No rain can quell
This burning
Hell.
Angels falling from the sky,
Calling to you and I,
Cry
Crocodile tears
For wasted years.
Then, half-heartedly die.
Why pretend
As we descend,
That you do not recognise
In those dead eyes
The mirror image of you and I?
College girls whirl,
unthurl.
Blossoms borne on a spring breeze
Tease
And please
Young men
Who, forgetting book and pen
Turn
And learn
Full well
What no dull
Text can tell.
“Poets are the unacknowledged legislators
Of the world” Shelley said.
But all praters
Must go to that night
Where none write,
For what use are words to the dead?
“What is done cannot be undone, but one can prevent it happening again.”
— Anne Frank
April 14th has the unhappy distinction of being the anniversary of Anne Frank’s death in the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp in 1945.
I’d always been moved by Frank’s insight, and by her overwhelming normal-ness in such an abnormal time.
I’ve always liked this quote, in particular, because the idealist in me wants to believe it.
Growing up in the post-war baby boom, WWII was still too raw a nerve in my youth – it wasn’t yet left to the history books. I read Diary of a Young Girl when I was young, and just wished that there could have been a different ending. Anne Frank and my mother were born only two months, and an entire world, apart, so there always seemed something a bit surreal to me when I was younger. In later years…
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There was a young lady called Ruth
Who said “there is no proof.
But you may find,
If you look behind,
Something approaching the truth!
It will not do
To force one’s foot into an ill fitting shoe.
Likewise it is a mistake
To make
Poems rhyme
Where no rhyme properly should be.
The steady tick tock
Of the clock.
I am here,
You are not.
All my human pride.
I can not hide
From the inexorable tick tock
Of the clock.
Now I am here,
Then I am not.
There was a young lady called Honey
Who had the brain of a bunny.
She got a job
With a man named Bob,
But he never paid any money!
As many of you are aware, I am in the process of publishing a further collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind and Other Poems”.
The collection derives it’s title from the first poem, which is entitled (appropriately enough) “My Old Clock I Wind”.
I am in the midst of choosing a photograph for the book cover and would greatly appreciate your views on the photographs featured here, which show the clock from which the book derives it’s title.
Comments concerning the quality of the images, which picture you prefer and why (together with any other input) would be much appreciated.
There was a young man called Holmes
Who investigated some missing gnomes.
But if one takes a look
In Watson’s enthralling book,
There is no case of “The Missing Gnomes!”
