Ruth's Kyrielle

The Almighty’s child was born to bear the light.
Each one of us so fondly met,
To carry on this lonely fight.
Remember her lest we forget.

She'll wait outside to see us on.
To never rest her mind was set.
The everlasting war is won.
Remember her lest we forget.

The burden lifted from her frame,
Through bit-ter-ness she paid the debt.
A bride to Boaz was her name.
Remember her lest we forget.

Now, needs must bear her torch for life,
While peace and love is what she'll get.
Continue through this world of strife,
Remember her lest we forget.

Mariana in the Mental Hospital

Committing her one and only sin,
They locked her up inside
Those darkened walls outside and in,
Where others lived and died.
Reminding her of silent screams,
Of an eeriness so aged and dank,
Her heart so maddened sank,
And nothing real was as it seems.
Oh, my life, I will the end,
Between fantasy and reality I can not tell,
A cure for it, I wish they'd send,
Dear Lord, I would that I were well.

The nights at first were full of woe,
Doctors came and nurses went,
And twisted thoughts her only foe:
Demons and shades from Hades sent
Came to move her on to locked-up places,
Where others paced and puzzles made,
Who just as much from sanity strayed,
With topsy-turvy minds and dirty faces.
Please, my life, I will the end,
Between fantasy and reality I can not tell,
A cure for it, I wish they'd send,
My Lord, I would that I were well.

The noise of laundry wagons early on,
And evenings of jokes played by staff,
A helicopter rescue from RAF Benson,
Video screens to make them laugh:
Of severed heads and pickled jars;
Scanners, pigs and formaldehyde -
Funny from the other side,
And escape attempts foiled by men in cars.
Oh, my life, I will the end,
Between fantasy and reality I can not tell,
A cure for it, I wish they'd send,
Dear Lord, I would that I were well.

Like the soul of an organic brain
In a disturbed body:
Is Millais' woman still sane,
Vainly looking out and full of folly?
Did Ophelia 'want' to drown
In the nearby blackened river?
Or the eroticism make you shiver
As she sinks in petticoats and gown?
Oh, my life, I will the end,
Between fantasy and reality I can not tell,
A cure for it, I wish they'd send,
Oh God, I would that I were well.

Sunday 12.6.16

A face clenched into a black-holed fist,
The other mousey, full of conceit,
Checking to see if he missed
the bus from Seaford. Wheat
in the fields on the way to Eastbourne…

Misty and rainy over the tops:
Girls lost at the pond near Friston wood;
I should have understood,
The face left him at the shops,
Where he cursed.
"There's three minutes left on the antenna," he exclaimed -
That's a first!

Back to the real
world. Supermarkets.
A meal.
A drink or two.
Mow the lawns and papers.
Mother and lack of patience.

Little Robin Redbreast

Little robin redbreast,
From where do you come?
At my every trial and test
you always show your handsome chest.
And leap and bound to my delight,
Of the littlest creatures you are the best.

Little robin redbreast,
From where comes that worm in your beak?
Are you taking it to your nest?
You always show such kindness. Zest
to help the poor, lowly, meek and mild.
Of the littlest creatures you are the best.

Little robin redbreast,
Of all Old England's great and good,
You certainly are most blessed.
When blood-red sun sinks, in the West
God will send you back again.
Of the littlest creatures you are the best.

The Final Solution

I live according to the sounds I hear,
As I hate acoustic cacophony.
Sweet music always brings a tear,
To satisfy the lonely.
What would you say or do now,
If I told you that tonight,
You and God were to make a vow,
And the Devil renew his might?
That Death would come a-visiting,
And you were finally to leave this world?
The timbres of life a deadly ring,
With funeral drapes unfurled,
Would toll the parish knell?
What would you say or do now,
If the rivers of woe were to swell,
And your precious God allow
You to enter paradise alone?
Would you relish the news,
Find disdain in his tone,
Or abandon this body he eschews?

Cured for 'Life'

The bottom falls out of its decay -

It will never see the light of day.

When we were young,

It reminds me of songs we once sung.

The sun it shines,

Upon our lives,

When all was dark.

Adamantine more solid than stark.

The light will never go out,

Though many will bellow and shout.

An antidote to pain -

To nothing again.

An antidote to death itself -

No purpose for worldly wealth.

No more sorrow,

Nor fear of tomorrow.

I don't contend my poetry is divinely or otherwise inspired. No angel (or demon for that matter) has come a-visiting: it's probably due to my mind playing tricks on me or some voice inside my head! The creative impulses I feel are sometimes perceived as inner suggestions or comments as I write, telling me to choose one word over another, but this is just my simple human creativity. I'm not proud enough to promote myself as a conduit for God or prophecy - I'm just a flawed man who is trying to express himself. There, there, Dan, any excuse for your religion and not to sound too pretentious!

Mother's Illness

You could cut this shroud-like atmosphere with a knife
Or take her to the Tapsel gate
Ready to take her life
Or wait and wait.

The atmosphere, so hellish dulled
Misery embodied
Joy annulled
And trance-like eyes.

          Optically so maudlin proud
Full of anger and despair
Frustratingly endowed
To stare and stare.

Is This the End of Winter?

The atmosphere vibrates a kind of static death
Preternatural to the actual event.
I roam the rooms,
Looking for a present memory,
Which I can treasure when it happens.
But, it hasn't, and I must wait.