Bilbo In The Breeze

This is another standalone poem from my linked series, a work in progress, poems written around the theme of the weather.

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Please don’t ask me when the whole thing might be completed!

Bilbo in the Breeze

 

Tonight, there is no moon,

But I hear dry leaves,

Swirling and clattering on the path.

Fingers brushing my cheek,

Cold breath on my face.

 

Leaves, dry leaves,

Flung into the air and a voice,

A spiteful, hissing voice,

Whispering in my ear:

‘What has it got in its pocketses?’

 

There are nasty, cold fingers

Poking and prying around my pocket.

I feel a tug at my jacket,

A sudden push in my back.

 

I jam my hands in my pockets

To warm them and keep the nasty fingers out.

 

My fingers touch…

Something dry…

It crackles…

What have I got in my pocket?

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No Going Back

In a somewhat pensive mood, today.

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We all try to do it in our own way.

Me, I walk the woods and hills, trying to recapture

That half-remembered birdsong from my childhood.

Looking for the clear nascent sunlight,

And the cool morning breath of a magical wild rose.

 

Others revisit old haunts,

Tread half-forgotten streets and peer in shop windows,

Leaf through foxed and fragile pages

Of Peter and Jane, hold china dolls,

And gaze wistfully at black and white seasides.

 

It’s more than elusive,

But what they have in common,

Is leaving today behind.

Maybe, what I’m really searching for,

Is a different me,

Although I wouldn’t want to be a teenager again.

 

And if you haven’t tried it,

If you haven’t caught the sound of yesterday,

Or smelt the stale cooking and damp mothballs

Of a long-dead indulgent aunt,

Then perhaps you’re still too young.

Just Playing…

Take one photograph, play around with it a little, create 3 new ones, all different.

Add some autumn haiku, since it’s almost spring.

That was fun.

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Yellow maple leaves

Rattling wildly in the wind –

Autumn’s prayer flags

 

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Obsession with time

Is climbing trees in autumn

To get down the leaves.

 

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The last yellow leaf

Hovers above the brambles

Waiting for the wind.

The Collector

Inspiration, writers’ block, ideas…I could write about all or any of these topics. Instead, I thought I’d simply post another poem – plus, of course, a picture (with far better weather than we’re having here) – and let it do the job instead.

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I’m a collector of images long stored in my memory,

A desert inferno of razor-sharp rocks.

A mountain breeze rippling an icy cold puddle,

Thick mists and thin soups, flowers, trains, and old shoes.

 

I’m a collector of memories, both mine and ones borrowed,

The harrowing journey, the lovers’ first kiss.

There’s betrayal and loyalty, flatulence, hope,

There’s a child being born, and a wolf at the door.

 

I’m a collector of stories, the stranger the better,

Believable, odd, and ridiculous too.

Close to home or historical, alien, fanciful,

Some to keep secret and some I can tell.

 

I’m a collector of moonbeams and of chance reflections,

A collector of sadness and bittersweet pain.

A collector of strangely shaped stones in a circle,

And dreams that tell stories I don’t understand.

 

Old

One more of the poems from a notebook of about 25 years ago. Re-reading them, I am slightly surprised to find I rather like a lot of them, still. Although my style has altered considerably, my sentiments are still much the same. Which is as you would expect, I suppose.

But there are plenty that I certainly won’t be inflicting upon you!

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As hard as ice and twice as cold,

The devil that is growing old;

Who taunts our bodies’ feeble frames,

And takes our minds – forgetting names.

 

As cold as ice and twice as hard,

The back that’s bent, the hand that’s scarred.

The face that’s worn and lined with sorrow,

The fear there may be no tomorrow.

 

The fear tomorrow may come yet,

And bring us more embarrassment,

But how we cling with greedy hands,

To these poor fragile, shallow, lands!

Measurements

 

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We measure out our time in days,

We measure things so many ways.

We measure distance out in miles,

We measure happiness with smiles.

 

Some think the dollar and the dime

Should be the measure of their time.

The passage of each single hour,

Is marked by exercise of power.

 

I think our time is short enough,

Without recourse to such sad stuff.

I’ll measure my remaining years,

With laughter, books, light rain and beers.

My Button’s Bigger Than Your One!

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My button’s bigger than your one.

You’d better let me play, or else I’ll go,

And take my toys with me.

I’ve got more friends than you have.

That picture’s fake, you’ve Photoshopped in

An extra friend or three.

 

Vlad’s my pal and he’ll get you.

He’s got your name, and he’ll beat you up,

At the end of school tonight.

That fat, specky boy’s gonna get it,

He won’t have a clue what hit him

When we get into a fight.

 

See that girl in the playground?

I’ve done it with her! Oh yes, I did!

Of course, she wanted me to.

I’ll tell you how it’s done, you grab them!

Show them who’s boss, they love it,

Yeah, that’s what you do.

 

Don’t believe all the stories those boys tell.

They’re all liars and cheats and I’m not listening.

La la la I can’t hear you!

White is black, black is white, do you hear me?

All the adults are wrong,

Just believe what I tell you to.

 

I’m the head boy of the school, because

I won the popular vote, the biggest number of votes,

Despite my opponents cheating.

I’m also the head school bully,

And if you’re gay or disabled, Moslem or black,

I’ll give you a jolly good beating.

 

Because my button’s bigger than your one!

It is, too!

Stupid face!

You’re stupid!

Poo head!

My friends’ll beat you up, fatty, if you don’t watch out…

Nyagh! Nyagh! Nyagh!

 

Oh.

 

Nobody likes me!

It’s not fair!

 

A Poem With A Very Long Title

This is another poem from my notes from some twenty five years ago.

Walking Out Into The Country At Nightfall In Winter Whilst Heavily Pissed Off With Life In General Probably Caused By Artist’s Block

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(Painting: Evening #1. Pastels on paper)

Grey clouds in salmon

– Reflected worlds!

Woodlands and valleys, rivers glow

Like magma.

My mood, dulled and burred,

Perceives…

Reluctantly. Stubbornly.

Between shakes of the head,

I see Turner setting up his easel

And painting frantically, dementedly…

Bleary eyed – look!

It has gone now!

Cold green and bluey pale,

Washes in and out

And blurs

Grey

Me

Sky.

An Old One…

I happened on a notebook of poems I’d written some twenty to twenty five years ago.

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My style has changed somewhat in the intervening years, and most of them seem rather poor now. One or two of them I still like, though, and I think I’ll put them up here now and again.

This one is just called Rain.

I hurried down the road before the storm

– this must be six or seven years ago –

Still silhouettes for trees within the mist,

Around ahead behind me dull and grey.

 

The air was chilled

And in the hills the thunder growled,

A tiger prowled,

In the high forests of the Weald.

A hundred miles away my cottage refuge,

A forlorn hope now far beyond the deluge.

 

Sharp blue electric yellow split the air,

A crack like washing harried by the wind.

Then came swollen lazy drops of water,

Beachballs of rain exploding all around.

 

Dull chattering

The pattering of rain on tiles

After the miles

I’d run through forests of the Weald.

The sound of distant gunfire possibly,

I closed my eyes to see where I might be.