Poems

The English lane twists this way, and that Certain is the very uncertainty of where you’re at; They go round and about and back again – One may be driven quite insane! And I’m sure I’ll always wonder so, How the English know just how to go – And, what a pity, where the’  tree is lush, Drowned in the traffic is the song of the thrush. But out and away from the busy sound The peace of England wraps me around – Here I live and breathe again – There’s nothing more lovely than an English lane.

To hit a bot Won’t help’  a lot But makes morose. It burns a pain That comes again – then danger: One seeks consolation that’s sheer fiction Then there is’  a yearning A’  constant burning Perhaps this liquid will put out the fire…? ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  But does it … hell!

From behind a woolly cloud Spring peeks and then laughs out aloud While winter in wet and icy pride Weeps a tear- then seeks to hide A bud opens, blinks, peeps at the sun Come dance with me,’  where’s everyone? ‘œI’m here!’ – ‘œMe too!’’  So others shout And in fancy dress the field is out And suddenly the land’s in light A thousand blossoms’  – what a sight! And children sing and wood- chucks call ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The very oldest song of all.

Come let’™s play We’™ll run through valleys ‘“ with the rivulets that run in excited expectation of things to come Of rivers wide and solemn, sedate and slow Of waters falling in thunderous roar Of sails pirouetting in the wind in joyous fantasy. Of gulls calling with outstretched wing in an ecstasy of life and living We’™ll fly with the kite plunge and soar and on an eagle wing skim-touch a cloud floating over majestically All this on wings of sound of bow and string and heart beat racing to catch the beat

The sparkle in a drop more precious than a diamond – a glisten of silver If I could but read the words therein The emotion in the shine – A thousand words would not convey the sadness There I saw No word of mine would bring solace to a saddened heart So I in spirit reached out to soothe a wounded soul And in sympathy shed a tear too to enjoin and express those things no tongue can convey nor lip utter more eloquently

They scurry up in a cloud of wings The traffic roars – things to be done! What value there in the life of a dove? The value of a falling feather. Last moments upon the embankment are plunged away Two others, nearby pecking’  unconcerned or mute assistance to a passing life?

There are those deaf to everything but noise Sounds that beat on a drum E’™en the music that sweetens But where are those that hear the sound of love the beat of the heart in need Whe’™re they that hear the sound of the rising sun or moon the laughter of trees and bees and of flowers too Hear their cries when plucked or felled After which is heard but ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  silence

We may talk sometimes And we walk sometimes You may smile sometimes And for a while sometimes Though not oft – sometimes You’re so soft. Sometimes Sometimes’ such a lovely thing You’re so cross sometimes At a loss sometimes Wish me away sometimes Every day sometimes You’re so cruel sometimes And so cool. Sometimes Sometimes is so sad a thing But we’re so warm sometimes Arm in arm sometimes Kiss to kiss sometimes All such bliss sometimes You’re so mine sometimes And love’s divine. Sometimes ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Sometimes is my everthing

Sometimes there’™s a desire to leap to try at things as yet untried With untried wings to reach to places exciting, wondrous, challenging. To do that which seems impossible – that only imagination can conceive in their secreted place of hiding To speak of things that live deep inside And do not bear the stuff of sensibility – Incredulity – the stuff of youth’™s imaginings For with one’™s rationality comes often fear that leads to doubt and from the heights’ one looks down to say It’™s foolhardy – the thought of fools born of stupidity such a leap into a void And with a sigh folds the wings that might have, incredibly Reached to wondrous heights -‘  to infinity. One sighs …

Some people talk at the drop of a pin And some people’™s talk can wear you thin Some talk ‘˜til you throw a fit As if their breathing depends on it But the’  worst, I think are those constant larks That always talk in question marks For through most of talking one can dose With open eyes and intelligent pose But what is one supposed to do ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  When questions are constantly put to you?