OUR BRIGHT MORNING STAR

(FOR MY WIFE ON OUR ANNIVERSARY)

When chance mercy, grants serenity and unfetters all mental chains,
reason no longer sought,my mind so stilled that nothing now remains,
til' you are my only thought.

For in these moments, when solemn stillness marries the half-light's shade,
I often watch you sleep, whispering thanks that such beauty was ever made,
that you are mine to keep.

And in my heart I know, that few will ever know a love such as ours,
a love cruel fate cannot mar, that even in life's dark, dreadful hours
shines bright our morning star.

During the first world war, Lord Kitchener came up with the brilliant idea of getting pals from work,sporting clubs etc to all join up together.
It was very successful, particularly in northern England were men/boys flocked to join what became known as the 'Pals' battalions.
However, when exposed to the slaughter of the western front, most notably the battle of the Somme, the flaw in the plan was revealed. Such were the casualties on the first day that whole towns lost their men folk.
( a similar thing happened to the american boys from Bedford on Omaha beach)

The following is is dedicated to my long lost Uncle Pvt Clement May and all his Pals.


THE BRADFORD PALS



The Songbirds sang on that one sunny Day,
when at 7.20am the whistles were blown,
and into Battle the brave Pals were thrown.
To advance on Serre the enemy to slay.

For seven Days before the Guns did fire,
explosions and thunder igniting the Black,
then over the Top carrying Rifle and Pack,
but the wrong Shells hadn't cut the Wire.

On they walked to the slaughter,as One,
in perfect lines up that long grassy slope,
stumbling on the fallen, knowing there's no hope,
bravely facing the Scythe of shell and Gun.

They didn't falter over Ground stained Red.
“Our Barrage will win this” they'd lied
so our young White Roses walked and died
French soil soon smothered with our dead.

The cold grey Northern Land left to mourn,
so many Widows and Houses draped in black.
All knew a Man that wouldn't be back
to see again the Town where they were born

WOMAN WITH PARASOL



It is an image that lures my Thoughts with a Siren's reach,
the Lady and Boy upon the Hill,their eyes beckoning
me to unravel the meaning of their stilled,silent Pose
as if they harbour some great Insight they want to teach.

She has a dignity and presence that demands respect,
yet as the Foehn wind brushes past with metered haste
her countenance unveils an ambience of sadness,
as if she's leaving a Past for reasons she didn't expect.

The Boy knows as he leads her down the other side,
but with empathy and understanding beyond his years
though aware of the hour, grants her this moment
before leading her away, from her Oppressor to hide.

THE WORKING CLASS

They seek to escape this place, with its suffocating monotone drab,
the cloying sense of the banal. The bright plastic shards which stab
through the stagnant filth of the canal.

But it was not always so, concrete now blights streets of cobbled stone,
crude imagery shames walls, where once was the woollen mill's drone
and mothers wrapped in shawls.

This was a noble town, home to working folk who carried their pride
high on silk, by hand painted, who from toil and strife had never shied,
simple lives of honour untainted.

Called the lower class, always kept down on the ladder's first rung,
held as not of equal worth, yet from their sweat an empire was sprung,
to amuse those of privileged birth.

It is right and just that in this land, anyone can now make a better life,
though there's always a cost, it's not how you hold your fork and knife,
but that a noble class is lost.


THE FORBIDDEN KISS



In that moment we both suddenly knew,
all that had gone before was leading to this,
over Time those Feelings so slowly grew,
to this climax of our first Lover's Kiss.
In silence our Heads together did slide,
allowing silken Breath on Skin to touch,
while my hands upon her Beauty did glide,
for we both now wanted this so much,
that no longer was it possible to stop.
Our eyes became fixed in mutual gaze.
Tracing her Body, fingers did hesitantly drop,
Emotion had reduced us to a Daze.
With urgency now I grasped her Hips and pulled her to me with gentle Force.
It was a Passion unknown as I kissed her Lips.
How could such Pleasure elicit Remorse.
Sinking to the Floor I cradled her Face,
as we abandoned all reason and sense,
to that most intimate form of Embrace,
ending years of frustrating suspense.

THE TRICKSTER



It is as if an evil Trickster, possessed of otherworldly stealth,
whilst you're not aware, slowly steals away your mental health,
just to see how you'll fare.

He smothers you from behind with a blanket so dark and thick,
eyes blinded to what others see, dark thoughts and images stick,
your mind locked with no key.

You cannot fight it with sword or scalpel, there are only drugs,
which are often merely a curse, you feel nothing from loving hugs,
yet admire a passing hearse.

All that once sparked your passion and interest is suddenly taken,
nothing has any reason, tragedy and fright leave you unshaken,
living a life out of season.

It is a puzzle to you, the worry and concern felt by those who care,
nothing ever matters you explain, that you're happy to sit and stare,
plotting to end the pain.

