Poetry By Niggs: For my wife and Other Poems.....
 

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.

The Bradford Pals
 

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

The Door's still open
 

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.

WARNING: These words are a bit dark/sad
 

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 & others
 

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 & others
 

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.

Burnsall
 

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.

Wow
 

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' & 'Nice things'
 

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.

When labours cease
 

A recurring theme and life long obsession : the nature of the human condition and reality. If you feel inclined please interpret the image/words as you see fit.
I wrote it in the manner of a mandala or koan to try stimulate both left & right sides of the brain.

Or

just think " jeez, not another one from Niggs !


WHEN LABOURS CEASE



It was sudden, so demanding it's ethereal form,
a figure there, standing still brazen against the storm,
at me so to stare.

And then, I heard his voice though he made no sound,
far across the Vale, bid me sit there upon the ground
and listen to his tale.

He said, I knew him well but that we had never met,
born on the same day, when our paths had been set,
the thirteenth of May.

He looked familiar, though his face I couldn't discern
I felt no fear, sensing for me he felt love and concern,
and had always been near.

“I have” said he,“all the answers that you have sought,
knowledge concealed, the problems you have fought,
all will be revealed”

“There will be, a time when you're finally granted peace,
mercy long overdue, and as your labours finally cease,
you'll know that I am you.”

Back then
 

One of the privileges of getting old is to be able to wind up young folk by telling them how much better the world was "Back then"

Brolly= Umberella
Sherbet dip = a paper bag filled with sherbet powder and a lolly like a hard boiled
sugar candy on a stick.



BETTER BACK THEN


“You see, it was better back then” folk often like to say.
sunshine was somehow brighter, there were 25hrs in a day.
snow was so much whiter.

Back then, a family treat was a trip to the Yorkshire coast,
with luck an ice lolly, food for the week was Sunday's roast,
Summer required no brolly.

It was honest, the doors in their houses had no use for keys.
Always a roaring fire, for a passing stranger to warm his knees
and journey on much dryer.

You could, drive to London for the price of a sherbet dip,
beer was the proper sort,and you were ****** on a single sip,
only a penny a quart.

It's clever, how memory makes us with fondness see our past,
moments of “remember when”, as back our thoughts are cast.
It was better back then.

On social issues/morality
 

CAN'T LET GO

It's a new day with nothing to say, kinda lost their way but they can't let go.
No ones fault, like pepper and salt,they should call a halt but battle on.
An angry night, just another fight, cos' money's tight but no makin' up..
They like to dream it's all berries and cream,so it doesn't seem,things are so bad.


He asks for a sub,he needs the pub,but here's the rub she always says no,
so he goes in her purse cos' drink's his curse, what could be worse, he sighs.
When she does the math, he feels her wrath,the kids in the bath,cold & alone.
They put warm chips to their blue lips, fizzy sugar sips, always the same.


She's on the town, legs painted brown, loses her frown on a Friday night,
lads strut their stuff acting tough, a bit of rough but she wants more
she drinks too much,lets them touch, a kind of crutch that helps her through,
it doesn't last long, she knows it's wrong, same old song sung every week.

Their kisses aren't the same,there's no flame, it's a shame but that's how it is,
No love but they care, the children they share, smiles are rare in that house.
She wants much more,he asks what for,stares at the floor and now he knows,
there is no hope, on the downward slope, they just can't cope any more .


LAND OF SIN


Always on the Stairs
her Life is silence
Mum sell her Wares
surrounded by violence
Though no blame, it's always the same,
You claim to cry, then walk on by.
He holds out a Cup
asks his God again
not to wake up
so no more pain
Have you a part, deep in your Heart
to forget the cost and save the Lost
The voice she hears
destroys her Mind
no help for years
til a Body they find
It's not a Game, don't you feel shame,
you want to do more, then forget what you saw
He lives in Halls
clutching his Phone
there are no calls
he sits all alone
Are you aware, do you not care
under the Skin , lies a Land of Sin

Are you aware, that you just stare

Are you aware, you're never there

Are you aware.............................

Smiles, Windy days, Goodbye Summer
 

SMILES



Be cautious, for sometimes it is nothing more than a sinister mask,
a facade of deceit, to render you off guard is it's malevolent task,
born out of conceit.

