Hello river, my old friend
I cross above you at day’s end
As my work begins,
The night does fall
And I wonder about the point of it all
For like you, river, I am running daily
And where I reach it never fails me
My joys I must often compromise,
But you, dear friend, are a balm for my eyes.
(This is from December 2019, when of course, I actually did cross the bridge to get to work, and when I was particularly enjoying the work of English nature poet John Clare)
Richard Thompson ringing
around my head
The songs he is singing
are unlimited
His fine stories he tells
In words so fair
While my poems they fall
on empty air
He writes songs of love
and of Heartbreak too
While my efforts at rhyme
Are all a bit poo
This was a poem written in response to this post Long Lost At The Shore – http://wp.me/p6zoPj-6U by Frank Solanki. Thanks Frank.
As Shakespeare said: ‘what dreams may come’?
Lying spreadeagled under the moon
no tension there but an occasional moan,
Morning light will come too soon.
Resting on his laurels now
The leaves of which will flavour
His dream meals of tomorrow,
And the joys he has yet to savour.
And his throne will hide his tired eyes
Imperiously drained,
He dreams not yet of how far he’ll rise,
The future cannot be explained
So slumber on, little prince,
With carefree snores and whines
What dreams may come, no one can tell,
But tonight your dreams are your design.
I’ve seen it now,A new avenue
Straight and wise
Like a volcanic plume
Nothing is new
under the sun
It was said
by those who know
But I am here
Far from our star
Not off the ground
But far below
Below our earth
In a space never seen
The tunnels run
For days and years
My mind is expanding
To fill the gloom
I carry not enough
Light or food
To explore the vastness
Which I have found
In this tube of lava
Far underground.
The wind can so often be subtle and sweet
The lover of wind must be light on his feet
He must dance along gaily with its gentle sough
And allow it to caress him from *neck to elbow
It will sigh like an satisfied lover one day
But its energy can never be wasted away
The days will come suddenly where kites it will fly,
And the cord like a garrotte will cause it to cry
It screams among power lines, antennae and vanes
It skirls up the litter and strews it down lanes
The wind has been known to be biting and cruel
The lover of wind is an innocent fool
That fool becomes breathless, excited and scared
Whenever his love’s cutting teeth they are bared
On sea or on land, there are many who say
That the wind is a mistress who will never stay.
For the wind it blows hard, above and beyond;
Of its freedom the wind is most jealously fond