It hurts the most when you remember the person you once were,
and hate the pathetic wretch, that your mind now seems to prefer,
and often tries to fetch.

Whether you are enjoying life or if your life is suddenly stalling,
in this or any other land, the evil Trickster can always come calling,
dark blanket in his hand.

IAN
( in memory of Ian Curtis, Joy Division, uk band)

Did you take one last look around this final place,
warm memory to find. Did your fingers subtly trace
the air, in vain attempt to still your mind.

Could your words in song not caution you to pause,
to fan a final ember. It was never about the applause,
for you it was enough to remember.

I guess you feared life more than you feared death,
your illness made it so, I hope with your final breath,
a smile was the last thing to go.

Have you found the peace you had always fought.
Your verse dark and deep, from anguished heart wrought,
and tormented soul did weep.

We discussed your private hell with the arrogance of youth,
detached curt critique, saying your prose revealed the truth,
that death and misery create mystique.

In cliched form, you remain to us forever alive and young,
your presence and voice, the entrancing vocals you have sung,
I know you had no choice.

DO NOT FEEL SADNESS


Remember me once in a while, when clamorous mores do briefly wane,
conceding brief repose, and picture past glory that will forever remain,
though time continually flows.

Do not feel sadness, let not one tear of grief sweet countenance mar,
for life should beguile, and at it's end look back, see you've travelled far,
then meet death with a smile.

My passing is of no import, as I slip fading corporeal bond all is clear,
there is no puzzle to solve, for though my presence will no longer be here,
life will still evolve.

You must let me go, forbid mournful heart to still your zest for life,
save me from grey void, with laughter and song ignore insidious strife,
do what we once enjoyed.

There is a place I have to be, and so you must in me believe
know my words are pure and true, as now I take my leave,
with love for all of you.

OSCAR




See the infant face, half nestled into adoring Mother's caress,
eyes give gentle flicks, lips purse with heart melting finesse,
eager sudden kicks.

The merest touch, reveals a tiny velvet form of flawless skin,
which only a divine cast, would dare such perfection to begin,
never to be surpassed.

Eyes now open, he bestows upon the world a wondrous thing,
with a baby's guile, he makes the soul dance and sing,
with a single smile.

You'll ever be loved, though the years will bring light and shade,
trials lost and won, times that will shine and times that will fade,
for you are our Son.

THE OLD MAN




It is sudden, that moment when I see his face with furtive eye,
when fate reveals, those story book features that could never lie,
that bowed head often conceals.

What is hidden, it is precious, not made or found by human hand,
not material treasure, it's found in children playing on the sand,
a life of simple pleasure.

For he knows, he fought for wealth, loved all that he'd obtained
always the extra mile, yet one thing from his grasp ever remained,
that was how to smile.

It is fickle, the wheel of Fortune,with its callous heart so deft,
so it started to spin, destroying his life til nothing more was left,
no longer could he win.

I sit a while, powder blue eyes, flashing beacons tell of his peace,
looking at him now, he says “learn to smile or happiness will cease,
it's easy when you know how”.

SOUNDS OF CHILDREN


Sounds of Children, frantic in the school yard, ignited
by the first spring gales, their voices shrill and excited,
acting out imaginary tales.

Playing on a warm beach, content,
the magic of sea and sand, until they're completely spent,
a towel wrapped happy band.

Gathered round a story teller, wide eyes
reveal wonder and awe, the gasps, whispers and gentle sighs,
always wanting more.

Seeking answers about the world, asking,
questions ever more deep, grown-ups in adulation basking,
wishing they'd finally sleep.

Talking together without adults, stating
views, standing their ground, falling out but never hating,
their feet already found.

When they're sad or worried, crying,
in need of love and a hug, safe in strong arms lying,
will ever a heart tug.

The sound of Children at play or at rest
is the sound of Life at it's very best.


EDGE OF WINTER IN SPRING WOOD

Winter forays forth with silent breeze,
only icy chills reveal its presence,
seeking the land to quickly freeze,
yet no spite lies in its essence..

The Spartan branches to me reveal
slim faint lines of crystal white,
where frost now starts to steal,
all the colours from my sight.

Like a Virus it starts to take
for itself this once lush space,
a kingdom of Cold so to make,
with frost Drape Trees like Lace

With languid glance at the path
ever stoic amongst the Trees
I realise that Winter's Wrath,
which spirits away the leaves,

couldn't ever lay to waste
the Wood with snow or rain
for always will it be replaced
when Spring returns again.

NIGHT




As the Day now tires, with sleight of hand darkness steals the light,
and by royal decree, the fading landscape kneels before the Night,
his nocturne for all to see.

The World is stilled,appearing languid and not concerned with time,
all is hushed in tone, reverence rendering movement into mime,
the air as cold as stone.

