A Walk Through The Woods To The Sea

cascade creek environment fern

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

A Walk Through The Woods To The Sea

As I breathe in the wild garlic woods
I resurrect a memory.
In bursts of fiery vision
Both eyes and nostrils
Recall the path
Descending without haste
From cornfield to woodland dell
To fern and rill
Beneath the high arches
Of the viaduct
Soft tread over the bracken-strewn turf
Beside the bubbling beck
To meet the waiting waves
On that bleached beach
Promising not only present joy
But with purpose
Though without foreknowledge
Building a cornerstone 
Of my being
Nature’s Marble Halls
Erected to sustain life
To ensure that richness of experience
This continuity of pleasure
Which brings meaning now
When I had thought
Only the memory remained

Wild-garlic

 

Advertisements

The Vagrant

Berlin1930s

The Vagrant – WHB …  Pen & Sepia Wash

The Vagrant

Trapped in this
The world’s darkness
Imprisoned with the dead
Penned in this penitentiary
Another life I’ve led

A world unknown surrounds me
And never will unfold
For life exists without me
On such a slender thread I hold

Existence is my penance
My lot
The cross I wear
Nor health
Nor sickness please me
And who is there to care

Caged in perpetuity
Circumscribed by wire
Fettered by well meaning
Yet situation dire

Leave me here to rot
While no one waits my ending
No one guards my cradle
Situation pending

scroll2

A Reverie

backlit blur close up dawn

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Reverie

Woebeguileful
Slake my thirst
Kiss me quickly
But hurt me first

For that’s the way
The cookie crumbled
Feet up first
Safely rumbled

Try to take me
Test my twitch
For as long as it lasts
My heart will itch

So tell me teacher 
Tick my box
No more teasing 
Suck my socks

Test my oompah
Play no tricks
Take the tablets
Have a fix

Rid me of all misconception
Stick my pallid interjections
Take them where the sun won’t shine
No half measures
Taste the wine

Asterisk1a

 

A Politician’s Thirst For Power

person dropping paper on box

Photo by Element5 Digital on Pexels.com

Members of the British Parliament  are currently throwing their hats into the ring in the hope of becoming the next Tory leader and prime minister. The earlier number of 13 hopeful candidates has now been reduced to eleven.  Perhaps there are more to come, or maybe others will think again and withdraw their names from the list.  The Conservative electorate awaits  .  .  .bar-yellow

 

A Politician’s Thirst For Power

Give me hope and lend me foresight,
I must not wait till it’s too late
Perhaps I might
Join the fight,
Grasp at chance and seal my fate

Please, tell me to refrain from trying, 
Tell me now to stop and think. 
Am I helping, 
Ego-crying, 
Will I take things to the brink? 

Is it time to reconsider, 
Time to stop, not interfere? 
Time to ponder, 
Time to wonder, 
Will my offer cost me dear? 

My party needs me like a headache, 
Yet another cross to bear. 
I’m a chancer, 
Fate enhancer. 
Should I do it, should I dare?

Better not, time’s not quite right, 
. . . To be or not to be?
Don’t take a bet, 
My time’s not yet . . . 
Wait a year or two and see. 

redline-thin

Thy Will Be Done

black and white cemetery christ church

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Thy Will Be Done

Cold to the touch
And past all hearing
Blue-mottled skin
Taught held and cold

The throb of fear
Intensely gripped
Constricted throat
Gulp
Retch 
Took hold

A life switched off
The dark descended
The past screwed up into a ball
Coated with fear
The future threatening
How to sum up
This final call

Che sera
Will be
What was
Was me

The now 
The then
The future
When
Melt into one
Not lost
Nor gone
All rest upon
Thy will be done

Fond memories remain
To feed our forever future

bar2

And the Dead Tree Gives no Shelter

decay

Photo:  WHB … 2019

 

The tree had fallen
Rotting remains now
As the rain 
The wind 
devour its bark
Dam its life stream
Yet still it nurtures life 
Home for beetle colonies to breed
For fungi to succeed

