PUSHING UP THE DAISIES

‘Pushing Up The Daisies’ … WHB – Pen & Wash. May 2017

Where are they now
Gerard and the Craig twins
Doggy Dan  and Luggy Cooper 
the Lawrences
Jocky Boyes and Spuggie Hood,
each with a memory attached
their image for me
still young
never ageing?

Could be still out there
my age
and I’m still here,
not waiting
but wanting
wishing
hoping
reliving memories
replaying youth,
recalling lads
lasses too
part of my past
history of my story,
liked,
loved,
and lusted after,
feared
and fretted over,
not given a thought
until now
but they could still be here,
there,
somewhere,
not pushing up the daisies.
Not yet.

Will some of them,
wherever,
still be sleeping
with my dreams?
Others,
as I,
lying sleepless,
thinking these same thoughts,
because
we do have the same history,
minds similarly imprinted,
memories matched
attuned
remembering.

Racing out in the morning
breathless with anticipation
rushing to share our days,
to build the same dams
catch the same minnows
in the same jam jars
leap the same becks
explore the same tunnels
climb the same trees
rocks
hills
fight the same mock battles.
All
forging our own
memories.

And Jim
Jim, the joker,
jumped off Highcliff Nab
while I took his photo,
fell
all of six feet
soft landed
on the turf ledge.
No dying fall,

not kicking up the daisies.

Not then,
no, he wasn’t then,
he is now.
Long lost
professor of religions
respected author
from beck side cottage,
but now
no thanks to weed and wine
buried deep
in my Memory Lane.
Now pushing up the daisies.

But those of us who remain
short time to run
just enough to practise
treading the ceremonial turf
from below
to push up the daisies.

While now,
above ground
we tread warily
lest their spades
are not ready
when our own time comes
to push up the daisies.

THE SUBSERVIENT MOON

THE SUBSERVIENT MOON

Each day
The rising sun
chases the moon away
To hide its limpid light
From the brightness of day.
Cowed in its lair
Within the darkness
Of its sylvan hideaway,
Preferring to lie
With the leaves
And squirrels
And, as Clytie,
Watch the skies,
Following Helios’s chariot,
Gazing as he
Arcs the heavens,
Jealous of his power,
Fearful of his revenge
Were she ever to show her face
In his presence.
Ever allowing her nemesis
To hold sway
Over the new day,
Commanding the attention of the world
And continuing his journey;
The dominant presence
In the cerulean sky.

When is the moon not a moon? 
… When it’s the sun in a circular mirror. 

The three photographs are of a reflection in a window of daylight, itself reflected in a circular mirror and back onto the glass of the window.
All photographs by me – March 2017 … Roland (WHB) 

To Absent Friends

TO ABSENT FRIENDS

As the distended rollers break
Upon that ocean shore
I think of all the hearts that beat
But now will beat no more.

Friends who were once so close to me
Whose lives with me were one
Who now have lost their lust for life
Lost it, and have gone.

Sadness is no gift to sorrow
But memories linger on
It’s when I watch the ocean’s waves
It’s them I think upon.

Why this should be I do not know
For me there’s no release
It is the breathing of the waves
Confirms our own will cease.

Perhaps it is their constancy,
Their never ending thrust
Confirms our own ephemeral lives
Will end soon, as they must.

CRICKET, Glorious Cricket

‘When Bat Meets Ball’ … WHB – April 2017

CRICKET, Glorious Cricket

In appreciation of cricket commentaries and commentators

If FOOTBALL is ‘THE BEAUTIFUL GAME’
Then I would have to say,
CRICKET is ‘THE GLORIOUS GAME’,
It betters it all the way.

Both have eleven in their team,
Both games are played with balls,
But there the similarity ends,
They’re not the same at all.

Although it is a game to watch
Cricket’s still a hit;
When listening to the radio
And those pundits spice it up a bit.

Yes, commentators do indulge,
Their language can sound silly,
For cricket lends itself to jest …
“The bowlers Holding, the batsman’s Willey”.

The comma after Holding,
That is the crucial bit.
Without it we would all be –
Well – Not something we permit.

Who ever heard a football pundit
Deliver such a joke?
Their chat is loud and full of ‘Gooooooal!”
Enough to cause a stroke.

As I listen to my radio,
When reporters break the rules,
In cricket commentaries
They do not talk like fools.

“He chanced his arm and it came off”
That is another beauty;
“The captain’s relieved himself at the Pavilion End”
There’s another, just a little fruity.

“Neil Harvey, he is fielding slip,
Waiting for a tickle, legs wide apart”,
Compared with such perceptive comments
Football has no counterpart.

“An interesting morning, full of interest”.
“Hutton ill … sorry, 111″
There’s two beauties, made to measure,
More like that and I’m in heaven.

So there you have it,
It’s my viewpoint.
These cricket commentators
May the gods anoint.

( With my apologies for some of my forced rhymes and unmetrical meters! )

Then Will I Sing

Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones (1833-1898) … St.Cecilia – Stained Glass – 2nd Presbyterian Church, Chicago

When time at last has caught its fearful breath
And I have cause to think again of you,
I will return to our far distant past
And then relive those old desires anew.