Night's rule is short, amid emerging lustre the Day reclaims control,
waking again the land, returning light and warmth that darkness stole
with his sleight of hand.



Inspired by the beauty & fashion industry's negative influence

BEAUTY



Perhaps my eyes are shut, for I see not the picture you paint,
when in the mirror you stare, it's image your mind lets taint,
your self doubt ensnare.

Is it an error of vision, which masks the truth from your sight,
forbids you embrace, that where you tread shines purist light,
and brings good to this place.

They are nothing, the pastel shades of powder which adorn your skin,
the fabrics you drape, compared to to that which lies hidden within,
and has no form or shape.

When our eyes meet, I am lost, my mind and heart no longer free,
it is a kiss from afar, our lips do not touch yet lovers we will be,
Beauty is what you are.

THE FIRE

It entrances all whose eyes witness it's sinuous show of blue and gold,
an alluring hold,
which accompanied ancients in their wanton dances.

And drew to it's warmth the village folk with their fearful eyes glistening,
intent on listening,
to the flames crack and roar as the cold north wind blew.

There's wonder about and stories are told of great deeds done by the tribe,
as they imbibe,
wise words giving comfort for what's been torn asunder.

Old songs are sung with familiar sounds and words leaving mist in the air,
as they stare,
letting the fire cleanse their hearts and right all their wrongs.

As a new dawn approaches only embers remain resolute in the dying fire,
folk finally tire,
knowing that through the conjured flames the Tribe has been reborn.



A father talks to his first child a few days after the birth

A FATHER'S CHILD



As I waited, in quiet moments my mind would your image draw,
how you'd look I guessed ,yet no picture painted ever foresaw,
a Father so truly blessed.

I remember, how with timorous reach my hands brought you near,
a feather touch embrace, rolling waves of utter joy and pure fear,
when first I saw your face.

Confused was I, when a single liquid pearl down my cheek traced,
on your brow to lie, whilst a sudden stifled sob the ether graced,
hearing your first cry.

In my arms, lulled into contented slumber by my bodies heat,
there slips a gentle sigh, it's here my real self I finally meet
for now a father am I.

I 'wrote' this in my mind a week ago. Here in the north of England is the county of Yorkshire, a place of commerce and industry but also outstanding beauty. About 25 miles from my home is the Dales national park.
It is a place of moorland,crags, rolling hills, lush valleys,caves and rivers. Dotted amongst this heaven are tiny villages surrounded by endless walls of dry-stone which since medieval times have divided the land into fields.
I spent the day in the village of Burnsall a week ago. I was the most relaxed and least disabled (Parkinson's) I'v been for 3 years and after a few hours of just sitting and stilling my mind I became lost in a state of reverie.
I hope you enjoy.

Nigel

BURNSALL


It takes your breath, those sudden camera shutter glimpses of the valley floor,
as down you go looking right, through branch framed windows under the tor,
all bathed in the northern light.

This is God's land, here all the city's neon and concrete blight has no place,
instead there is only peace,a verdant serene contrast to man's urban disgrace,
a haven when labours cease.

There is much wonder here, stately cloud shadows adjusting shades of green,
houses of Dale married stone, river secrets hidden by a dancing gloss sheen,
the towering heather tinged throne.

Is there some potion here, lying in the meadows or sown upon the breeze,
an Elixir from nature born, that softly renders body and mind at ease,
as the burdens we carry are shorn.

W-O-W

Reading this, I can not only see this magical place, I can feel a sense of retreat and peace that it brings - as though, in this place, it doesn't seem to matter how sick you are. I find myself longing to visit such a place.

Thank you, I'm so pleased you liked my words, you're very kind to take the trouble to comment.

PETALS





I saw it there, lying trapped in the cloying grey dust of the street,
a rich ruby red, a vestige perhaps of when two lovers did meet
and heart felt words were said.

It caught my eye, serenely nestled amongst dead leaves on the lane,
a crimson so fair, maybe lost from a gift to ease someone's pain,
simply to show they care.

How poignant it is, there beneath the names resting on cobbled stone,
the colour of blood, a floral mot mori for all those to me unknown,
lying in foreign mud.

A smile blossoms, as they flutter around and gather at the church gate,
the colours of May, dropped by a bride who was just a little bit late,
for this her special day.


NICE THINGS


It's a nice thing, to cook a meal and feed those for whom you care,
no matter how you're able, whether it's a banquet or bread you share,
gathered round a table.

On an icy day, or when the grey damp winds are blowing a storm,
you are frozen to the core, but then relish the sudden light and warm,
closing the front door.

That brief excitement, you sometimes get without having to look.
Unexpected praise, perhaps a sudden invite or finding a brilliant book,
waking up on sunny days.

Out with friends, on one of those nights when all are on a high,
nobody is down, you're laughing so much it makes you cry
cos everyone's a clown.