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.
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.
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
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
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
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!
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.
Mugabe goes to Singapore
For his medication
While the poor
Of Zimbabwe’s nation
Must seek treatment in their own country.
I ask you who can disagree
With the decision
Of the World Health Organisation
To appoint Mugabe as an ambassador? So feline
Cease your derision,
But perhaps you may be allowed one final smile
As there can be no denial
That all flesh is dust.
Kick off your shoes
For a stranger is a friend not yet made.
Be not staid
Dear maid
But lose
Yourself in booze
And forget
Regret.
Let us draw the curtain
For tomorrow
Is uncertain
Your skin is silky smooth
But how the clock’s hands move
Towards the morrow,
Which the forecasters say
Will be a dismal day.
There was a young lady named Claire
Who had extremely long blonde hair.
Her boyfriend Mark,
Sang like a lark
And birds made a nest in Claire’s hair.
