Reverie #5: On Birth

child baby newborn arms

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

I remember Birth . . .

Warm womb,
emerging
into cold January,
suckled and succoured
into the life
and death 
of a warring world.

Heedless 
of pain 
of worry,
my unconsciousness
nestled in love,
cocooned in blessings,
future undetermined
but on course for
the perdition of
being ordinary.

One more mouth
to be fed,
one more life to be led;
another census tick.
Reconstituted dust
become bone,
flesh and vital blood,
to be both burden
and blessing. 

Only now,
a life lived,
aware that it is
irrecoverable
here to be forgotten.

Until resurrected
in whatever next there may be.

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In Vino Veritas 

 

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Photo: WHB – Devon 2019  . . .  ©

In Vino Veritas

Truth …  
In wine? 
Pull the other one. 
Stick it on me, babe 
I’ll believe it when I feel it 
 
Next you’ll be persuading me 
Love is blind 
When everyone knows 
However fickle 
It’s in the beholder’s ken 
The plaything of their whim 
Their only hope for the future 
 
Then 
You’ll be saying 
Time flies 
When we all know  
It sinks and swims 
Runs and stutters 
Can’t make its mind up 
Whether to be patient 
Or restive 
Anxious or unhurried 
 
And as for 
Life being for living 
Non sequiturs 
Don’t come better than that 
Its for laughing 
For crying 
But…. 
Above all it’s for dying 
For returning to the earth which spawned us 
For calling time on the pain of living 
 
For …  
And this we must remember …  
As the old song goes 
You can’t have one without the other. 
 
Sic transit gloria mundi 

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The Borderlands of POETRY – 4

book book series business chapter

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

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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We Mourn With MANCHESTER

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William Morris/Burne-Jones …  ‘The Angel Of Sorrow’ – Stained Glass, Christchurch, Oxford

WE MOURN WITH MANCHESTER

So sad the sound
Of wailing
Searching

voices
Blooded by fate
Taut and tense
Exuding fear
Dread and anguish
In frantic response to
Vile and cowardly acts of
The deranged
Our response can only be
Love for life
For those distressed
And retribution
In whatever hereafter
For the perpetrators
Their hatred

Forever condemned

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Easter, Love & Cricket

Three RICTAMETERS

A Rictameter is a fixed-syllabic poetry form, similar to the Haiku and the Cinquain   ( Click here See my own cinquain in an earlier blog.  ).  The rictameter starts with a two-syllable word as the first line.  Then the line length in syllables is consecutively increased by two, i.e. 2, 4, 6, 8, 10.  Then down again, from 8, 6, 4, 2.   The final of the 9 lines is required to be the same two syllable word as in the opening line.

The format was created in the early 1990s by two cousins, Jason Wilkins and Richard Lunsford, for a poetry contest that was held as a weekly practice of their self-invented order, ‘The Brotherhood of the Amarantos Mystery’, which was apparently inspired by the Robin Williams film ‘Dead Poet’s Society’.

I have attempted three versions of this format below . . .


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EASTER

Absolve
The human race
Release them from their sins
Forgive them their indiscretions
Instead torment me on that cruel cross
That I might thus remind them all
That God our father loves
And all our sins
Absolves.

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LOVE

Love hurts
It burns the soul
From lust to jealousy
It does not let up from that pain
So put alongside with its times of bliss
The memories of anguished dread
When all seemed to be dead
All reason says
Love hurts.

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straight bat

CRICKET

Cricket
Keep a straight bat
All that they throw at you
Face up to it with fortitude
Don’t be average be an all-rounder
And when it’s time to pull up stumps
Try to carry your bat
Don’t declare, that’s
Cricket.

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TANKA

TANKA:  

An ancient Japanese verse form, said historically to have preceded the haiku.  The TANKA follows strict rules for the  construction of lines, syllables and verses.  

There should be 5 lines in each verse and these should be of 5,7,5,7,7 syllables.
No rhymes are required, and there should be a minimum of 3 verses connected in a single story, thought or conceit.

My first attempt at a TANKA . . .

I took a right turn
It led to that promised land
Earthly Nirvana
Where destiny awaits me
Offers rejuvenation.

So love comes to me 
Late in life it grows in me
Promising new hope 
Like the acorn healthy seed
Awaiting its fruition.

What if I pass on
Before I’ve even tasted
These promised pleasures
Will my shattered hopes repair
There in Never-Never Land?

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Mortuary Chapel, Lochearnhead … Watercolour  – WHB – 2001

 

Love Is …

Love Is . . .

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My initial diagnosis

Was cirrhosis or fibrosis,

But my gnosis being hypnosis,

Then to reach apotheosis

We need mutual symbiosis.

 

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You may recognise that the opening line of my verse above was also a line in a popular song of 1960,  ‘Goodness Gracious Me’, sung as a duet by Sophia Lauren and Peter Sellers.
Photograph . . . Surrey 2016 . . .  WHB.

 

 

No Way To Treat A Lady

 

deadinatub

LOVE  DISCARDED

The way to treat a lady when you’re tired
Is not to dump her in a bin and run.
Why not admit that she you once admired
Has lost your love and now your chapter’s done.

To tip her in a bin head first was cruel,
Forgetting all the love she gave to you.
For once she was your all transcendent jewel;
A wretched end was not the thing to do.

She was owed far better from her erstwhile lover,
A fitting end would be a parting prayer,
To let goodbyes be said, the party’s over,
And move on to the next furtive affair.

We hope your new amour will treat you better
Than you deserve, you two-faced cheating brute.
Perhaps she’ll send that candid scarlet letter,
The one which spills the beans on your repute.

Just remember this my callous Casanova.
That when you end your defunct escapades.
When all that great ferment at last is over,
Then, what you sow you’ll truly reap in spades.

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I took these two photographs in 2009 at a garden centre in Surrey, England … WHB

 


 

WITH TONGUE IN CHEEK

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WITH TONGUE IN CHEEK

Oh yes, I’m now old and decrepit,
But neither past it nor fetid.
In no way I’m over and finished;
My ardour still has not diminished.

… ‘COS …

Age has not wearied me yet;
Desire is still with me,
Lust still stirs within me,
I’m a game old codger, you bet!

…  SO …

IF YOU WERE MINE

You look divine.
If you were mine
I’d drool and dote,
You’d have my vote.

I’d fire Love’s dart
To win your heart.
That’s not a sin,
I know I’d win.

I’d face the press,
Ignore the mess.
I’d  tie you to me
And lose the key.

With every wish
I’d  be selfish.
You’d have to be
Welded to me.

And each new day
Would show the way
To hold love fast,
To make it last.

And every kiss
Would speak of bliss,
Would prove at last
Life had not past.

They say I’m old
And won’t be told;
That love has past,
Dried up at last.

But yet I know
I’d love you so.
Despite my age
I’d take the stage.

You’d be my queen
And reign supreme
Over our peers.
For which three cheers.

So here’s the rub,
The heart, the nub.
What we’d have then
Is our Amen.

‘Twould gave us hope,
Help us to cope
With life, with pain,
To live again.

And when at last
Our time was past,
Our journey done,
We’d be as one.

. . .   so . . .

Take a note!
I’m not dead yet,
And, get this quote,
“I’d like to bet
You’ll be like me,
You’ll have a ball
When you can see
Work is not all.”

 

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