A confusing one, often well intentioned yet somehow it angers you,
with it's patronising Air, a favourite to dispense barbed pity in lieu,
of concern and care.

Yet another, has the power to lighten the darkest of our days,
make good from bad, down hearted spirits to quickly raise,
create happy from sad.

Best of all, is the one that's so subtle it's not easy to discern,
seen only once in a while, it exorcises from you all concern,
the “gonna be ok” smile.


WINDY DAYS



Dogs wearing caps made from ears turned inside out,
cabals of folk huddled together but still having to shout.
With white knuckles on posts shuffle the old and the frail
while a gent in a billowing coat drifts past in full sail.
Helpless trees protest with their frantic dervish dance,
as a single bird takes to the sky leaving it up to chance.
Manic playtime children seem possessed by the gales
Old men like to tell even worse windy weather tales.
Lifting roof tiles and toppling trees is it's sordid intent,
just so long as there's damage done will it be content.

GOODBYE SUMMER

It's a shame, going so soon without a goodbye.
Though you didn't stop long,
I liked what you did with the clouds and the sky.
But the sun wasn't that strong.

And why did you bring all that miserable rain,
next year leave it behind.
Spring brought so much we were flooded again,
though the fish didn't mind.

Could you not mess with the prevailing wind,
I guess you find it fun.
And I know the ozone is somewhat thinned,
but try harder with the sun.

Now I think about it I'm glad you've left,
I'd sue you if I could,
for being both guilty of summer holiday theft
and colder than you should.

To a friend
 

Written with recent tragedy in mind...


TO A FRIEND

We hope with your final sleep there came soft tranquil dreams,
a sun washed field, scented flowers and liquid crystal streams,
a heaven that was slowly revealed.

Consoled are we, knowing that you will finally suffer no longer,
the pain is no more, there are none who could've fought stronger,
it was just time to close the door.

Though we feel grief, so saddened by that which we cannot explain,
by life's purpose beguiled, your joie de vivre in memory will remain,
for the world lit up when you smiled.

Reality
 

REALITY



Is it the movement of hands around a watch or clock,
as the seasons ever pass, the slow weathering of rock,
or the growing grass.

Maybe it only exists when we wake each and every morn,
and at death ceases,do we create it from the day we're born,
with myriad other pieces.

I wonder if mine is unique or do we all experience the same,
do we make our own path, if so we have ourselves to blame,
and not some deity's wrath.

If only we could unravel the true nature of our reality,
and open it's doors wide, we'd lose the fear of mortality,
and eagerly look inside.

Generations,there's only now, cold is coming
 

Generations



the small boy, stands with reverence in the old man's shed
mesmerised by bits and bobs, air laden with tobacco scent
he watches the fall of silver hair still left on a tired head
awestruck he listens,glorys and stories of a life well spent

by the clock is a picture, a woman possessed of a beauty rare
a smile on his age worn face, as when the wedding bells rang
he tells the boy of finding love while tea and cake they share
listening to the record playing forever, songs that she sang

a grumpy voice greets the boy saying “do you know you're late”
he's not cross really, just a tad worried, it's for the lad's sake.
Endlessly pacing up and down until he heard the garden gate
for he promised he would show him how paper planes to make

a hand in his cardigan pocket as the old man pretends to nap,
reveals a matchbox, a small gift for the boy, seen only by a few
inside lies his personal treasure, a badge from his old army cap
he smiles as young eyes light up, for he was once a small boy too

there is only now

pay no heed to the spurious clock
as it spirits the hours from the day
it's numbers and hands that mock
with a sly intent the eyes to betray

feast on sweet memories of the past
strain not to see over future's prow
bind yourself to the present's mast
and tenderly grasp there's only now

think not of time as fine falling sand
or the endless draw of a river's flow
it changes not as ruby embers fanned
but infinite slices neither fast or slow

yesterday has been and gone so fast
to see tomorrow time can not allow
seize this moment for it will not last
fleeting instants ,there is only now

cold is coming

gone now are the skies of starling flocks,
bereft purple heather,once hidden rocks
all know cold is coming.
Time travel ritual of altering the clocks

no more garb with summer colour bright,
days that sooner surrender to the night,
feel that cold is coming
lost bottom drawer scarves pulled tight.

