TRAPPED

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Photo: WHB – 2019

 

TRAPPED

Discarded
Trapped
Barred from a life
Tossed aside

Grate-fully
In the fervour of a game
Black-leaded dungeon
Grey grave
Sad sepulchre

Once loved
Cuddled
Cherished
Now soon to be
The ashes
From whence I came

Tell them

Not only humans
Are hurt
By rejection
Not only flesh
Is melted by fire

 

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Photo: WHB – 2019

 

 

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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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Thomas Hardy – ‘Regret Not Me’

 [  No.71 of my favourite short poems  ]

Yorks-Haworth Churchyard-1983

‘The Churchyard, Haworth’ … WHB – Pen & Ink:  1983

There is sadness, but with a quiet acceptance, in Hardy’s recall of the optimism of his ‘heydays’.  He has come to an accommodation with old age. long life and a resignation which will take him content into his everlasting ‘slumber’.

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Regret not me;
Beneath the sunny tree
I lie uncaring, slumbering peacefully.

Swift as the light
I flew my faery flight;
Ecstatically I moved, and feared no night.

I did not know
That heydays fade and go,
But deemed that what was would be always so.

I skipped at morn
Between the yellowing corn,
Thinking it good and glorious to be born.

I ran at eves
Among the piled-up sheaves,
Dreaming, “I grieve not, therefore nothing grieves.”

Now soon will come
The apple, pear, and plum
And hinds will sing, and autumn insects hum.

Again you will fare
To cider-makings rare,
And junketings; but I shall not be there.

Yet gaily sing
Until the pewter ring
Those songs we sang when we went gipsying.

And lightly dance
Some triple-timed romance
In coupled figures, and forget mischance;

And mourn not me
Beneath the yellowing tree;
For I shall mind not, slumbering peacefully

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Thomas Hardy

‘Thomas Hardy’ (1840-1928) by Walter William Ouless (National Portrait Gallery) 

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Readers may find it interesting to compare and contrast the lyrics of the classic Edith Piaf song . . .

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A Son to his Mother – A Sonnet

Mother-&-Son

A Son to his Mother . . . A Sonnet

As the clouds have wept on your grave
Since you left this world behind,
So do my tears flow
When your memory brings to mind
The love you had for me, 
Which in my lust for life
I never did return, 
But with my careless knife
Cut out the debt I owed.
Left you to love alone, 
To suffer silently,
My gratitude unknown
Forever to my shame,
I am the child to blame.

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CORNWALL – the North-East Coast

[  Photograph Gallery   #71  ]

Cornwall’s Coast . . . continued . . .

00 Cornwall-North-Coast

01 StEnodocsChurch1

St. Enodoc’s Church, Trebetherick, Cornwall. The church is said to lie on the site of a cave where Enodoc lived as a hermit.  It is situated among the sand dunes on the eastern bank of the River Camel estuary. Wind-driven sand has formed banks that are almost level with the roof on two sides.  From the 16th century to the middle of the 19th century, the church was virtually buried by the dunes, but by 1864 the church was unearthed and the dunes were stabilized.

02 BetjemansGrave

St. Enodoc’s Church – The grave of Sir John Betjeman.   From his youth Betjeman had come to this particular area of Cornwall.  He went on doing so regularly for the rest of his life.  He eventually moved to live at ‘Treen’, down a quiet lane in the village of Trebetherick, where he died in May 1984. 

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St. Enodoc’s Church – the decorated west porch

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St. Enodoc’s Church  – the decorated west porch (close-up view)

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Harbourside entertainment at Padstow on the River Camel estuary

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The view towards Boscastle from where the River Valency meets the sea

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Boscastle harbour and breakwater at the mouth of the River Valency

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Boats tied up in the shelter of the stone jetty at Boscastle

 

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The River Valency at Boscastle. Here seen after radical repairs and reconstruction of the river bed and bridge following the hugely destructive floods of  2004. An interesting description of this flood disaster can be read on Wikipedia at:  Boscastle Flood

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The Coastguard Station at Boscastle

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The sea entrance to Boscastle on the River Valancy viewed from the hilltop to the south of the town.

