| Holman-Hunt's portrait is a masterpiece: Jesus has completed a hard day's toil as a carpenter appearing to celebrate but there's a far away look in the eyes and his mother stares in horror at his shadow, a ghost vision of Jesus on the cross. His arms are outstretched, the tools on display references to that historic day. The circular window acts like a halo over the head of the Saviour, parched hills of the Holy Land sun-kissed in the background. The crown of thorns is symbolised by a red head-dress near his feet. The painting has such an awesome power, I picture the Lord...at his bleakest hour. |  "The Shadow of Death" by William Holman-Hunt (1873) |
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Three guys were convicted of a crime. Two guys committed the crime. The other guy didn’t. Three guys were crucified. Two guys deserved it. The other guy didn’t. Three guys were buried. Three days later, two guys remained buried. The other guy didn’t.  As Winter snow lies on the ground,
And nature sleeps, I think of you. As signs of Spring begin to show, And nature awakens green and new, I think of you. As Summer's sun burns hot and bright, And clear skies show the stars at night, I think of you. As Autumn leaves begin to fall, And carpets the ground in gold and brown, I think of you. With each new season time between us grows, I think of you, A Perfect end to a perfect love. Live like a sword in the wind,
those were the words you chose to live by. You were all too aware how brief time is, the guillotine forever hanging over you. Through all our memories, children picking buttercups, teenagers thumping away on a bass, the executioner followed you – everywhere you looked, there he stood. Death was like family to you, the annoying aunt who squawks and fusses. Yet you instilled in me this message – cut everything and never stop. The first moves
proved fraught yet there seemed such possibilities until I was caught amidst the maze of the middle game which I weaved my way through the best I could to this final place where the board has been laid bare and there is space ah, infinite space! There's something surreal about snow in April:
farmers' crunching over hillside fields and lambs shivering as a bitter wind blows, winter's last breath, or maybe not. Yet in February it was 20c, weather different from when I roamed on Caerphilly mountain as a boy carefree, throwing snowballs with sheer joy. Yes, there's something surreal about snow in April: rather sad for it's doomed to melt long before snow in winter-time, reminding me of the transience of life and that each moment should be grasped. April is a fickle month snow creating an alluring scene but now the land... has transformed back to green. Their heroes were that rebel
without a cause blue-eyed James Dean or Marilyn Monroe peroxide blonde on the screen and Elvis Presley the ‘King’ heralding Hendrix, Janis Joplin and the poetic lush Jim Morrison a change of taste bringing in those icons of my generation from Sid Vicious to Kurt Cobain meeting untimely or tragic ends in decade after dismal decade. Who are your heroes my friend are they living or are they dead? Spare me as it matters not a jot for all the ragged glamorous lot are consigned like you and me to the foul dustbin of history. Children’s voices familiar sounds playful happy across the land
Children’s cries stricken with terror hiding unsure sound of guns Dead bodies tears broken hearts Living in fear life is unfair Death is approaching a young man holding a gun Screaming pacing slowly step by step pointing at children Scared faces trembling praying Sound of gun clicking shooting blood pouring Across the land children playing Running chasing each other laughing holding hands Across the land Life is unfair Her latest selfie
grins out at us from the very top of the Acropolis with the Parthenon in its immensity towering behind in profound silence a timeless symbol of the sublime. So thus she came saw and conquered the ancient world in a mere snapshot who yet cannot tell an Ionic column from a Doric one or see the temple’s masonic geometry as a grand mirror of Plato’s abstract realm of Forms. Oh how Socrates would have laughed himself to scorn at this presumption as if travel could broaden such minds with ambits narrower than the spaces between these lines. Well, his words finally made it
to the front of the magazine. Perhaps he views his poem with sadness and pleasure from that unknown land awaiting us all. He invites us into his world of love and travel writing for this small magazine for years, a welcome escape from problems and fears. I felt he relished penning his verses and his demise has shaken me, a reminder of my own brittle mortality. Although I never met the man his words ensure I stare into his soul, it's a fitting tribute to discover one of his fine poems on the cover. What am I? Where am I? When am I?
Which answer is more important to you? What if I said I am none of these but all of them at once? Like a spinning coin that is neither heads nor tails but both and none. Would you believe me? Should I care if you didn't? For I am here, Patiently waiting for you to catch up. |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though. Just submit them using the submissions Storybox. Archives
April 2019
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