Changing perspective for bro Colin
A patchwork quilt of sunlit fields
Is visible as grey mist yields
to the majesty of the sun.
The morning mist and night shadows
are well aware that they must go
Now that a new day has begun.
The distant hills which I now see
Become for me reality
Now that the mists have fully gone.
No longer just a fantasy,
a half forgotten memory.
I wandered happily alone.
I did not lack for company
I had my book of poetry.
What more could any poet need
except a quiet spot to read.
31/08/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Why must I? for Cp Sharma
Why must I
The mist is lifting slowly. So
I can see the way ahead.
Although I’m not allowed to know
my future fate. I need not dread.
The Unknown hidden by the mist
evaporated by the sun.
I will go on I will persist
until my distant goal is won.
The quest embarked upon at birth
which will not end until I die.
My sojourn on the planet earth
but always I must question why.
I have no choice but journey on
No one can answer my question.
27/05/2009
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Demystified for M' lady Cate
The mist persists, it will insist
it has the right to block the light
with trailing wisps of dirty white.
The mist is wrong and it will learn
to leave when it has served its turn
Because the sun will rise and burn
the remnants of the mist away
There is no way that it can stay
once the bright sun comes out to play.
The mist defeated has to go.
It leaves reluctantly and slow
but where it goes I do not know.
It will return with fall of night
lurk in the darkness hid from sight.
Unless outlined by the moonlight.
The silver light makes it appear
to be the ghosts which cause men fear.
But they will quickly disappear
When banks of cloud obscure the light.
Be re-absorbed into the night.
to their dismay but men’s delight.
The mists persist they wont desist
as long as day and night exist
and if they did they would be missed.
The moisture which the mist supply
the plants trees drink thirstily.
Without the mists some plants would die.
1-Jun-08
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Guardian Angel?
I think I’m being haunted by
a female ghost who constantly
Appears to want to be with me
Although I can’t imagine why.
I ask her but she wont reply.
She seems afraid to meet my eye.
I think she thinks she and I
have shared some common history.
I see her as faint image.
A blurred impression from a page
of fashions from a bygone age
Or some actress upon the stage.
A misty figure clad in grey
stays close to me by night and day
I ask again but she won’t say
She cannot seem to stay away.
I don’t know who she is or was
and I will never know because.
She thinks I ought to know of course.
Which in itself should give me pause.
She only comes when no one is here.
I sense her presence drawing near
then hazily she will appear.
This silent ghost from yesteryear.
I see no reason for alarm
I know she does not wish me harm
In fact she has a certain charm.
Her quietness a healing balm.
Which soothes my mind and set me free
from all the noise which bothers me.
Incessantly and ceaselessly.
She offers quiet company.
She places no demands on me.
She is content apparently
to visit unobtrusively,
when she desires my company.
I do not know if she chose me
or I chose her subconsciously.
Sometimes I doubt my sanity
but she is very real to me.
Perhaps she’s just a fantasy
I’m well aware that she might be.
Or some forgotten memory
of someone who was dear to me.
My mother died when I was small
it could be her who I recall.
I have no memories at all
The passing years erased them all
7-Nov-08
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Tribute to W.B.Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep
And nodding by the fireside. Take down this book
and slowly read and dream of the soft look.
Your eyes once had and of their shadows deep
William Butler Yeats 1865-1939
A tribute to W.B Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep
and conscious thoughts go in and out.
I am quite sure I have no doubt.
That memories will unbidden creep
And nodding by the fireside. Take down this book
a true record of all that’s been
Everything you’ve done and seen.
It is past time to take another look.
And slowly read and dream of the soft look
you used to see in your lovers eyes.
You are content because you realise.
There is contained within this book
Your eyes once had and of their shadow deep
Are still the same they have not changed.
Constant they have not been re-arranged
All of the memories you chose to keep.
31/08/2009
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Whatshisname
An actor always plays a part.
He has no personality.
It is the essence of his art
an actor’s capability
To become anyone at all.
Whoever they’re supposed to be
at least until the curtains fall
Revert to being nobody.
Their whole life is a fantasy.
They don’t know who they really are.
