterflies in your hair & a smile upon your lips,

Every dashing Don-Juan wants a kiss from you, just a tiny sip.

 

 

HANDBAG:

Her handbag´s slung over her bony thin shoulder,

Filled with her possessions, as heavy as boulders,

She hobbles down streets, grey, cobbled & lonely,

Dreaming of the past & of the future, oh if only.

 

Hand, deep in dark depths of her bag, goes seeking,

Feeling for treasures, her fingertips, silently speaking,

She pulls out a humbug with fluff & an old family snap,

Which she kisses, as teardrops fall & drip onto her lap.

 

She rummages around, in the bag´s cavernous cave,

For the memories she´s kept & dear items she´d saved,

An old red lipstick, a lollipop & crumpled hanky of lace,

That small cracked mirror, which she holds to her face.

 

She has no friends, no kin & family now, to call her own,

Her life in a handbag, all that remains of her old home,

The accoutrements, mere trappings, of a lonely old hag,

Life´s memories tucked away, safely in her old handbag.

 

 

HAPPILY UNHAPPY:

He´s happily unhappy, within his old grey head,

Living in his world, between his armchair & bed,

He´s bathed & fed, by his loved ones who care,

But he doesn’t recognize anyone who is there.

 

Who is his wife & what´s his son´s given name?

His daughter is there, but she is not the same,

His words are forgotten & his memory long gone,

His old eyelids flutter, as he hears their lost song.

 

He lives in his dark lonely world, now all alone,

But it´s a strange place now & it´s not his home,

He is happily unhappy & has no wants & needs,

But inside he´s calling, for help that nobody heeds.

 

 

THE LIE:

The lie, that unwanted guest upon dubious tongue,

Where words mingle & without thought, are flung,

Where stories are prepared, to escape from scrapes,

Porkies, fibs, tall-tales, lies, behind palate´s soft drapes.

 

The lie, rumbling from mind to heart, in one fell swoop,

Sneaking past the soul, skulking low & trying to snoop,

Tiptoeing past the voice, incognito, disguised as truth,

Whispered in sad disgrace, from that dark oral booth.

 

The lie, fabricated, exaggerated, daily tossed & told,

Upon rolling of tongue, grows & morphs, so very bold,

But within dishonest telling & betrayed by honest eyes,

Released from conscious heart & soul, those sorry told lies.

LA BODEGA:

That secret fingered place, of times gone by,

Where old bottled nectar quietly sleeps & lies,

Where wooden kegs slumber & so does wine,

Embraced by silken cobwebs & in dust, entwined,

That sighing place that whispers in boozy breath,

Echoing of promised life to come & tales of death,

Those luring glints, of gold, ruby-rose & garnet reds,

La Bodega, where bubbles lay their drunken heads,

That sacred place, of adobe walls, cobbles & cork,

Where insatiable palates, leave no room for talk,

Where drunken mice stagger & the old men dream,

And within cool shadows, life´s not what it seems,

La Bodega, of vino tinto & stamp of flamenco feet,

That place, where life with dust, gathers to meet.

 

 

WHISPERING ECHOES OF PAST TIMES:

I hear those whispering echoes, of times long gone by,

Lost upon old dead wings, of lives, that soar away & fly,

The voices of monks singing, from steeples in grey mists,

Timbers creaking of old galleons, on oceans as they list.

 

I hear trundling down cobbles, of the cooper & his dray,

The chanting of dead nuns, at their rosaries as they pray,

The little cockled maiden´s call, “Come buy, alive, alive O´”,

The singing of old farmers, wielding long gone pick & hoe.

 

I hear whispering echoes, of those past & long gone times,

Those songs of life whispered, in stories, tunes & rhymes,

Upon ancient history´s tired sighs & raspy rusted breath,

Those memories of old sounds, now only, in echoing death.

 

 

LONELINESS:

Loneliness is the tumbleweed, in forgotten old town,

It´s hidden behind sad smile, of masked, painted clown,

Loneliness can be found, in the lost & lurking corners,

Around grey old tombstones, of sad forgotten mourners.

