My Books

assorted books on shelf

Photo by Element5 Digital on

Since my time began
These paper-pallid treasures
Have mirrored my journey
Have been my journey
Life’s loved luggage
My mind’s mainstay
Collected and cosetted
Divided sub-divided
Arranged and ordered
Guarded and bound
Glanced at and absorbed
Ravaged and discarded
My bulwark against reality
Whilst being my reality
Promising me a solid future
Proving their worth
whilst bolstering my own


Adding to the sum

of all I’ve drunk,

Those words I’ve feasted on

Swollen into my life’s core

Embodied now as part of me

Woven into the coarseness of my fabric

Sold to receptive ears

Refined by other germs of passage

Now become the amalgam that is me

And part of every book I’ve ever read.








Heart’s Journey

heart love sand

Photo by Pixabay on



Age has brought no end to loving
Never the torch has shone so bright
Always wishing, always searching, 
Will it last me through the night? 

And when the morning breaks again
Upon those northern heather moors
Will my ageing heart return
Will it still be yours? 






‘Life’s Journey’ – OTTAVA RIMA

Today I am tackling a poem using the ‘Ottava rima’ poetic form.

Originally an Italian stanza of eight 11-syllable lines, with a rhyme scheme of ABABABCC.  Sir Thomas Wyatt first introduced the form in English, and Lord Byron adapted it to a 10-syllable line for his mock-epic ‘Don Juan’.   W.B.Yeats notably used it for his poems “Among School Children’ and Sailing to Byzantium.’  

[ Adapted from ]

Millais-Boyhood Of Raleigh

Sir John Everett Millais … ‘The Boyhood of Raleigh’ (1870)



I long to travel through my life again,

To have the same beginning but to change

The choices that have given me such pain

And turn them into something rich and strange;

Transform those scenes to sunshine from the rain,

The order of their happening rearrange.

My hope would be to bring new meaning to

My life-long search for love and joy with you.


© WHB (aka Roland Keld)… 21/5/17


‘The Journey’ by D.A.King


The Journey

Like men of old of sail, becalmed, though not
by lack of wind, we idle, ill at ease.
I think of those who watched us sail from home; they would
not think such change could come about.

We were provisioned well; the boat was sound; the crew
beyond reproach, but what we surely knew would see
us through was this: a man whose faith
had bred our own, and who had led
a life of exploration on these seas
and penned on careful charts each channel, shore and sound
and every place where foolish man might run aground,
this old man of the sea, in love (and maybe envy)
of our youth and spirit, blessed us with his patronage.
His maps and notes he had no further use for:
they were ours.

Long hours we sat into the night, we
and the old man, and he told
of journeys round the good land –
hidden always, so he said, in such thick mists
and buffeted by storms,
that he had never set a foot upon its sand.
Nor would he now.
What hope remained, he would transfer to us.
Our journey would not fail.

In this perhaps we erred: we made
one passing nod to science. We installed
(to reinforce our faith in ancient learning – so
we said) a radar set, and watched its one eye
glare like Satan’s at us on the bridge. We learnt
to read (as best we could) its hieroglyphs, its shadows,
points of light, which painted for us on its dark screen
landscapes, barely seen
in faint and unfamiliar images.
Yet still we sailed, our expectations high,
into a world of mists devoid of any shape we knew.
Only in Satan’s eye were patterns that made sense
– but untrained eyes beholding sense (or seeming to)
need help from what they know. We sought
to verify the patterns, match
impressions with the charts, but all the while
in Satan’s eye, it seemed the maps had lied:
There was no way to reconcile the two. We tried,
and trying, became prey
to every shift of wind and tide. Irresolution
had become the skipper of our crew.

And so the great decision;
how to tell the crew? The land,
the object of the quest, eluded us.
The good did not exist. The best,
we’d found on board, in easy friendships.
Who could now explain that what had made this so
was less than true, and take the rich soil of the life they’d grown
or telling them, part company from the best we’d known –
and thereby be the cause of that old seaman’s loss of pride?

Faith for us now, if it can be, must be
not in good causes, lives or better lands,
but in those things that live and make their presence felt
in mist and fog and storm, where lack of definition
baffles indecisive man, where man
encounters chaos,
and in meeting it, finds form.


Submitted by … Dave King


This poem was submitted to and published on a previous website of mine – now defunct. Some of my readers may remember that David Alexander King was my own inspiration to start blogging, just 4 months ago.  He was both a poet and an artist and became a prolific blogger in the time before he died 3 years ago.  Please do take a look at my entries regarding Dave in my very first 2 blogs, which can be found at . . .

David Alexander King  and  The Eagle & The Child