Originally Posted by Niggs

Hi

I'v got Parkinson's and following recent drug increases have suddenly started waking up with complete Poems in my mind. I'v always been interested in Poetry but always had to work at it but now it's as if a door has been opened.
I would be grateful for some feedback
Oh I will only post few as I'v done 50 since new year ! Can't seem to close that door.
Nigel

BEFORE THE DAWN

I often watch my children sleep
in the hours before the dawn
and marvel at a love so deep,
the gift that they were born.

And as my mind tires at last
when they begin to wake,
I see the scenes of our past,
all the beauty that they make.

So fate can't ever break me
and hardship I'd ever repeat.
For it matters not what will be,
with them my life's complete.

POOR OPHELIA

A love betrayed, her father by adoring Hamlet now killed,
what mind could weather such blows. Her voice and deed
strange in manner cannot be stilled, as madness through
despair now grows.

She sings songs of nonsense verse and picks with fingers frail
flowers from her garden for gifts, to give to those who meet
poor tortured soul along the vale, as with voided thought to the
brook she drifts.

There stands a willow, it's branches as if tears filling the stream,
a still and sombre silvered glass, steep banks guard the water and
with varied floral beauties teem. Without care or thought she puts
foot upon the grass.

Entranced by colour she grasped branch and to red poppy did lean,
but was again betrayed, now by willow. For amid the sound of
splintered wood, breaking water's sheen she fell into the icy wet,
reeds became her pillow.

She was still, air filled cloth gave her time, safe footing to gain
upon the tangled bank. But sinister peace assailed poor Ophelia
promising release from her pain. Letting slip with gentle sigh under
the water softly she sank.


MEADOW FLOWERS



Coyly stood amongst the meadow grass, pastel Polka-dots on a canvas of green,
like floral gems strewn, they lift the bland, rendering the perfect country scene
for a summer afternoon.

Each year they come, a delicate scented beauty that caresses the waking land,
as if the perfection they bring, could only be created by some divine hand,
and sown from an angel's wing.

Some are taken though, by loving children who lack the florist's skill,
ripped from the loam, to briefly shine from a jar on the window sill,
a gift for Mum brought home.

I was one such boy, beguiled by this ethereal vision above nature's norm.
which in memory was to ever remain, so even now a meadow can transform,
this man into child again.


SUNSET FROM A CLIFF TOP

I am standing here with the Airs of elegant poise,
in vain attempt to honour the noise
of Natures frantic work to spectacularly close the Day,
on the Cliff top above the Bay.
The time is nigh for Night and Moon to tease the Eyes
as shadow now replaces shade.
Once again with practised Art the Sun God dies,
his healing touch does fade.
Yet even now at this mournful twilight time
I feel his warmth upon my arm,
and know that soon again he will climb,
to dispense his healing Balm.
For now, I'm smothered in Reverence and Awe,
images I will forever keep,
of the intimate ceremony I just saw,
for a land about to sleep.