Arboreal cats cradle, leaves on the ground
drab brick walls by dusted crystal crowned
hear that cold is coming.
Boots on ice blanket grass, footprint sound.

Surprise solar displays from a waning sun,
revealed diamond silk traps already spun,
see that cold is coming.
For an expectant land winter has begun.

Scenes created, seasons change, and of course, a smile on my face. Thank you for sharing.


Gerry

Reading your kind words this morning Gerry has brought sunshine into my world.

Thank you.

Nigel

Re: my poetry
 

Hi just to let anyone who maybe interested know Iv set up a non commercial blog to present my Art .It's just my personal site and is not part of any other community or group and just gives me the opportunity to put a bit of glitz to my words and keep me out of mischief !
I will still post owt new here as this community means so much to me.



VOICES OF A HIDDEN SELF – poetry,prose and dopamine dreams

Ghost Train
 

GHOST TRAIN

I find it strange that I notice first the clumps of hardy Grass,

random and stark, sprouting from beneath the ballast’s Mass,

born from lithic Dark.

When away to the distance arc steel Rails once new and bright,

now with viral rust, torpid corruption relentless Day and Night

their purpose to adjust.

Now no Engines claw along it’s length to who knows where,

only ghosts of the past, from carriage windows blankly stare,

coming home at last.

I wonder who they were ?

A River Trout
 

A RIVER TROUT IN WHARFEDALE

I sat upon the bank amid a Splendour so rarely found,

though I sensed it not, mind bereft of sight or sound,

to feel awe had I forgot.

When through golden Orbs, dappled leaf and sunlight,

against the sandy bed, form that with the flow did fight

saw I a flash of red.

Fixed on the slow, hypnotic wave of a gossamer tail

there could be no doubt, here in the river graced Dale

I’d found a single Trout.

Watching it’s sinuous dance made me once more aware,

and looking all around, in moments allowed me to share

a Splendour rarely found.

Three B's
 

Boy in the Cafe

It was packed, that haven from summer storm, on the sea front,
a few places left to sit, the flapping cafe door bearing the brunt
little room for the waitress to flit.

He could just be seen, by the corner window,a mop of blond hair,
a sad stare through glass, finger traced drops, looking at the Fair,
hoping the rain will quickly pass.

A cup of untouched Chocolate, on the table, near his empty seat,
too wet the playing field grass, redundant the football at his feet,
I say “Boy, the rain will quickly pass”.

BITTER SWEET DREAM



I SOMETIMES HAVE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL OF DREAMS
A SURPRISING VISUAL TREAT
OF SUCH FINE DETAIL MY MIND “IT'S REAL SCREAMS”
YET ONE THAT'S BITTER SWEET.
FOR IN DEEP SLUMBER I AM A MAN NO LONGER BENT,
SHUFFLING ALONG THE GROUND
BUT WALKING PROUD AND TALL,WITH BOLD INTENT
AS ALONG PAVEMENTS I POUND
A REVERIE SO EXQUISITE IS ONE I PRAY WILL REMAIN
AND NOT BE A CONJURED TRICK
BUT CRUEL TEASE IS FLEETING, AND ON WAKING AGAIN
I KNOW I WILL FOREVER BE SICK.


BLUE SKY

When I take a second and look up, way past the tallest tree,

where no birds fly, I’m in awe and humbled by what I see,

a beautiful blue Sky.

And though smothered by Night, inky dark and creamy Moon,

where diamond Stars lie, it’s not long before morning birds croon

to the beautiful blue Sky.

So when fury and malice come with black clouds the blue to stain,

insidious and sly, sunlight will always triumph and above remain

a beautiful blue Sky.

the field,the leaf and the candle
 

THE CANDLE


The essence is now no more though I did not see it die,
gone it's calming sheen, I feel loss but do not know why,
but miss soft vibrate scene .
For I could watch forever such a glowing sensuous sway,
with it's coloured aura, a red through to blue teasing play,
atop waxy leafless flora.
A final touch of wispy charcoal smog from blackened wick,
brief vapid scent, semi liquid fingers drip down then stick,
for now a candle spent.

