My clock chimes
On a spring day.
Women and wine
Are mine,
But my springtime
Has passed
And the fast
Tick tock
Of antique clocks
Appeals not
To girls in heels
Who do not
Feel their clock
Soon must stop.
My clock chimes
On a spring day.
Women and wine
Are mine,
But my springtime
Has passed
And the fast
Tick tock
Of antique clocks
Appeals not
To girls in heels
Who do not
Feel their clock
Soon must stop.
I recall honeysuckle on a wall
And the scent of Grandfather’s roses.
The poet composes
A rhyme
To Time
Who ends all.
In early December
I heard
The dawn bird
And did remember
Another year
Will soon end.
My friends
Are growing older.
I hear
Pretty young women
Ask me
About family matters.
There will be
No more sinning.
Merely hot tea
And matters
Of domesticity
For me.
I have just uploaded my April Author Newsletter which can be found here.
For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated by traditional (pendulum) clocks. The slow movement of the pendulum reminds me of Old Father Time chopping up seconds which will never return. There is, in the swing of a pendulum something both comforting and chastening. The slow swing reminds one of a slower pace of life, of a more stable/traditional society, while one is also conscious that each movement brings one’s demise fractionally closer. A number of my poems touch (either directly or indirectly) on the passage of time, including “The Hands Are Almost At Half-Past”, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2quCnrHgpE4.
“The Hands Are Almost At Half-Past” can be found in my collection of poems, “The Writer’s Pen and Other Poems”, which is available for preorder in the Amazon Kindle store, https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07GD1LBMV/ (for the UK) and https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07GD1LBMV/ (for the USA).
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.
A child plays ball below.
A long time ago
I lay in bed
The same sound running through my head.
The thud of ball on wall
Is all I recall.
The ball is now still
As evening falls over Beulah Hill.
—
As I wrote this, a child and an adult played ball in the garden below my home. The sound brought to mind lying in bed at boarding school (I was sick), as children played football in the playground below my window. The poem was penned today (as the game took place).
Happy new year to you all! I wish you all the very best for 2013 and I hope that you enjoy celebrating the coming of yet another year.
All the very best,
Kevin