Weaving Words

book opened on top of white table beside closed red book and round blue foliage ceramic cup on top of saucer

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Weaving Words

. . . A Poet’s Calling

I wander my world 
weaving words into verse
plaiting my thoughts 
into silken skeins of sense
rendering images
from my mind’s eye
to this digital paper
perverse perception
lending life to poetry
lust to hope 
and love to mon amour
the written word.

 
Only in time
with wish fulfilment
perchance my dreams
will meet my expectations 
and produce that meisterwerk
whose impetus
drives me on.

 

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Reverie #9: Echoes of the Past

Roseberry

Pen & Ink – WHB … Northern Hills

I need to listen to that hidden sound of silence
the murmur that thrills lost souls
and as it swells
reverberates among those distant heathered hills

I crave to hear it burgeon on that lonely land
that misty moor of distant memory
where dwell lush images of the Green Hill
of the High Cliff
the Cass Rock
the Apple Garth
and the bubbling burbling beck
its red waters blooding its banks
with reminders of its ferrous track

A distant memory
rising from deep beneath those ancient northern hills
born of Nature’s cycle
birthed in ironstone
and nurtured in those recurring dreams of my youth
and the lasting images of my old age

Bar-Rose

Reverie#8: A Song Before Leaving

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Oh my love
paint me into the shadows of your dreams
I want to be there among the drifting moonbeams of your waning passion
and as their dim light fades in the morning dew
to watch as our hopes sink slowly
through pools of deepest blue.

Let their adagio
their mellow harmonies
accompany the murmurings of my fading breath
and as its remnants settle on the bed of those fathomless depths
let them guide my blissful path to Heaven

 

Bar-Rose

Reverie #7: Dead Drunk 

alcohol beer beverage bottle

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Reverie #7: Dead Drunk

… A Dirge in the Key of D 

 

Drunk 
Distended and Distressed 
Doped in a Downtown Dive 
what have I Done to Desire to live 
what have I Done to Deserve a life 
what Dread Deeds Do I Declare 
Why is all Despair 
 
Down and out and 
Done to Death 
Dipped in Diesel 
Dressed in Dirt 
Dished up 
Defeated 
and Drowned in Drink 
Doing my Damnedest to Die 
 
Deftly Dealt 
It was a Diamond from the Deck 
Doom’s Deliberate Dance of Death 
Done and Dusted 
Drowned in Dread 
 
IN CASE OF DEATH 
DO NOT RESUSCITATE 

BluLine

Flights of Fancy

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Flights of Fancy

 

I’m given to flights of fancy,
‘Well, fancy that you say! ‘
Walter Mitty Syndrome,
A game that mad minds play.

Imagination rules,
The order of my day.
Stocked with ghosts and phantoms,
Reality at play.

My stories, novels, poems,
Articles and features,
With Ghouls, werewolves and zombies,
They’re bedevilled with such creatures.

– – – – – – – – – –

A mix concocted to bemuse,
Feelings splintered, screams abound,
Shattered dreams and shuttered minds,
Injured hearts, can all be found.

Hatching  out new cans of worms,
Striving for that killer effect.
Daydreams and nightmares have their place,
Even the Plague I resurrect.

So when at last I’ve said and done,
Ended my mini-masterpiece.
I’ll settle back, accept the praise,
Waiting for the press release.

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Songs My Mother Sang

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Songs My Mother Sang

The songs were of chill and anguish,
Sad songs with wistful themes,
Telling of loss and longing,
Songs of uncertain dreams.

Wistful, anxious, plaintive,
Sung in the dark days of war,
As though no end to suffering
Would reach us evermore.

She sang of the wandering gypsies,
The old lady sweet and kind,
Of old Barbara Frietchie’s flag,
And the boys who were left behind.

But though her words were sombre
I knew as she held me tight,
Her clutch was so warm and tender
The darkness would turn to light.

 

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No Regrets

 

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Let me kick my regrets into the long grass,
Let me mark an end to my sorrow.
The pain that I bore
Let it fade away,
Bring back my life from tomorrow.

The love that we shared it still will remain,
The times we were close will not wither.
The hopes that we had,
The love that we shared,
The pains that we bore together.

Our dreams may have faded without being fulfilled,
Along with the hopes that we cherished,
But what has remained
Has carried us through,
It’s our dreams not our love that have perished.

Bar-Rose

Longing

Lake Distriict-Borrowdale-1986

Borrowdale – Pen Sketch WHB – 1986  © 

LONGING

Yes, my youth brought many vital moments
among my native hills.
Such interludes return now
in flashback and in dreams
in vignettes and in echoes;
instances of acute sensitivity,
memories more precious and persistent
as year passes into year.

I wish I had been more alive then,
more interwoven with my surroundings,
instinctively attached to the skies above
and to the rolling landscape below.

For there, on the vast wide-open moorland
where, above my breathing,
what I heard, was only the sound of the bees
visiting the sun-yellow gorse,
and the sighing rustle of the breeze
playing amongst the curls of bracken,
the blackbirds circling above in the sundown dusk,
calls of the curlew, lapwing and meadow pipit
lost in broom , hidden in heather.

Sometimes, in the bliss of solitude’s memory,
I have known a disregard for time itself,
and I sense I would happily reach eternal slumber
in the rapturous throes of such longing.

 

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Too Short a Life

red lighted candle

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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