I stare at the clouds
view a mother and baby
and then they are gone.
view a mother and baby
and then they are gone.
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Those pesky termites
gleefully eating my house I’ll be homeless soon let loose in kitchen
but easily distracted; smell of burning spuds All is full of echoes
from the past and the spirits still walk among the linden trees like when the world was so very green and young. Cycling and daydreaming together with my firstborn son I'm passing again through the shadows of the Linden Street unlike when I was so very foolish, lonely and young.  (Photo: M. J. Richardson) I carefully descend the Dean's Steps
to magnificent Llandaff Cathedral. In the graveyard some tombs have split apart, forgotten souls with many tragic tales branches hissing as if their ghosts amongst daisies and dandelions which do not care about mortality, grief and despair. Statues of saints adorn the cathedral walls like spirits as I enter through the wooden door to be greeted by the fantastic Epstein's Christ and rainbow murals lit up by the summer sun. An elderly man recites a prayer as I touch a pillar steeped in history feeling tranquillity entering me. Spring brought forth the dusting of grandeur
The blossom exploding from baring bud, Showering lawns with lilac dander. A benediction bound in nature’s love. Branches laden, heavy with flowers Sweet Adulation in perfumed repose, Beauty distinct fragrant overpowers Consuming the senses is manic throes. Then it fruits, its summery shift To languish berries bright bursting red For us to pick at the seasonal gift Before the tree starts to Autumnal shed. Start again your sleep encrusted with snow Until the awakening when winter goes. There's a golden glow on the skyline;
Wild roses perfume the air, And the land sinks into silence As loving hearts join in prayer. The birds have all ruffled their feathers As they settle down for the night; And you are there with the angels, Walking, healed, into the Light. In the time of rain
the old poet at his desk waiting for the words I wonder, when I ran away to sea,
If anyone ever thought of me Tossed and thrown on the wild, wild wave, Rolling and listing and being brave? (Make us some coffee, sailor, and make it strong For the weather's wicked and the night is long.) Ah! Better the deep with its cold embrace Than to see the hatred on their face; Better the locker of Davy Jones Than to heed the insults they threw, like stones. (That's my lad. The spoon stands upright in this stuff; There'll be no nodding off at the helm for us.) 'Tis the irony of my life, old son; When everything is said and done, The Virtuous all rely on me For their silks, their spices, and their tea. His eyes glued to the 5.2 inch glowing screen,
And the engine roars blared off the tiny speakers. He watched highlights of the beloved Safari Rally. Man and machine battled it out-in the exciting, The toughest and the most spectacular WRC series, Where the home-grown, like Tundo, and the visitors shone. Try as he did, he couldn’t read the racers’ names, And the duplication of the speed-machines made it even harder. He couldn’t tell the difference between teammates! His memory opened up, again, to a distant past encounter. And he recalled the thrill-awesomeness, of a skilful driver of North. He smiled; his handling of the land cruiser at night was magical! Then, on the finals day, he watched the highlights; And marvelled at the racers’ last stunts and manoeuvres! How lovely? The car in front was a Toyota. Viva Sebastien Ogier! a dog concentrates
on a buzzing fly; canine entomologist He just knew he was going to cave.
He wished more than anything that he were brave. It was a no. He had to go. His love for her was going with him to the grave. Sinking down to the murky depths
as vulnerable as a spacecraft the Titan came to observe history but instead became part of it joining the perished of the Titanic long ago lost to the indifferent deep, they will also find here eternal sleep. I can't imagine the claustrophobia trapped inside a glorified tin can and then the horror of implosion. Edgar Alan Poe would surely have penned poignant lines about this terrible event. No, all that wealth was unable to save the occupants...from a watery grave. words blend and caress
then tango across the page; I need new glasses The bee, too gentle
in the warm days of summer to sting the old monk dipping into the honey with gnarled and misshapen hands  Phantom figures in black and white
are in the foreground of the photograph by the pier at the bottom of Beach hill. Life was so different back then: children pose next to a bicycle and pram, a plethora of hats are on display, some stare at the camera on this summer's day each person now long passed away. The paddle steamer "Devonia" drifts by the end of the pier and everything is right with the world. Today all will be tranquil with just dog walkers and perhaps a ghost floating slowly along the South Wales coast. The painting is set in a London attic
depicting a doomed youth in trousers electric blue and face as pale as his shirt. He lies on his side, flaming hair, peaceful in death manuscripts ripped to pieces and a phial of arsenic next to the corpse. In this sad vista from long ago I imagine the buzzing of flies entering through the open window ignoring the plant on the shelf to settle on the indifferent boy who is now beyond the reach of pain yet it was not his words bringing him fame but this tragic painting...which made his name. In the time of rain
someone lived in that old hut abandoned last year The poor old Sun,
lost in the heavy aircraft clouds. Down here I've been waiting to feel again its divine springtime blues. In the shadow time
the old poet lights his lamp the inkwell is dry He used to be
immaculately attired but today his coat is dirty and shoes worn out rather like his poor old soul. He used to be wealthy but lost it all and ambles to the coffee shop with mind glued to the past. He used to be a man with boundless energy yet he has learned humility no longer with contempt on show but now instead of looking to the skies he wanders around with pavement eyes. At the winter solstice
a magical sight is on view: the sun climbs over the horizon awakening from its slumber to shine through the temple's portal lasting only a minute every year in a truly wonderful atmosphere. The Pharaoh Amun-Ra would have witnessed the event as well as many long forgotten souls then the sultry sun drifts above the famous temple at Karnak, spectators departing with such awestruck eyes never forgetting this supreme sunrise. |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. 
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September 2023
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