Fields of wheat



I am standing in a field of wheat nearly harvest ready,
my eyes are tightly shut, arms outstretched to steady
as I slowly place my foot.
My ungainly faltering gait reminds me I should stop.
I am completely blind, motionless amidst the crop
when joy untold I find.
Other senses are invoked as sight has now been shed,
insects hum and sing, a symphony by Grasshopper led,
accents by corvid wing.
I feel warm solar lips brush tenderly against my hair,
and hear the rush, of wheat flock sway by fussing air
toying without crush.
Spice tinged scent, barely there from a hidden source,
pollen and cereal dust, birdsong a melody of Morse,
caught on sudden Gust.
I relish this sensual treat, that caught me by surprise,
the moment I closed my eyes.

A falling leaf


Through Autumn, long Winter and many a violent Spring storm,
always it's leaves it kept, just now I chanced upon a falling form
as a single leaf it softly wept.
Possessed of delicate poise, a parchment piece of russet trees,
floated without any sound, slowly turning, nudged by a breeze
down towards the ground.
It was the first of it's kind to let slip from high up where it held,
a moment of discarded worth, yet one that of the future spelled,
a sign of the tree's rebirth.

Nigel,
Your poems give the reader a sense of watching, feelings, changes..... sadness to come; but wait;... a leaf falling to the ground; but now comes the reality this is all part of the cycle of hope and rebirth to come.

Again Nigel, the visuals are there for one to see and feel.....
Thank you; as I begin my day..

Gerry

Sir, you are a Gentleman and I appreciate greatly that you take time to comment. What better motivation than your words I couldn't envisage.
Thank you,

Nigel

Themes of Love
 

When love goes one way:

A desolate love

Hear me Eros, still my rhythmic heart,
for it's beat, on fate's whim did start a
lover's refrain. Yet awakened to artful
deceit I seek escape from burdened
chain. Perhaps by spurious kiss rendered
blind, by impish melody I could not
hear, that she sang a different song
to the one within my mind.

When friends fall in love:


HEART FELT HEX

It's in those quiet moments, when mindful noise is pushed to the rear,
when my mind is free, it's sweet thoughts of you that suddenly appear
and how you've captured me.

Long have we been friends and though from your beauty I never tire,
I looked only with an artist's eye,until the day I felt my heart on fire,
and was left wondering why.

For how can gentle soul, such a passion, for all these years conceal,
so hidden deep inside, that only a magic unknown can now reveal
to myself I must have lied.

I am smitten, by what manner of heart felt Hex I no longer really care,
perhaps with lips pursed, sultry gaze or your fingers entwined in hair,
for it's with love I'me cursed.

Friendship/platonic love:

Post Dinner Party Crime Scene


An instant flicker-switched brilliance reveals the scene,
chairs in casual disarray, prove that guests have been.
Merlot stigmata table cloth no longer linen crisp white,
matt fingerprint glasses,lipstick sealed, flash with light.
Crumb dotted plates rest haphazard on each place mat,
a time frozen residue left by those who had there sat.
Some sport discarded napkins, the odd knife and fork
wielded like a conductor's baton in animated talk.
And along the table's centre stand idols of green glass
worshipped the evening long in our Dionysian mass,
for to serve those you love, laughter, food and wine,
is ceremony that binds us tighter than any hemp or twine.

Courage,Be tethered no more,if heavens conspire
 

True courage

Dwell not on sharp tongues or
gifted feathers white, for to
fear is kin to a rational mind.
Deny hurt from baneful slight,
see contempt dressed glance
revealed as mere fatuous face.
Know that to feel fear yet still chance
is to be possessed of a lion's heart
and such a man will always a
warrior's table grace

Be tethered no more

Be tethered to ordinary no more,
make curiosity on silvered wings
soar and from lofty heights pity
the mundane and bear witness to
sights unseen. Fear not the folly
of youth but dream, dream and
pursue, for therein lie previews
of tomorrow's truth. Make bold
with deed and wear not a cloak
of unease but embrace the
mantle of a soul so freed.
Be tethered no more.


