A Bit of Verse

 

Some Verse

(What I Wrote)

So Sets the Sun

Neath blackened fronds of Cyprus

A golden strip of light

Forms like a jagged isthmus

Where day turns into night

Layers of vibrant colour

Emanate from the west

God’s palate never fuller

As he puts the day to rest.

Far off hills beneath the glow

With battle ship clouds on station

Will all too soon have to go

Along with our elation

As the eerie fingers of the night

Steal across the land 

Engulfing all remaining light

In its ethereal hand

The Last Post

Picture the scene, 1915 suburban England. A young mother is about to put her young son to bed. A knock on the door and a letter hastily posted through the letterbox. She nervously picks up the dirt stained envelope and places it on the kitchen table.

Her young son senses that his Mother is distracted and asks:

“Mummy, where are Daddy’s benches?”

“Darling child, come to me,

Your Daddy is in the trenches,

Far across the great North Sea.

The trenches are quite comfortable,

Daddy is dry and warm,

His men are quite and affable,

He’s sheltered from the storm.”

“Will Daddy get hurt by the Huns?”

“That, I cannot say,

Knowing he’s facing deadly guns

All we can do, is pray.”

“Your Daddy is brave, fit and strong

He knows not fear nor dread,

This war, it will not last too long.

Darling. Prayers and then to bed.”

‘Wife, I miss your touch, your smile

I miss our little boy,

We have no time to sit and while,

Out here there is no joy...’

Alone, she reads by candlelight

The letter from her man.

Tears flow for his sorry plight

As only wives tears can.

‘The cold, the screams of injured men,

The mud that’s ankle deep,

I try to lift moral for them

But words are oh, so cheap.

I am frightened, my darling wife,

I try to be brave for my men.

I really fear for my life

My constant thought is; when!...’

The tears flow freely, down both cheeks

The lady is in despair.

First letter in nearly seven weeks,

How she wishes he wasn’t there!

‘When will this madness come to an end?

When will the dove of peace,

Feather its wings and descend

To give us sweet release?

I send my love to my darling son,

And to you, my cherished wife.

I go back now to face the Hun

And the mayhem that’s my life.’

The Flame Dies

It is going to be cold for the next few weeks. Temperatures as low as minus 10 to minus 14 in some areas of the UK.

We have all seen the, "Down and Outs, The disenfranchised, the Alkies; call them what you will.

Some will be as unfortunate as the character in my next verse.

I sense the roots

I cannot see

Stars shine, not for me. 

Pithy so pithy

Above, trees, swaying

The north wind, baying

A macabre falsetto

Andante to allegretto

Cold; so cold, frozen.

Tears, warming tracts,

Fall on rotting bracts

Oh, the irony!

I, decaying inside

They dying outside

New life will evolve

Alas, this one to resolve

Oh God! I need a drink.

Sweet Bacchus I pray

Fine wine before day.

Alone, so dark, help me

Frosted leaves form my quilt

Empty bottle, full of guilt.

Guilt for drinking, for lying

For stealing, for dying.

All there through frosted glass

A crystal ball by London Gin

My life there, within

I watch my flame flicker

I lie here, prone

Cold, all alone

I watch my flame flicker

I watch my flame flicke......

The Land of The Free?

The hills gave way to prairie

As far as the eye could see

Undulating in the wind,

A vast organic sea.

The children of the prairie

Proud, stood tall and free

Shaman, in feathered robes

Proclaimed their destiny

Other hills on distant shores

Fade as the sails unfurled

Whilst Pilgrims on the decks below

Dream of the dark New World.

No Shaman here to cast the stones

Or dream the dreams of life

Just simple men and women folk

With faith in God and life!

Years past, in peace and war

Greed was at the very core.

For the Children of the Prairie

Their home would be no more!

Gold, silver, iron ore.

The shout was always more.

The heroes of the comic books

Were rotten to the core!

Grasslands of the Prairie

stained with proud red blood

Could not withstand the flow

Of the great white tidal flood!

Genocide - De Rigueur

But proud men would not flee!

Atrocities, they would occur

One such at Wounded Knee!

Cowards hid in mists of dawn

Awaiting the bloody command

Then fell upon the sleeping throng

And blood festooned the land!

Dreams gave way to screams,

They tried, but could not flee!

Poor mothers and their children

Killed at Wounded Knee!

Years have passed, proud men have gone,

Banished from the great prairie

And does the irony lay heavy

On the Country of the Free?