Too Short a Life

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Come to me in dreams
and still my hurting heart;
From all you meant to me
I cannot softly part.

As memory dulls and life
proceeds with steady tread,
it won’t be long before
I follow where you’ve led.

Life is too short for living,
Eternity too long.
Perhaps to swap them over
would right a painful wrong.

 

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DREAMLAND

WHB . . . Pen & Wash 1957

DREAMLAND

 

I am led to consider
where it is
that my dreams take me 

 

for when I dream
my world I find
has changed
become condensed
circumscribed by boundaries
which pulse with uncertainty
suppressing perspective
and thereby
concentrating my actions
in broken sequence
now vague somehow
contrary to what is natural
purposeful
yet without intent
and I remain
closeted in an oppressive world
one of vague
and indeterminate outcomes
part hopeful
part fearful
never resolved
always shattered by that rude awakening
which abruptly
without asking
returns my life to a real world
wherein
ill-defined ghosts
stumble into meaning



The Lark

I miss you when I wake
From the dark dreams of my night. 
I miss your being there
As the morning streams with light. 

I miss you as I walk
Beside the swift and swollen river.
I feel your loss intensely 
It’s not cold that makes me shiver. 

Where are you now I wonder,
I can’t find you when I search.

I lost you in that springtime
In that faith redeeming church. 

Your lark ascends each morning 
As the sun grows in the sky.
I pray that when I follow
I will find you by and by.

 

 

My Fantasy

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MY  FANTASY

 

I’ve lived outside my fantasy
But now I’m moving in
Reality removes itself 
No chance I’ll let it win

The safe distance I have kept
Recedes, becomes the past, 
And dreams become the truth for me
My day has dawned at last

Life and love are now as one
Merging desire and hope 
Becoming all that promise meant
Ensuring I will cope.

 

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A Dreamless Sleep

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Photograph … Double Rainbow Nr. Stonehenge, England – July 2009:  WHB   ©

A DREAMLESS SLEEP

Will death be as a dreamless sleep,
Or Prospero’s promised damage;
Will dreams fill up my remnant soul,
Digesting life’s excessive baggage?

 For my belief, held with a caution,
And ever fraught with doubt,
Is that there’ll be a price to pay,
And that my faults will find me out.

 Those indiscretions I have owned
Frailties, foibles, defects,
The fallout from my elapsed life
Could yet bewilder and perplex.

 So, as I travel on from here,
Will love still follow me
Into that unknown future sleep,

Where memory has no guarantee?

 Life’s fallout has to rest always
With those we count so dear;
I pray when Judgement Day arrives
My flaws with me will disappear.

 

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The Borderlands of POETRY – 4

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POETRY AS DREAM

 

Poetry is my life revealed,
For there, in depth of thought,
Lie all my hopes, my dreams expressed
In words intense and tightly wrought.

Exploring what I hardly know,
Seeking as though dreaming,
I struggle to define my life,
Grasping for more meaning.

The confines of experience
I venture to pursue,
Defining life and love and death,
Their meaning to construe.

And when I’ve sifted every thought,
Mined the deepest seams,
I feel I’ve drained my Muse’s well,
Finding only dreams.

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‘Night Marriage’

[  # 81 of My Favourite Short Poems  ]

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Night Marriage   . . .  by   Carol Ann Duffy

When I turn off the light
and the dark mile between us
crumples and falls,
you slip from your self to wait for me in my sleep,
the face of the moon sinking Into a cloud;

or I wake bereaved
from the long hours
I spend in your dreams,
an owl in the forest crying its soft vowels,
dark fish swimming under the river’s skin.

Night marriage. The small hours join us,
face to face as we sleep and dream;
the whole of the huge night is our room.

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Re-printed from ‘The Times’,  Saturday September 3rd, 2005

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Seagrass

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Seagrass

I will sleep all night in your arms
Then whilst the day is dawning
We will wake and gaze out to sea
And together
Welcome back the morning

We’ll watch as the seagulls broil and fuss
As they dart over the incoming tide
Hear the call of the geese
Soaring over the breaking waves
Their stately beating wings
Presaging their arrival
Their fervour undiminished
As they return to the seagrass
The meadows of their dreams
To feed and live on

Such images reveal to me
Confirm my heart’s content
That life and nature exist
Perhaps their sole purpose
To ratify love
For each other
For humanity
Love for nature
And for all of creation

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Am I a POET?

 

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CALLIOPE: the muse who presides over eloquence and epic poetry; 

Am I a POET?

I’m a poet!  Who are you?
Are you a Poet, too?
 
Do I write poetry?
I say I do;
But is it poetry I write?
What say you?

 Was it by sweated brow,
By haunted vision,
I overcame my indecision?

 Did Damascene insights,
Or inspiration’s muse,
Give birth
To my poetic views?

 This begs the question
Long undecided:
Am I a Poet,
Famed or derided?


 

I wrote a poem the other day,
or was it just words
in a different order,
pretending
to have their own reason for existence?

Such feelings are
The price I pay;
when I say
I am a poet
am I honest,
do I really know it?

Addressing myself
I’ve learned to ask,
and every time I pen a poem
I set myself this very task . . .


Can I really
hand on heart
claim to be
a tiny part
of all those great
illustrious sages
who’ve coloured
life’s dramatic pages
in epics, sonnets,
ballads and odes,
presenting prose
in verbal codes,
fantasising fecund dreams,
massaging thoughts and wild ideas,
composing their Byronic idylls,
word music of the spheres?

The net result,
always the same,
I know I’ll have
no claim to fame.

Such images,
they prove to me,
that shallow thoughts,
marshmallow words,
can never in a thousand years,
however many sweated tears,
make me one of their poetic peers.

 


 

Poets Corner

 

 

Books Do Not Die . . .

Books-DoNotDie

Books, do not die

{ A paean to Books }

 

Books, do not die,
You bring me such joy;
I’ve dwelt in your pages
Since I was a boy.

Books, do not die,
You are humble yet proud,
Bringing solace and hope,
The sun through the cloud.

Books, do not die.
Your warmth and your grace,
Your wisdom and charm,
I clutch and embrace.

Books, do not die,
You have smell, you have taste.
Your very presence
Will not go to waste.

Books, do not die,
Your existence delights
You see me through
Those long dark winter nights

Books do not die,
My dreams you renew;
You offer escape,
I can’t live without you.

Books, Do not die;
Do not burn, Or expire.
Life blood of words,
Procreate and inspire.

 

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