If heavens conspire


If heavens conspire let not foul intent hold sway,
we pawns on chequered board whose skies are grey,
seek little save blue above and mercy surely wrought.
To sail calm seas is a treasure that we've ever sought,
bind fickle fate's malice, hold fast it's vengeful wrath
let we simple Souls always walk, a safe lantern lit path.

the storyteller, waiting for dad and others
 

There’s nothing quite like a talented Storyteller who can turn words into pictures that seize the imagination





The Storyteller

Tell me a story of honour and pride,

pennant tipped lances, a wild stallion

ride. Where fair maidens are taken

and with magic bound, about witches,

warlocks, villains and knights from

tables round. Tell me of lands where

giants roam, enchanted forests both

dark and cold, the woods, glades and

streams that sprites call home. Let

me hear you talk about dragon lore,

mysterious fires in which kings

the future saw. Tell me all with

earnest voice, bright darting eyes

and compelling edge, just one more !



When I was a boy my father was a Salesman driving all over the country. In those days, the roads were not as good, the emergency services fewer . Winters were often cold and snowy and we, like all kids hoped for blizzards which would close schools and bring sledging, snowballs and snowmen.

For me this childhood treat was tempered by the thought of Dad driving around in atrocious and dangerous weather. His frown and his obvious worry were palpebral but no sales, no money.

I used to sit on his bedroom window sill for hours until finally his car appeared at the end of the street.

Waiting for Dad

Small boy,curled in feline form on the narrow window ledge.

Ancient glass,constantly by hand cleared of moisture,opaque,

cold touch pane teases a cheek.

Vague familiar scent of cologne, elusive, a comforting shade

of absent love. A red striped tie strewn on the bed. Images of

him wearing his favourite blue.

A bedside clock ticks, mocking with it’s constant reminding,

providing a steady beat, marking a child’s mounting angst.

Outside odd cars gingerly inch by, soon covered tracks

deny their passing while ice insects swarm in the glow of

struggling headlights.

Purist white bathed in strange hues by drama enhancing sodium

street lamps.

Not a soul can be seen.

A question fatigued mother with perfected mask of nonchalance,

a young imagination running wild, heightened senses, straining,

a feeling, a knowing relief at the first glimpse of familiar form,

amber light, flashing an ‘all is well’ signal.

Excitement flooded voice announces “Mum, he’s back !”


The Butterfly and the hand

While summer day leaden lids ushered in sleep

and into tranquil mind gentle dreams did seep,

hands, limp and lifeless facing the balmy sun ,

as exquisite mind stilled musing had just begun

I became at once aware of an imagined touch,

for it was almost too slight be known as such.

Then without intent, eyes dropped onto my palm.

The world was a solemn stillness, all was calm,

and there rested a Butterfly, there in my hand.

I was awestruck, blessed by a vision so grand.

As I watched it’s wings twitch and flap in code,

entranced by the vivid flash colour it showed,

I wondered what news delicate herald brought,

and did it not fear to be by frightful fist caught.

I seemed to understand, but what I couldn’t say,

then gone that beautiful moment as it flew away


On the passing of a Lover

I saw you there



I saw you there the other day,stood over by the wall,

though at me you did not look.

Your face was rounder and you did not seem as tall,

but still, what I could I took.



I saw you there, in the Park, sat alone on our bench.

You stared, lost in thought.

With a half glance you left, again I felt that wrench

as against panic I fought.



I saw you there, in the crowd,leaning against the door,

yet I heard not your voice.

It was only a moment and my very soul I’d sell for more,

if only I had the choice.



I saw you there the other day, walking along the pier,

though deep inside I knew,

when you whispered “let me go, shed your final tear”

that it never could be you.

Three Sonnets
 

A Sonnet in it's English guise is a specific form. At it's most basic it consists of 14 lines rhyming ABAB CDCD EFEF GG, with each line having 10 syllables. The last couplet traditionally is a twist and the first stanza sets the scene. There are other complications.
I hope you enjoy.


Sonnet 1

Can love’s quest ever be an unjust cause,
to seek fate matched heart with yours to join,
is it not our right under nature’s laws,
to yearn for more than earthly gold or coin.
For blessed are those that such sweetness taste
that by fortune or deed their soulmate meet.
When our paths are crossed we must make haste,
seize chanced gift to make two lives complete.
Pity those who to love’s soft touch are blind,
and have no desire to fill that cold space.
Feel sadness that some, true love never find
never once feel a lover’s eyes on their face.
To live life in love is to live in light
and never to know the dark endless night.


