Cycle of Life and Death

I came across its shrunken frame,
lashed to a random rail.
The secluded death, diminished frame,
told a sorry tale.

How once, a joy, a treasured pride,
it bore a life that mattered;
How love once dignified its role,
that now was broke and battered.

Where love had once upon a time
a vibrant life endorsed.
What pride and joy and patience once
was lavished on this corpse.

What story lay behind the scene,
what trauma caused this end?
How it had come to this sad state
I could not comprehend.

The violence of traumatic death,
the twisted sculpture left,
tells such a haunted tortured tale,
leaving a soul bereft.

AS SHADOWS COME AND GO

as more mute shadows come and go
so
my life does ebb and flow
clinging
disturbingly
with my every motion
not prepared to let me go
until at some time
not yet determined
in the day’s misty murkiness
I will merge with the darkness
along with life’s shrouded meaning
to await that time
which surely will arrive
for the putting out of the light
and the beginning
of death’s adventure

Death of the High Street

Death of the High Street

The toppled torso
tired and torn
lay in the Church Street window
Snapshot of fallen glory
now in tired languor
seeking to hide from view
attempting to forget its past 
Once peacock proud
And prettified
full-fashioned
Embellished and brocaded
Bedecked in yesterday’s mode
Reduced now to a fallen dusted death
Memento Mori
Of yet another High Street death

DEATH BY ICICLE

Inscription plaque under Bampton Church (East Devon) tower … Photo: WHB 2020

The above inscription reads . . .

IN MEMORY OF THE CLERK’S SON
Bless my i. i. i. i. i. i.
Here he lies
In a sad Pickle
Killed by Icicle
IN THE YEAR 1776.

DEATH BY ICICLE

A cold way to leave a life
Those many years ago,
Worse than any butcher’s knife,
The saddest way to go.

For standing looking at the tower
Of this his village church,
Caught by the sharp shard’s lethal power
He gave a sudden lurch,

And pierced to the very heart
He fell, struck by an icicle,
It must have been the devil’s dart
An ending diabolical.

For one of my previous blogs on this subject please visit . . . 

https://rolandsragbag.wordpress.com/tag/icicle/

 

While Time Ticks On: 2-word Tales #15

BigBen

Pen&Wash-WHB

WHILE TIME  TICKS  ON

Time tells
Its tale
Tick tock
Tock tick

If truth
Be told
When time
Runs out
I won’t
Be stressed
I won’t
Be tired
Just sad
Wist-full
Pen-sive
Love-sick

Yet still
Hell bent
To start
With zeal
Pre-pared
To do
Just what
It takes
To live
A-gain

Next time
In peace
Con-cord
Re-pose
While time
Still there
Ticks on

pexels-photo-50632

 

Ars Poetica – A Licence to Versify

Herrick-Anacreontike-1956

Pen & Wash – ‘Herrick’ … WHB   (1956)

Archibald MacLeish  ends his poem ‘Ars Poetica’ with the words

“A poem should not mean
But be”

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Licence to Versify

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My poem exists
Not because
But in spite of me
A virgin birth
Wrenched from an empty womb
An absent father
Mother-smothered

A moment’s thought
spilt words
simultaneously apt
yet contradictory 
In black
On shaded parchment
Devoid of sense
Yet full of purpose
Intent on birth
But clutched by death

Flying free yet
tightly bound
A stillbirth
Suspiciously silent
A jewel in jet
Contradicting sense
By being senseless

Licensed to thrill
For good or ill

 

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To Sleep … To Dream

sleep

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

 

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Two Word Tales: #4

photo of body of water with boulders

Photo by Inge Wallumrød on Pexels.com

Two words

‘Good Bye’

Were all

It took

 

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My ‘Two Word’ Verses

Throughout this week, I shall publish each day one of a series of short verses which, together, by the end of the week, will have told a story. 

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