Released Into Life

Life lacks lustre
And my world is grey;
As it re-awakes,
Is it here to stay?

I’ve slumbered long
In my cocoon,
Sheltered and shielded
‘Neath a midday moon.

Spring with its joy
Struggles to bring
Its warmth and colour,
Its song to sing.

But after the storm
The clouds disperse;
I await with hope
To end my verse.

Time For The Fox

Photo: WHB 2015

atop the coop
waiting
always waiting

watching
constant watching
a lifetime of watching
and waiting
sleeping too
but always wary
wary
and cunning

on that
my life
their lives
their deaths
depend
catch them off guard
find or force an entry
feather whirlwind
blood so red
sound abounds
then escape
back to my den
prize in my jaws

cubs satisfied
another day survived
one more day alive
to thrive
before I start again
one more fox
one fewer chicken
scales swinging
a sort of balance
 is kept

for now

 

 

Remembering

‘Roseberry Topping’ … WHB: Pen 1981

Tell me stories,
Sing me hymns.
As I remember
Let me weep.

Time is passing,
Friends are leaving,
Do I want
More hours to keep.

Midst purple heather,
Bracken brown,
Grass close cut
By hillside sheep.

Blue bells ring,
Rose berries ripen,
Let me lie
Both warm and deep.

Green hills surround
Where I was born;
Let me again
Amongst them sleep.

Clytie


Pen & Ink Drawing of George \frederick Watts’ sculptured bust of CLYTIE  . . .  by W.H.B.

 In the verses below, I attempt to express Clytie’s plight when she finds her love for the Son God, Helios, rejected, and she is committed to watch his daily flight across the heavens in his winged chariot .  Eventually she is transformed into a sunflower or heliotrope , condemned for ever to follow the sun’s movements across the sky.

CLYTIE

As dusk takes over from the day
I stand on Helios’ shore and weep.

Light for my soul,
Lust for my life;
These no more can I strive to keep.

Yet there is hope because the night
Is followed by expectant day.
The sun will rise
With hope intact,
And I’ll revive my destined way.

The languid sun will lift at dawn
Over the shimmering tranquil sea.
It is my dreams,
My Holy Grail,
And promises new hopes to me.

The sun renews its daily task.
As Clytie, I still strive to meld
Lovers’ aubade,
Their serenade.
With this till dusk my life is held.

Time’s chariot, its path I trace;
Helios arcs across the sky.
Till evening ends
In blood red  gore,
And once again I die.

But then again the cycle breaks
When dawn extends to dusk its kiss.
It’s carmine clinch,
Crimson caress,
Herald again life’s feud with bliss.

Clytie is a figure from Ancient Greek mythology. She was a water nymph, daughter of Oceanus and Tethys in Greek mythology. Clytia loved Helios in vain.[ My Poem was Previously published – Sep., 2016 ]

Let Life Begin

My covid story
I rehearse …
I tell its story
In rhyming verse.


To be in England
Now April’s here;
Come lockdown’s end
I’ll give a cheer.

I’ve lived alone
In a bee-loud glade,
And sung the song
That covid made.

Now let me dance
With the daffodils,
And no more seek
For frills and thrills.

A holiday
I can’t afford;
I’ll stay at home,
Not travel abroad.

A cold winter
We’ve had of it;
Let life begin,
Lickety split.


With appreciative nods in the direction of…Robert Browning; W.B.Yeats; William Wordsworth; T.S.Eliot

My Bobby Dazzler

‘Ow do, lass, tha’s a stunner,
I aint seen ‘out like ‘thee afoor.
Th’as luvly as t’sun after t’rain
I’m as sure as I’m sure I am sure.

Tha’s such a reyt bobby-dazzler,
Tha’s taken mi breath clear away
And I’ll nivver find a better,
So one day it’s a bridal bouquet.

And when we git married I’ll luv thee,
I’ll look after thee till I die;
And when we’re tigether in t’eaven
Tha’ll still be a-dazzling me eye.

‘Bobby-dazzler’ was originally a North East England dialect term for a person who is affectionately considered as being beautiful or remarkable. In have attempted to write these 3 verses in a North Yorkshire dialect,

Cirrhosis Of The River

Photo: WHB … R.Thames mooring – 2016

I name this boat ‘Cirrhosis’

It’s part of my neurosis;

And when at last it sinks

I’m finished with the drinks.

 © WHB . . . Originally published on this blog in 2016

Remembrance

‘The Churchyard’ – WHB … Pen: 1981

With bared feet
and sadness in my soul
I walk in the shallows
the waves rippling to my bare feet
I follow the ribs of the sand
to their end
in the swell of the next wave
and by their disappearance
I recognise the promise
of their continuation
for the world is in flux
a life beginning
as another ends
memory
fading at first
soon settles
into expectation
an affirmation
as the embers
of all that cease to be
are carried forward
in the seeds of
a future hope

Without a Bang

Hullabaloo
That joyous word
Gone away
Now little heard

Oft I dwell
On my failed successes
Gone to ground now
With all those other
Of life’s excesses

Clamour ended
Without a racket
Ballyhoo
No more a habit

No more thunder
Don’t misbehave
Cause no stir
A quiet grave


No Commotion
Palaver none
No consternation
And mayhem gone

Brouhaha
was once in fashion
Hubbub
rumpus
Were then a passion

Kerfuffle
bedlam
Have had their day
Pandemonium
no more holds sway

Ballyhoo
And Imbroglio
Tumultuous
turmoil
All had to go


Consternation
Furore
And Ruckus
All dead and gone
without much fuss

Donner und blitzen
Sturm und drang
Together ended
without a bang

Thus the world ends
While I whisper
Not with a bang
But with a whimper


With my grateful thanks to T. S. Eliot who assisted me with the last verse.



Word Of The Year

Staycation – the word of 2020 –
Is here again, and life’s still empty.

A holiday at home? Exciting?
Two weeks in prison – more inviting.

Last year’s buzzword here again,
Bring along your ball and chain.

For that’s now this year’s buzzword too;
So much to dream, so little to do.

Shall I fly or book a cruise?
No longer is it mine to choose.

Stay at home or nearby?
Get me to the airport and let me fly.

A Covid passport will be needed,
All other options now conceded.