Rotted matted carcass
This sorbate matter
Feeds a frenzy
Of insect life
Foreign matter
Now acceptable
Powdered matter
Now both home
And sustenance
Renewable energy
Nature’s liturgy

Life in Death
To turn a phrase
That has to be
Nature’s best call
Perpetuating the present
In the past
Creating a new future
In an old landscape

bar-green

N.B.  The title of this poem is taken from T.S.Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land’.
‘1. The Burial of the Dead’, beginning … ‘April is the cruellest month …’

bar-green

Banner2b

The Curious Case of the Cubist Clown

cubist clown

Photo: WHB – 2019

An unknown nocturne plays
without provenance 
Realised in a Narnian dream
to be read by hearsay
its undisclosed lineage
a mystery

White-garbed musician
guitar akimbo
Draped
casually at ease
on a cubist chair.

In melancholy mood
his arpeggioed chords
gently weeping
to me
the silent onlooker
the uninformed audience
for his deft and fretful
Brazilian saudade

Braque-ish cubes
predominate
Harlequin or Clown
checkered grand master
or imminent coulrophobia

And why white
Why the mask noir
the dense
Intense context
Where only silent space
listens
his rasguedo sonorous
in turn
soothing and somnolent
then
fraught with flamenco tension
or on fire with gypsy fervour

And the shadow figure
skulking
hurrying into the background
A sinister threat
escaping from
a mission accomplished 
or fleeing
bearing yet more grief
to some renegade de-briefing

The message missed
Significance lost
Theories advanced
Debated
Discarded

The clues must be there
too dense to unravel
I need a history

I think too
I see hidden faces
The game players’ cabal
linked by name
or by my imagination

In my desire to crack the code 
I stumble and abort my search
Defeated for now
But not for ever

bar2

I would be delighted if any viewer of the above picture could provide clues to the artist and or to his/her subject.  I have had no direct access to the original painting (print?) but an intriguing story was woven around both the painting’s subject and its acquisition by the friend who allowed  me to photograph the above which is merely a copy of the original. 

 

bar-green

A Glimpse of Paradise

Molesey Window1a

Photo:  WHB – 2019

A Glimpse of Paradise

I paused as I passed
Just a glimpse
in a miniscule
slice of time
Held in a bubble 
About to burst
A sense of the bizarre
The freaky
Outré and offbeat
Unreal yet lurid enough
As though I’d seen what I should not see
Felt what I had never felt

That entranced moment brought
Mirabile dictu
An exotic pain
That carried with it 
All meaning
The key to my existence 
The reason I was here
And nowhere else
Why I would live forever 
In the collective memory
Of the universe
An imprint
On the Tablet of Time

Molesey Window2a

scroll2

Mirrored Hope

Mirror1a

Photo: WHB – 2019

MIRRORED  HOPE

Ornate
The frame
Impounding
My world

Silver gilt
glistens
Holding
My framed
Existence in its
Reflected copy

How
I wish away 
My life
In exotic scenes

Imaged opulence
Amidst
A morbid
Decaying life

I ask no more
Than for an echo of my future

In my next glimpse
To come to my rescue
And transcribe
My defeatism
Into a reassuring future

No man
Can live for ever
But
To the end
He can deny
That thought

 

bar2

Postbox Blues

postal blues

Photo: WHB  … January 2019

POSTBOX  BLUES

A victim of
the email age
Now little used
My lonely lot

Now disengaged
Now cast aside
Now otiose
And left to die

Surplus to need 
The need for speed
My busy days
Have been and gone

Bustle and throb
Of vibrant life
Have passed away
Now ceased to be

My history
Of want and need
Of purposeful
Incarnation

Depository
For all junk mail
Dead detritus
Torn off waste 

Pariah now
The street’s reject
Too slow to match
The call for speed

Demand for pace
The need to know
Have caught me up
And let me go 

Have brought about
This timely end
So pass me by
And do not fret

As life now fades
My mission done
To desuetude
I now descend

banner4b