When I Am Gone

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‘Graveyard Moon’ … WHB -Pen  Wash 2017

WHEN I AM GONE

 

When I am gone
And you are left.
Be not afraid,
Be not bereft.

When you are old
And I am gone,
You’ll love the moon
That shines upon

My midnight grave,
Our place of tryst;
For though I’m gone
I still exist

In memory still;
The moon that shone
Upon our birth
Still shines for us

… when I am gone.

 

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Churchyard Blues– Five HAIKU

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Haworth Churchyard, Yorkshire.  The Brontes are buried in a vault inside the church , except Anne who was buried at Scarborough.   Pen & Ink Sketch – WHB, 1983    ©

 

CHURCHYARD BLUES – Five HAIKU

 

ACCEPTANCE:

Cradle of their births,
Shrouds for their future demise;
A place to belong. 

  

BELIEF:

To those with belief
Death does not come as an end;
With faith no one dies.

 

 HOPE:

Stay, hear, be silent;
Listen to the song thrush bring
Hope to the living

 

OPTIMISM:

Know, amongst these stones,
That life always precedes death;
Make the most of it.

 

 DOUBT:

If only God’s faith
Would strike my doubt ridden soul
I would die content.

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Aysgarth Churchyard, Yorkshire – Pen & Ink Sketch – WHB, 1981   ©

 

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Words From The Grave

A poem with alternate lines having the same rhyme . . . 
as –  A – B – C – B – D – B – E- -B . . .  etc.

RIP

WORDS FROM THE GRAVE

 

Tread softly as you pass my grave

Do not disturb these tombstones 

If you should hear

My sighs and moans

Fret not and do not tarry

It will be just my aching bones

Clumsy now and out of practice

Having heard those ringing tones

Fumbling in my bloody shroud

To answer that damned ringing phone

Yet once again to take a call

From that old seadog, Davy Jones,

Who, speaking from his seabed Locker

Invites me to a Game Of Thrones

 

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Oscar Wilde – ‘Tread lightly, she is near’

 (Poem No.45 of my favourite short poems)

WoT Churchyard

REQUIESCAT

Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone,
She is at rest.

Peace, peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life’s buried here,
Heap earth upon it.

 

by: Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde

 

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Pushing Up The Daisies

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‘Pushing Up The Daisies’ … WHB – Pen & Wash. May 2017

PUSHING UP THE DAISIES

Where are they now
Gerard and the Craig twins
Doggy Dan  and Luggy Cooper
the Lawrences
Jocky Boyes and Spuggie Hood,
each with a memory attached
their image for me
still young
never ageing?

Could be still out there
my age
and I’m still here,
not waiting
but wanting
wishing
hoping
reliving memories
replaying youth,
recalling lads
lasses too
part of my past
history of my story,
liked,
loved,
and lusted after,
feared
and fretted over,
not given a thought
until now
but they could still be here,
there,
somewhere,
not pushing up the daisies.
Not yet.

Will some of them,
wherever,
still be sleeping
with my dreams?
Others,
as I,
lying sleepless,
thinking these same thoughts,
because
we do have the same history,
minds similarly imprinted,
memories matched
attuned
remembering.

Racing out in the morning
breathless with anticipation
rushing to share our days,
to build the same dams
catch the same minnows
in the same jam jars
leap the same becks
explore the same tunnels
climb the same trees
rocks
hills
fight the same mock battles.
All
forging our own
memories.

And Jim
Jim, the joker,
jumped off Highcliff Nab
while I took his photo,
fell
all of six feet
soft landed
on the turf ledge.
No dying fall,
not kicking up the daisies.

AlasHeHadaDyingFall-JimThrower-Highcliff Nab

Not then,
no, he wasn’t then,
he is now.
Long lost
professor of religions
respected author
from beck side cottage,
but now
no thanks to weed and wine
buried deep
in my Memory Lane.
Now pushing up the daisies.

But those of us who remain
short time to run
just enough to practise
treading the ceremonial turf
from below
to push up the daisies.

While now,
above ground
we tread warily
lest their spades
are not ready
when our own time comes
to push up the daisies.

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