 

Loneliness is a bird upon the wire & the last standing tree,

It´s in the last of the species & in the man, who´s never free,

It´s in the dry tears of places, where the raindrop never falls,

In the distant footsteps heard, tiptoeing along death´s halls.

 

Loneliness is last cloud drifting, way up high upon blue sky,

It´s the lost smile & falling teardrop, dropping from the eye,

It´s in echo of the lone voice & in the moonlight walk for one,

It is written in the dark places, where there´s no friend of sun.

 

Loneliness is the forgotten jacket, left within closet of the dead,

The pillow that is now empty, of the loved one´s missing head,

It´s space between two empty arms, with no one to embrace,

It´s the place within my heart, where I keep your dear loved face.

PATHWAY OF PETALS:

Along the pathway of petals, I´ll follow floral dreams,

Through forests & fields, down to gushing cool streams,

Wending through bluebells, roses & pretty mauve phlox,

Where gold daffodils & lilacs, flaunt their pretty new frocks.

 

Along the pathways of petals, where sweet blue-birds sing,

I´ll dance through soft clover & with me, my heart I´ll bring,

I shall waltz willy-nilly with flowers & the breezes soft breath,

Now knowing, that my sadness, shall bow down to its death.

MAY YOU BE STRONG:

May you ever be strong, in those sad & broken places,

When people are unkind & show their mad cruel faces,

When you are feeling ice- cold & the sun never shines,

When your blushing of youth, turns to old & tired lines.

 

May you be strong, in the place where pain dwells,

Where you walk within darkness, of hell´s murky wells,

Where loneliness paints tears, upon your sad old cheek,

Where you should feel strong, instead of feeling so weak.

 

May you always be strong, in every single small adversity,

In whatever life tosses you, in all its jigsaw of diversities,

Put your weaknesses away & may you always be strong,

With love in your heart & a smile, you can never go wrong.

 

CHEEKS:

Baby´s sweet cheeks, rounded, of silk-carpeted hills

Where all mothers plant kisses & their love over-spills,

Places of kiddies, smudged with snot, chocolate, old dirt,

Wiped & re-wiped, with sleeves, spit & garden-hose squirt.

 

Cheeks of young damsels, kissed by roses & ardent hot beaus,

Planted there by lovers, before, with luck, the further he goes,

Those places of butterfly kisses, casting soft shadows in mauve,

Where fingers trace maps of love, before they go daring to rove.

 

Cheeks are those rosy sweet gardens, where smiles go to play,

Where, when happiness reigns, those smiles will certainly stay,

They are places, that when sad, teardrops find their own path,

Where snowdrops freeze ruddy, then are melted by warm hearth.

 

Cheeks of old Crone, rutted & grooved by the cruel passing of time,

Powdered in magnolia-cream, futile attempt, to hide ageing lines,

White, transparent & translucent, then iced marbled in cold death,

To be granted new roses, with springtime´s new life in new breath.

 

 

THE OLD SILVER FRAME:

Watching me, an old sepia smile upon your sweet face,

In your old silvered frame, within your past life encased,

Time holds you gently, in her yellowing & undying arms,

Your face, never ageing & death protecting your charms.

 

When the Angels claimed your soul & then took you away,

Your image, then frozen, so that on earth, you would stay,

Placed behind glass then smiling, in new silver smart frame,

Frame now tarnished & buckled, but you´ve stayed the same.

 

You´re daily dusted & polished & kissed by me, with each turn,

Looking at your smile, I say, “A new frame you´ve now earned”,

But, I haven’t the heart to take you, from your silver bent home,

So I’ll continue to dust, polish & kiss you & I shall leave you alone.

 

 

STOP AWHILE:

Stop awhile to smell,

To smell the heart & soul of a fragrant flower,

To smell raindrops on earth after evening shower,

To smell spring´s new-born & soft delicate breeze,

To smell juices of lemons & limes freshly squeezed,                        

To smell lavenders swaying, in sweet fields of mauve,

To smell freshly made bread, homely baked in stoves,

Just awhile.