For when in trepidation I now pray
For health and strength in my remaining years,
Memories flood back of youthful days
When you and I brushed eyes and shed some tears.

Now, when hearts may meet and lips may touch,
And old less supple bodies bond in bliss,
Now, when you give to me your self in love,
Then will I sing and long remember this.

That youth and age together make a life,
Related sides of but a single page.
This truth becomes at last to us apparent,
Allows our hearts in love to re-engage.

Spring In Autumn

‘Apple Blossom’ Surrey, England  . . .  Photo – WHB – April 2017

SPRING IN AUTUMN

The apple blossom curls against my window

Promising its fruit as it unfurls;

Its pink and white against the burgeoning greenness

Sing, as my mind around them swirls.

For all the beauty I behold in nature

Summates in this the spring of my old age,

And promises the gift of lasting vision;

My passing will not be in futile rage.

‘Apple Blossom’ Surrey, England  . . .  Photos – WHB – April 2017

CRICKET, Swinging the Willow

‘Cricket – Sweep Shot’ … Pen & Wash – WHB.  2017

 

CRICKET – STROKES & SHOTS

CRICKET is a game which lends itself to hyperbole, and attempts to describe the game on sound radio have enlivened and intrigued for many years.   To this end commentators have developed a highly descriptive language to convey the excitement and finesse which cricketers from all over the world apply to the game. For example, there are numerous ways in which the shots played by batsmen can be described.  These are, of course, governed by the prevailing conditions of weather and the playing surface as well as by the whiles of the bowler they are facing.

I can make an anthology
Of cricket terminology,

Particularly the strokes,
And I’m not kidding folks,

Because in this descriptive way
Commentators describe the play:

Will it be a slick flick
Or a fickle tickle?

Do remember that a chance leg glance
Is always better than a dull pull;

Although why not a deep sweep,
Try a hook and tempt a duck?

A slash in a flash
Is better than a trash bash;

But a loop of a scoop
May get you caught out for nought;

While a cut in a hurry
Will have you out in a flurry.

Try a snide glide,
Or a fine slide.

Even a rich switch
Must be better than a mere steer,

While a high five for a cover drive
Easily beats a mock block.

Did you know, a bit of a trick
Is a quickly executed slick snick?

But beware the rash slash,
Or that devastating poke stroke;

And how about  a big slog
… To end my blog?

ZEUGMAS

Burnt out Car, Burnt out Life’  A303 – 2016 … Photo-WHB

ZEUGMAS

(And even ‘Zeugmata’!)

Zeugmas are fun, so don’t be averse,
Use them to colour your prose and your verse.

#   #   #

Burnt out your car and your life,
Leave a fierce scar and your beautiful wife.

Start a new page and a movement;
Room for one more and for improvement.

Hold your breath and the front door;
Cry for lost love and for more.

Lend me a fiver and your ears;
Dry your washing and your tears.

Break your wrist watch and your heart;
Blow a kiss and blow apart.

Take your time and my advice,
Think positive, but do it twice.

Cover with dirt as well as glory;
Read a mind and a bedtime story.

His licence expired, then he did;
Give him a kiss and fifty quid.

Make breakfast and the bed,
And leave a tip or the room instead.

Sold a basket and a pup;
Grow angry then and do grow up.

Catch a cold and a thief,
Hold a baby and a belief.

Fish for compliments and for shark;
Play in the band and in the park.

Take your leave and take your hat;
Kick the bucket and the cat.

#  #  #

How rewarding that such malfunctions
Create in language such fun conjunctions.

Cricket, Love & Easter

Three RICTAMETERS

Rictameter is a fixed-syllabic poetry form, similar to the Haiku and the Cinquain   ( Click here See my own cinquain in an earlier blog.  ).  The rictameter starts with a two-syllable word as the first line.  Then the line length in syllables is consecutively increased by two, i.e. 2, 4, 6, 8, 10.  Then down again, from 8, 6, 4, 2.   The final of the 9 lines is required to be the same two syllable word as in the opening line.

The format was created in the early 1990s by two cousins, Jason Wilkins and Richard Lunsford, for a poetry contest that was held as a weekly practice of their self-invented order, ‘The Brotherhood of the Amarantos Mystery’, which was apparently inspired by the Robin Williams film ‘Dead Poet’s Society’.

I have attempted three versions of this format below . . .


CRICKET

Cricket
Keep a straight bat
All that they throw at you
Face up to it with fortitude
Don’t be average be an all-rounder
And when it’s time to pull up stumps
Try to carry your bat
Don’t declare, that’s
Cricket.

LOVE

Love hurts
It burns the soul
From lust to jealousy
It does not let up from that pain
So put alongside with its times of bliss
The memories of anguished dread
When all seemed to be dead
All reason says
Love hurts.

crossEASTER

Absolve
The human race
Release them from their sins
Forgive them their indiscretions
Instead torment me on that cruel cross
That I might thus remind them all
That God our father loves
And all our sins
Absolves.

  • – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –