Two Word Tale #9 – Be Bold

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Be Bold

Be bold
Don’t moan
Be brave
We’re alone
You’re scared
I’m not
Just try …
…  A shot!

Missed me
Winged you
Play dead
Me too

He’s gone
We hope
Your dream
My trope

 

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To Sleep … To Dream

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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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Reverie #4 … Still Waters

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STILL  WATERS

 

No. Not Muddy Waters,
Nor even Crystal Waters.
It was Still Waters.
Yes, that’s what we called him.

He called himself Walter.
Walter Waters from Watford
And places South of the Gap.
My one-time boss
Head man
Big chief of the Trendy Tribe
Leader of the Pliant Pack.

I could never fathom him.
Not him
Nor his fawning hangers-on.
Still waters run deep they say.
I’d say that still waters are stagnant,
Not much running there
Algae-filled, dark green and smelly
– Rancid in fact,
And deliriously avoidable.

Yes, that’s him without doubt.
Going nowhere – fast or any other speed.
Him to a ‘t’ ;
a Capital ‘T’.
I’d say that fits his bill.

Yet he thinks he’s life and soul of the party.
God’s Gift to the Agency.

Some party!
Some life?!
Worth a dream,
But never a second meeting.

 

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Reverie #3 – The Hand of Fear

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Awake with a sweat 
In a cloud of dread
A nightmare place I’d left. 
Unsure of where
Of how, of when. 
What was it caused my fears, 
What un-shapen image then
Had brought about these tears? 

I never before saw 
Nor ever felt, 
A fear so deep. 
Dear God, 
The very rustle in the trees
Caused my skin to creep.

And now my frozen heart is lying still.

 

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My Heart’s Age

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My Heart’s Age

Do I know how old my heart is?
Do I know its age?
Has it earned its idyll now, 
Has it burnt its rage?

It must be old, older than me, 
It’s showing signs of abuse;
Perhaps a lighter schedule now, 
Less of the fast and loose.

If only I could follow my heart
And it could read my mind,
I’d live within my dream and leave
My remnant life behind.

 

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The Moon And Sixpence

 

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The Moon & Sixpence

 

At such a sight
As the moon at night
So high, so bright
My thoughts take flight
The sheer delight
Of its vibrant white
Its pungent bite
Some day might
Emit its light
End my plight
Leaving me quite
Without foresight
Yet still contrite

All this I write
So slight
And yet
So recondite

My life’s Sixpence 
I’ve almost spent
It’s true
I’m getting old
And to my cost
I’ve loved and lost
My heady tale
Is nearly told

For all my time
The pain, the wine
I’ve trod the edge
So they allege

But despite the sorrow  
The joy and pain
Nothing in vain

The theme has been
I’ve lived my dream

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NOTE:  From ‘Wikipedia’, describing the derivation of the title for Somerset Maugham’s novel, ‘The Moon and Sixpence’, which is loosely based on the life of French artist, Paul Gauguin.

According to some sources, the title, the meaning of which is not explicitly revealed in the book, was taken from a review of Maugham’s novel Of Human Bondage in which the novel’s protagonist, Philip Carey, is described as “so busy yearning for the moon that he never saw the sixpence at his feet.”  According to a 1956 letter from Maugham, “If you look on the ground in search of a sixpence, you don’t look up, and so miss the moon.” Maugham’s title echoes the description of Gauguin by his contemporary biographer, Meier-Graefe (1908): “He [Gauguin] may be charged with having always wanted something else.”

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The Dawn

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‘An English Dawn’ … WHB – 1991  ©

 

THE  DAWN

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THE HAIKU

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Nature’s steady hand
Its season’s sure permanence
Gives respite from doubt

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THE POEM

As the dawn broke
In the pregnant East
And beams of burgeoning day
Stretched across the yellowed sky
The songbirds’ treetop threnody
Broke into my dream

Sleep giving way
And all too soon replaced
In that initial gentle awareness
Of life renewed once more
Its promise and its worries
Suddenly looming large
Within my newly unlocked consciousness
Potently recalling life’s commitments
Compelling acknowledgement
Of my obligations
And accompanied by the knowledge
Of decisions to be made
Promises to be met
Expectations to be fulfilled

Only the guarantee of Nature’s steady hand
Of each day’s new dawn,
Of the cycle of each recurring season
Promising a prospect of its permanence
Thus bestowing respite from our doubts

 

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A touch will be enough

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A touch will be enough

I think of my first love
who escaped south
and who now faces old age
with a brightness
far better than death’s impending despair.

My last love,
All passion spent,
Was of a quiet deep fulfilment
of silent bliss
engaging me
while the blackbird
for both of us now
sings in the highest tree
and, with a distant touch of the hands,
a slower walk with the waves
on that distant shore,
bird and sea,
my soul is fed,
listening to their songs
keeping at bay life’s end.

For now
I dream converse,
I listen to my memories,
resisting that clouding of the vision
which elapsed time brings.

I allow perception of days to come
in which appreciative eye
and halcyon heart
will enable a new closeness,
one of being together
in harmony with both past and present,
and the future becomes again
brighter.

A touch will be enough.

 

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The Voice

VoiceFromTheGrave

THE VOICE

It woke me from my sleep,
I heard it call my name.
Not plaintive nor appealing,
The gentle murmur came.

Not desperate nor demanding, 
Nor urgent nor imploring,
A voice I recognised
From the deep grave was calling.

As she had once addressed me,
Just quizzical, requesting
A warm word in response
Our lifetime’s love suggesting

Half awake I called out “Yes?” 
Expecting a reply
But no such came and then I knew
It had to be “Goodbye”. 

Four times I’ve heard in recent days 
my name called out on waking 
It can’t be real. It can’t be true,
It must be memory faking.

A voice that I had known
From the grave’s depth calling
A voice now lost to me
Lost memory forestalling.

A wake-up call to start my day 
My new life here without you 
I miss you so. But now I know 
You wish me life anew. 

 

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A Dream Enriched

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Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones: ‘The Love Song’

A DREAM ENRICHED

 She came to me
A dream enriched
When I was most in need.
Long summers passed
And she was there
She held my hand
Until with time
My troubles did recede

 And then
When age had bitten back
She gave her love to me
Without a qualm
She took my arm
For she was Spring
As Autumn came
And I was home at last.

 

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