 

Stop awhile to taste,

To taste the lingering kiss, upon your lover´s hot lips,

To taste ruby red wine, slowly, sip by red-scarlet sip,

To taste chocolate melting, dark, creamy & so hot,

To taste broth, made with love, in an earthenware pot,

To taste iced water, fresh, clean, cold, refreshing & clear,

To taste every single crumb & drop & savour it all my dear,

Just awhile.

 

Stop awhile to touch,

To touch the soft silken fabric, of the baby´s young cheek,

To touch the wrinkled crepe hand, of the ageing & weak,

To touch the feathered quilled friend & the lost mangy cur,

To touch all that breathes, of skin, scale, hair, talon & fur,

To touch & caress & let them know, you´ll always be there,

To touch & show them that, the world at times can be fair,

Just awhile.

 

Stop awhile to see,

To see the sun´s rosy pink cheeks, as it blinks, rises & sets,

To see the dewdrop upon leaf, as it icily quenches & wets,

To see Autumnal red-gold, as the old Summer softly dies,

To see the twinkling of stars, within the black velvet skies,

To see every little butterfly, ant, moth & buzzing wee bee,

To stop for just awhile, merely to look at both you & me,

Just awhile.

 

Stop awhile to listen,

To listen to the early blackbird & the singing sweet larks,

To listen to the fountains splashing, in old plaza & parks,

To listen to the tiptoeing, of snails at the break of new day,

To listen quietly & you´ll hear fairies, in their forest at play,

To listen to all these sounds, which are heard by very few,

To listen to your heart saying the words, “I really do love you,

Just awhile.

 

 

 

 

AFRICAN NIGHTS:

That place, where all my old dreams weep,

In Africa´s bedroom, where I´ll finally sleep,

Where mimosa winds, waft & softly billow,

That´s where I shall lay my scented pillow.

 

In African nights, of those big creeping herds,

Where the serenading, is of crickets & birds,

Where hyenas laugh at their leftover feasts,

That´s where I´ll sleep, among all the beasts.

 

In watering holes, of the slaked-thirst ripple,

Where hippos wallow & the elephants tipple,

Where heat & dust have dipped warm fingers,

That´s where I´ll slumber, where old sun lingers.

 

That place, of velvet skies & ancient silver moons,

Of stellar blanket, ebony bats & old wise baboons,

That place, where all sounds & beasts stalk & slink,

I´ll lay my head, where the African sun sets & sinks.

 

 

IT´S YOU:

It´s your voice I hear, in the singing of the larks,

In the chatter of the trees, as I walk in the park,

Within raindrops falling, you whisper my name,

It´s your voice I hear, yet, it´s not quite the same.

 

It´s your scent I smell, upon sweet morning rose,

In the nodding of violets, in their gentle repose,

In the briny aromas, of the salty oceans & seas,

It´s your perfume I can smell-& oh, how they tease.

 

It´s your eyes I can see, watching me from the stars,

In firmaments & planets, of faraway Jupiter & Mars,

In the watchful gaze, of beasts & the innocent child,

It´s your eyes, following me, both gentle & so wild.

 

It´s your skin that I feel, upon satin fabrics of silk,

In white-washed moonbeams & in marble-cold milk,

In the soft dusted wings, of the midnight moon-moth,

It´s your skin, caressing my cheek, in the passing of cloth.

 

It´s your touch I can sense, within the kissing of breeze,

In the skimming of my brow, by Autumnal gold leaves,

In the spray of cold oceans, in snowflakes & new dew,

It´s your touch that´s caressing me & I know, it´s just you.

 

It´s your love that surrounds me, wherever I am & I go,

In my tears & raindrops, & in sighing of winds that blow,

In my blood of wine, raiment of skin & heart of no bone,

It´s you returning, holding my hand, to take me back home.