They can cope with reality
but only so much: Insofar
as I can see, because they can
act like any other man.
12/07/2009
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Hauptstrasse Heidelberg
I seem to see superimposed
upon today’s reality
An older world a fantasy
this high street as it used to be.
Pondering with eyes half closed.
I can imagine easily.
This old streets chequered history.
Today a lasting legacy.
Perhaps in truth I merely dozed
and only dreamt that I could see.
This cobbles street completely free.
From all modern technology.
A great deal different I suppose.
No mobile phones, no cameras
no bicycles, no motor cars.
Then in my mind a question rose.
Was there a possibility
my poet’s sensitivity.
Had actually enabled me.
To slip through times firmly closed door
and see vignettes from history.
A gift that fate had granted me
however undeservedly.
I do not know nor ever will.
It must remain a mystery
Just what I saw or did not see
Is etched deep in my memory.
I am compelled I must compose
A verse or two of poetry
Say how this street affected me
The how and why, eluding me
19/09/2009
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Open invitation for M 'lady Lucianne
Just loose your hold and come with me.
Explore the worlds of fantasy,
strange places only dreamers see
There is no charge it is quite free.
Decide where you would like to be
and we will travel rapidly.
Borne on the wings of poetry.
There is nothing for you to fear
reality won’t disappear.
You can’t escape so easily.
29-Apr-08
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Fashions are a passing phase for friend Jon London
I read your words with greatest care
and try to see your point of view
Although sometimes I must declare
I find it difficult to do.
I hesitate to criticise.
Aware the fault may lie with me.
Nor dare I offer you advice.
You might resent it bitterly.
The messages you try to send
to me lack simple clarity
I cannot see what you intend.
It makes no sense at all to me.
Your random thoughts lack coherence
They’re neither poetry nor prose.
An unintended consequence
of fashions changing I suppose.
The way that poetry is taught
in schools and colleges today.
They do not know although they ought.
Anything goes is not the way.
Most modern so called poetry
can only be poetic prose
Although it’s written beautifully
Opinions differ I suppose.
I’ll stick to formal poetry
Perhaps I need the discipline
that rhyme and meter gives to me.
And free form verse I will decline.
2-Feb-09
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Consonation.
Daylight subdues and fades away.
Dark shadows creep across the sky.
Scarlet now tints the west with pink
Sunlight can no longer reign.
Night comes into its own.
Nothing can change nature’s plan
The Sun will rise and quickly chase
The darkness of the night away.
As it was so it will be as long
as this world still spins.
Kasa a Korean form.
18/10/2009
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Validation for colin j
Sometimes I think we should not try
to make our cherished dreams come true
and be content with fantasy.
We must accept reality
Some cherished dreams are doomed to fail.
Because they are not meant to be.
That does not mean we should not dream
For dreams are a necessity
Though they’re not always as they seem
Dreams can protect our sanity
provide escape from every day
repetitive reality.
Dreams can become reality
Though only if they’re meant to be.
31/05/2009
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Transformation
Moonlight filtered through the trees.
Can cast strange shadows on the ground
which fill me with a vague unease
because they seem to move around.
Somehow independently
The minute that I look away.
As if they have been watching me
to try and lead my thoughts astray.
I know that in reality
the shadows represent no threat
But fear erodes my certainty
and in my panic I forget.
I only know I have to run.
Just as the shadows knew I would
They coalesce, attack as one
Then finally I understood.
I should have run when I first saw
the shadows on the forest floor.
I know now what I did not know
before I became a shadow.
31/07/2009
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All change for M lady Adria
Familiar landmarks disappear
gradually as darkness falls.
Though if you listen you can hear
the roosting birds exchanging calls.
From nests in tree you cannot see
though you’re aware that they’re still there
Enwrapped in night fall’s mystery.
There is no way you can compare
the quiet countryside at night
with the busy and bustling day.
All life moves faster in sunlight
until the sun sets anyway.
Darkness can make the world we see
into a realm of fantasy.
26-Jul-08
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I would if I could
Philosophers considering
the mysteries if the universe.
May seem to be woolgathering
or dozing off which would be worse.
But they are not: They’re deep in thought
Oblivious to reality
They contemplations of a sort
which is akin to fantasy.
