The Guardian of Hell

In Norway for a holiday
I chose to take a train.
I found a railway manager
Standing in the rain.

I asked him how I’d get a train
From here to Tromso town.
He looked at me askantly,
Then put his flag and whistle down.

Pausing a while, he sighed a sigh,
“Just go to Hell ” he muttered.
I thought how rude, how quite uncouth,
Such harsh words to have uttered.

I didn’t like his acid tone
I felt so hurt, and, sadly,
Wondered what I’d done to him
That made him treat me badly.

But then he started telling me
About a town called ‘Hell’,
Sitting on the Tromso line
A place where many dwell.

How the long-suffering railway chief
Had laboured to dispel
The reputation he’d acquired –
‘the Stationmaster from Hell.’

So at last I understood
I repented feeling badly.
Now I’d love to go to Hell,
Pay respects quite gladly.

Then standing by the station sign
I’d take a snap as well,
To show how I admired him,
This Guardian of Hell.

To Sleep … To Dream

To Sleep … To Dream

 

Sleep drifts across my consciousness
as I enter that make-believe world
where reality sees through a muslin mask
draped damask silk obscures truth
and a samite screen falls across my past

The difference between then and now fades
as a haze envelopes my senses
featureless clouds descend
and my dream-world begins

Reality now hijacked by myth and legend
a new world
untried
untested
a concoction distilled from my history
as unlike my waking world
as noonday is from midnight
as I am from my shadow

SLEEP

Life’s parade ground

Death’s practice ground

 

OF UNCONSIDERED TRIFLES

 

Photo by Emre Can on Pexels.com

Autolycus came to me and said:
You are a fellow Trifler
Collecting titbits as you go
A code, a pun, a cipher.

A slice of verse,
A photograph,
Graffiti on a wall.
A derelict old building,
A motto I recall.

A snippet here,
A smidgen there,
Nonsensical or sane;
Collecting trifles will pay off,
Nothing is in vain.

An old dead doll,
A fireplace,
A waste bin on a beach,
Have all at times inspired my verse
My writer’s block to breach.

For my creative muse,
Despite its times of dearth,
Enjoys the trigger of the odd
‘Tis inspiration’s birth.

NOTE:  Shakespeare’s Autolycus (in A ‘Winter’s Tale’, claims that he is ‘a snapper–up of unconsidered trifles‘.

 

How Can It Be?

Photo by Immortal shots on Pexels.com

 

Sad the moment
Instant grief
No containment
No relief

How can it be
That such a stricture
Such hurt
Such pain
Can come to blight
A life again
When all else seems
So sweet
So rich

One thought sustains
And moves us on
Relentless time
Regarding none
Ensures at last
The past is gone
While healing hope remains

 

A December Tanka

‘Winter’ … WHB – Pen & Ink 2017 

 

Bright the winter sun

Burns in the short day’s heaven

As each day goes by

I think of Bethlehem’s star

Wishing the year ‘Au Revoir’.

 

Tanka is a genre of classical Japanese poetry meaning a short poem, and one of the major genres of Japanese literature.

A Tanka consist of five units (often treated as separate lines when romanized or translated) usually with the pattern of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables per unit or line). Wikipedia.

I have again ended my Tanka with a rhyming couplet.

A Life: Another Long Tale

Photo by Jeswin Thomas on Pexels.com

 

I

told

you

so

 

You

would

be

bored

 

Best

forgotten

 

Best

ignored.

 

… So I will

 

 

 

Life: A Long Tale

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

It’s

been

a

long

life

I’ve

lived

it

well

It’s

a

long

tale

Too

long

to

tell

… So

I

won’t!

 

 

A November Tanka

Photo by Matt Hardy on Pexels.com

 

Dark the days are now

Winter bites as we look on

In November’s clothes

Breeding hope and dulling pain

Will we see this month again?

 

Tanka is a genre of classical Japanese poetry meaning a short poem, and one of the major genres of Japanese literature.

A Tanka consist of five units (often treated as separate lines when romanized or translated) usually with the pattern of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables per unit or line). Wikipedia.

I have here ended my Tanka with a rhyming couplet

 

 

 

The Dead Tree

Photo: WHB, 2019  … Knighthayes, Tiverton, Devon  ©

Bold and boastful,
Big and brash,
A mighty marvel still.
A splendid giant
Holding court
Bestride that verdant hill.

Imperious, noble,
Still a lord
Of field and hill and view.
Its commanding presence
Memorial to
All that once was new.

Never forlorn,
The strength of years
Still lingers in those limbs.
A memory,
A masterpiece,
Even as the vision dims.

‘Good, Better, Best’

From a re-created Victorian Schoolroom Museum, Devon, England … Photo WHB.  ©

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Good, better, best
Never let it rest
Til your good is better
And your better best

 

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I was here
Here I was
Was I here
Yes I was