Monthly Archives: April 2017

Seafront

The Sea Front
Seafront (Watercolour)
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The End Once Before

THE END ONCE BEFORE

Nothing left as was…
No ancient time of stuff
still standing

Nothing further to say
No Albatross or
penguin waddle
No one about

No further glimpse
of something new

Just marking time

And when it’s you (Noah)
you give all you’ve got

To help these creatures
find non-extinction

All these in a row
Into the ark they go

As it was in his day
Two by two of every kind

Where you there?
Then you don’t know
If it was otherwise

“But…” says
contradictions voice
You weren’t there either

Exactly Monsieur
So the only proof either way

Is not a man’s theory
of origins
But a reference book
Out permanently on loan
on freedom’s library ticket

Look for yourself –
The story is told
of flood – rain induced
– of deluge overwhelmingly
great – and as it was in those days
– so shall it be
before the next Great phenomena.

As it was in flood’s time
So it shall be in latter day
Giving and taking in marriage
still around
Skeptic unbelief and disdain
for the
Noah man’s message

Man’s heart only evil continually?
Well –
“it’s not ‘dark’ yet but it’s getting there”

The flint strikes the steel
A metaphor
for the glimpses of light
That show the way out
of the dark tunnel of
spiritual darkness

Climb on board two by two
three by three
Whatever it takes

Listen to the trumpeted message
In your own heart
Calling you
to call upon
The name of The Lord.

Country and City

COUNTRY AND CITY

And as he looks out over the parapet
of the hill on high
He adopts a studious stare
And steps outside himself to
have a look
at his philosophical pose

Acting like his own mirror
he adjusts his hat
and re-engages his stare
And his contemplative pose

Who knows
he may (in his unbelief)
come up with something.

Something to explain this vista that
stretches out before his eyes
Look at it.
Look at the nooks and crannies,
the highs and lows of bulbous
mounds that
outline into abstraction
when seen another way

Looking again –
“What do you see?” He asks himself
I see greens and blues and
purples and browns and
greys and yellows…
and stones and bracken and
mingled entertaining nuances of
stick upon stick
and glimpses of hidden rocks and
exposed heather

“What do I see indeed..?”
Miles and miles…

This will do for now
This moment and moments
will pass
And back to the city I must go

Bringing with me a
wrecked jigsaw memory of it all

But the city has its own character –
I will studiously stare-it-out too –

Until it produces something
– unto a completed picture
Jigsaw wrecked again by
another trip to the country regions
of outskirts

“Where shall I dwell in my old age?”
is another question
Unanswered until old age

To claim one above the other is to
flip a coin and leave it to chance.

But if I am to be a promo man –
the country has stolen the edge
To give you the invitation:
“Go west young man, and
spare not the horses…”

Can’t bring back

CAN’T BRING BACK

They couldn’t bring themselves
to a higher way of life
Like stair steps whether coming up
or going down
Up-down – like some leg exercise
in mental gymnastics

Holding still – to some meditation ideas
from early new age-ism
Now long abandoned
apart from a cursory glance
of acknowledgement
from time to time,
maybe when a news item
made a reference to such.

Still settled though – on old vinyl records
and memory reels of the swinging decade
Residues of long hair and flower shirts
Beads and on-shoulder braces
Bell-bottoms buried in closets –
too tight by now

Still leaning though – on elbows
and perusing old books
of Carnaby street ‘followers of fashion’
You can’t stick a dart through
these old things
to freeze your life into the past

“Who are these ancients?”
the younger do ask
The last generation – two back from here
Life for them would never disappear
Held up in heroic contemplation
But gone – long gone –
fold away your reminiscences
and retire to the lounge…

You won’t bring this back –
It’s not around
‘Cause time has moved on
to harder times
Even with eclectic mixes
And so forth and so on
All must accept – memories
don’t bring things back
So best to have perpetuity
pressing towards
the mark
for the prize of the high call…