Their thoughts are on a higher plane
I don’t pretend to understand.
Although they try they can’t explain.
So they dismiss me out of hand.
At least I work to earn my pay
I cannot sit and think all day.
13/05/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Moonlight Mysteries. for M'lady Tara
Moonlight.
Deceives our eyes
creates moving shadows
which seem to come and go at will.
Be still.
Time ebbs and flows,
in time the sun will rise
To banish shadows of the night.
By night
Our eyes tell lies
because the shadows flow
fluidly. They are never still.
Some will
spring a surprise.
As dawn is drawing close
they disappear and all is still.
Until
the next moonrise.
Recreating the shadows
Cast by the ruler of the night.
Tuesday,15 December 2009
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Hooked.
I’m sure, deprived of poetry
descent into insanity
would follow.Inevitably
It is my prime necessity
Poetry is my drug of choice.
Without it I would have no voice
either to lament or rejoice.
For I depend on poetry
to validate that I am me.
I am addicted hopelessly.
Wednesday,23 December 2009
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Absolute Necessity
Absolute necessity
Is poetry a luxury or one of life’s necessities?
I have to read, I have to write poetry a pure delight.
Other poets inspire me.Exploring the variety
of forms and styles that I can find, serves to stimulate my mind.
I do not claim to be the best I am just one amongst the rest
of poets posting on the net. Who you remember or forget.
Is poetry a luxury the answer must be NO from me.
To some it seems a waste of time to other folks it is sublime.
You are quite free to make your choice. But I will always raise my voice.
Applauding poets who can write fine poetry that brings delight,
Uplift the hearts of other men, more power to the poet’s pen.
27/07/2009
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Over the Hills for M'lady Ernestine
Over the hills.
Beyond the distant hills there lies.
A wonderland a paradise.
Not often seen by mortal eyes.
Alternative reality
which only dreamers ever see.
Imagination is the key.
That’s needed to unlock the door
and let your restless spirit soar
on high to where it can explore.
Beyond the range of normal sigh
to scenes which guarantee delight
and satisfy your appetite.
For things that may or may not be.
Indulge your taste for fantasy
Imagine what you want to see
Beyond the hills you can pretend
that you have found the rainbows end
You’ll find your day dreams can transcend.
All of the normal boundaries.
You can imagine what you please.
No limit to your fantasies.
Nobody can dispute the view
which you accept as being true.
Your dreams belong only to you.
Though other folks have different dreams.
Of crystal pools and flowing streams.
Each to their own or so it seems.
Beyond the distant hills there lies
a wonderland a paradise.
That’s only seen by dreamer’s eyes.
Tuesday,10 August 2010.
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Who Knows for J T Earley
Who Knows
I wonder where muses reside.
Externally or deep inside
some remote corner of the brain.
A quiet spot where they can gain
full access to your memories.
Which they manipulate with ease,
inserting things you could not know.
About events too long ago
for you to possibly recall.
The screaming of a minie ball
as butternut fought with blue grey.
As if you heard it yesterday.
Is my muse an entity
who has her own identity.
Or just another part of me
which can act independently.
Forgive me if I seem confused
sometimes I think I’m being used
Who really writes my poetry
is it my muse or is it me.
4-Jul-08
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Writers Block-Poppycock
I think that there will never be
A lack of wonders we can see.
For those of us prepared to look
in mother natures own scrap book.
We have the time to stand and stare
at beauty we find everywhere.
A flower where it should not be
inspires us to write poetry.
We poets are a special breed
and poetry fulfils our need.
To share the beauty we can see.
We choose our language carefully.
Creating images to share
with anybody anywhere.
Monday,26 July 2010
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Perceptions.
Extinguishing the candle flame.
Initiates my nightly game.
My room’s subject to subtle change
as questing moonbeams re-arrange.
The shadows which were left behind.
So everything is now outlined
in silvery reflections.
Altering my perceptions.
Highlighting things that generally
I overlook, just do not see.
Recalling distant memories
of half forgotten fantasies
Which gently lull me off to sleep
So much more fun than counting sheep.
Sunday,31 October 2010
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