Come Halloween, I shall hide behind gravestones
And rattle artificial bones,
And should anyone ask
Why I perform this task
I shall with a blood curdling groan
Confess That I have no bones of my own …
Come Halloween
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Category Archives: newauthoronline
There Was A Young Lady Named Mable
There was a young lady named Mable
Who danced on a rickety old table.
The furniture gave way
And I heard her say,
“I was willing, but that table is unstable!”.
—
There was a young lady named Mable
Who danced on a rickety old table.
The furniture gave way,
But some do say
That my story is nought but a fable!
The River Has Burst It’s Banks More Times Than I Can Remember
The river has burst it’s banks more times than I can remember.
Another swan
Is gone,
But I find
That she has left a black feather behind.
In summer weather
I relish the scent
Of the heather.
Come November
I repent,
But why?
For I
Did pave the path
To the cavern where my demons laugh.
Goldfish Bowl
As a child, I had a round Goldfish bowl.
The fish their whole
Lives spent
(I thought content)
Swimming in never ending circles in that plastic tank.
The frank
Man or woman may
Perhaps smile ruefully and say
“I have spent a day
Or more in that self-same way,
But at some future time I will
Be still”.
I have Always Walked In The Dark
I have always walked in the dark.
The torch’s light
Illumines the night
But can not fight
With phantoms stark.
I have always walked in the dark.
I have always walked in the dark.
A knock at night
May bring delight,
But then we part.
I have always walked in the dark.
I have always walked in the dark.
The moon disappears
And yesteryear’s fears
Emerge
And converge in my heart.
I have always walked in the dark.
“The Old Clock On The Stairs” By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I am, as those of you who follow this blog will know, interested in clocks and what they represent (I.E. Old Father Time himself, with his sickle chopping up seconds).
Yesterday I happened across Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “The Old Clock On The Stairs” (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44643/the-old-clock-on-the-stairs). In his poem Longfellow describes a clock that ticks away in a mansion. Time passes never to return and the people observed by this timepiece are now dead or gone elsewhere leaving the clock telling time in the empty house.
My own work contains several poems which deal with the passing of time, including one simply entitled “Time” which runs thus:
“The reaper moves
In time with the pendulum.
No rush
Or fuss
He has plenty of time.
My patient friend
whose tick portends
my inevitable end.
You rest in state
on my bookcase.
Tick tock
I can not stop
time’s sithe.
None can survive
his cut.
Though in a cupboard my clock be shut
death can not be put
aside
The sickle chops
And the heart will, one day, stop”.
(“Time” can be found in “Lost in the Labyrinth Of My Mind”, which is available from Moyhill Publishing (http://moyhill.com/lost/) and Amazon (https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01AF5EPVY).
My latest collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind” is also available from Moyhill Publishing and can be found here (http://moyhill.com/clock/). “My Old Clock” can also be downloaded in the Amazon Kindle store (https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0735JBVBG).
If I Told You What I Dream
If I told you what I dream
You would move the conversation on to the weather
Or any subject but that
Of which I dream.
But why so?
For you know
That every man has his craze,
The secret fire that does blaze within.
Some are driven mad
And are almost glad
To give in
And sin.
There Was A Young Man Named Moor
There was a young man named Moor
Who explained the limerick’s core.
Had I the time
I would finish this rhyme,
But alas I can write no more!
There Was A Young Lady Named Nell
There was a young lady named Nell
Who wished her soul to sell.
It was bought by a demon named Mark,
Who dwelt in the dark,
But was really an actress called Bell!
Woodland Glade
A beautiful butterfly
Flutters by
And a gentle breeze
Russles the leaves
Of fine old trees.
Where shadows dance
Couples may see,
By some lucky chance,
The otter wild and free
That dreams
In woodland streams.
Standing on the street
With dusty feet,
They gazed
Amazed
At the museum of yesteryear,
While far and near
Stretched the asphalt drear.
