It is to warm for December.
I remember
other years
When tears
Would freeze
And an icey breze
froze
the stinging nose.
No need for winter clothes.
The weather grows
Strange.
Something is deranged.
All, all is changed.
Desires
Carried by wires.
She burns
And turns
To one
who enters in.
Will cables that coil
Contain passions that boil?
Will dials
defile
Smials
As man plays
Out his days?
Will the machine control
The soul?
We duck and dive
trying to survive
let alone thrive
in this world of plastic
where truth is elastic
and love can be bought and sold
for cold hard gold.
Attachment is a fad
and we are oft times glad
when lovers go
for intimacy brings woe.
We hide in our bubble
with no one to cuddle
save for the pillow at night.
There is no delight
or perhaps somewhere
there are those who care.
Do you remember the lightning?
Nothing frightening.
Just a flash
And the crash
Of thunder.
I wonder
What happened to you?
There was no glue
To hold we two
Together.
Just birds of a feather
Sheltering from stormy weather.
what am I to do with you?
You came into the flat on my shoe.
Autumn is at an end.
Into the bin you must descend.
Green leaves must go
Before winter snow
Blankets the land
And trees stand,
Their branches bare
In the frost laden air.
What would your youthful library record say about you? An interesting question and one addressed by John Crace (amongst others) in yesterday’s Guardian, (http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/dec/03/youthful-library-record-haruki-murakami-belle-de-jour).
I, like John Crace, used to enjoy reading the Biggles books. Indeed I still have a copy of “Biggles Millionaire” on the bottom shelf of the bookcase in my living room. A good old fashioned yellow hardback book. I also still possess H. G. Wells “The Time Machine” and his “War Of The Worlds”, together with Orwell’s “Nineteen Eighty-Four” (although the latter is missing one Braille volume. Heaven only knows what happened to that)! I must have been an extremely boring teenager as I have no recollection of reading anything salacious unless one counts a rather abridged version, on audio cassette of “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” which, I must confess I did not enjoy reading.
Kevin
Standing at the station
reading the news of this nation
I became conscious of birds.
The words
I was reading
the thoughts they where feeding
seemed irrelevant.
This earth we are leant.
To much time is spent
lost in thought.
Additional hours can not be bought.
Oh listen to the birds
not the words
And learn to be
Free!
—
Being blind I have software on my mobile which enables the content of the screen to be spoken aloud (http://www.nuance.com/for-individuals/mobile-applications/talks-zooms/index.htm). Several days ago, I was reading the news at the station when I became aware of the birds singing. This prompted the above poem.
‘Tis long since over.
We are know longer in clover.
In truth we never where.
I stare
At the screen.
The dream
Is gone
And life moves on.
There is a frame of mind
that says “leave as you find.
Let the great oak alone
and spare the ancient stone
for they serve a purpose
if one looks beneath the surface
of things”.
Others bring
to bare a mind
which no beauty doth find
in oak and stone
“for they stand in the way
Of a brighter day”.
“But if you pull the tree down
what then supports the ground?
For the roots go deep
and people weep
when the oak falls
on ancient halls”.
“Let us wield the axe and be glad
for the old ways are bad.
New seed we will sow
The past must go”.
They are arguing still
As the sun sinks
o’er vale and hill.
The restless wind
calls to the unquiet mind.
I see a swan upon a lake.
A serene
queen
she glides through the water
as some daughter
of the gods.
A man hidden in the reeds
scarcely breathes
for fear
she will notice him near.
The swan sings.
Her song brings
sweet melancholy to his soul.
The whole
scene
he dreamed
awakening to the restless wind
that calls to the unquiet mind.
K Morris - Poet 