Sonnet 2 v2

As the night’s falling drape of velvet dusk
forewarns that a drowsy stillness is nigh
and the soft butter glow of moonlight brusque
lays a gentle comfort along her thigh,
steal I a silk whisper kiss on pale skin.
And on my lips taste I such honeyed scent
I pray these hours to forever begin,
for the yearning to touch is never spent.
What beating heart could such beauty resist,
a love that from a single glance was born,
or that will cause adoring sight to mist
from knowing heartbreak will arrive at dawn.
For to her, of my love I should not say,
so must unworthy heart be gone by day.


Sonnet 3

With time intent on his forever dance,
deftly stole I from him by slightest hand,
in a fleeting pause of conceded chance
moments of a beauty both rare and grand.
I saw a single ray of purest light
pierce a crystal glass droplet as it fell,
and become a lonely tear lost at night,
a vestige of false love’s now broken spell.
I watched the sharp life bloom of Springtime
and heard I a thousand strange voices sing,
many unknown songs with a single rhyme
and the rhythmic beat of a Blackbird’s wing.
Yet poisoned is the chalice I did steal,
for hidden is knowing what is now real.

Nigel,

Thank you for enlightening the reader beforehand the basics of a Sonnet.

Really puts a smile on my day to read the words, then giving an extra moment or two to put all the thoughts together. Now the realization gives way to knowledge and the beauty combined. Each Sonnet with its own meaning. Beautiful!!!!!!!!

Gerry

How beautiful this was to read on a cold dark and lonely night, fraught and racked with pain, your sonnets bought back memories of school English Literature learnings many long years gone by. Thank you. Gods gift is we can find beauty, love, & solace in anything when we pause to try.

A bit different
 

A cherished gift
*
To awake at each and every new dawn
as sleepy eyes, the night’s loss mourn
and realise with a furious wonder
that just for you is another day born,
is to know of gratitude’s true import
and be tightly bound by the thought
of what cherished gift you’ve been lent
and that the time of it’s loan is short.

field of whispered sighs
*
Meet me there in the field of whispered sighs
where rest all the missed ‘Goodbyes’,
and all the tears that in secret have been wept,
there amongst the grass are kept.
I will wait for you til heavy lids I can not hold
and my body gives into wilful cold,
listening to the field trapped sounds gently rise,
to wander lost under changing skies.
Meet me there in the field of whispered sighs
and set free our missed ‘Goodbyes’.

A Slight chance of love
I read in the paper that the omens were good,
as foretold by the pattern of stars up above,
I know it’s all rubbish but I still think we should
as long as you agree there’s a slight chance of love.


Scientists say ………

‘There will be sadness no more
it’s dying out due to something, we’re quite sure
We’ve measured smiles, laughter and even giggles
and though our work may have a few niggles,
our figures and data prove only one thing,
the coming centuries will happiness bring.
Darwin was right it’s evolution you see
sad people die younger so happy’s the key,
so we’ve worked it out and what comes next,
is we’ll evolve to be ‘smileys’ and live in* text.
Then no one will understand what’s been said
so instead of angry they’ll feel nice instead.

A kiss blown


I remembered most how we kissed
so across the room I blew you one
and now send ‘X’ in case I missed



Late evening by the Loch
*
Before me lies such a canvas divine
that surely must I, my heathen soul doubt
and see as some great Architect’s design
this place that makes my Poet’s heart shout.
Spread before me lies a liquid gloss sheet
blue black with sapphire droplets of star flash,
snug with shadowy dark leaves that then meet
in the sky a sepia summer moon splash.
Over yonder glints a croft’s amber light
swaying to a lone piper’s mournful keen,
there to honour the sultry Highland night
that’s by darkness still a beauty serene.
Lake edge water, toys sand with kitten laps
within the solemn stillness of approaching sleep,
while heady floral scent around me wraps
and a voice whispers a part of you we’ll keep.

Mad by degree


I left the Doctor’s feeling quite glad,
he’d said “ I’ve decided on a diagnosis,
I’m sorry but you’ve got a psychosis,
in other words you’re quite mad.

*I replied “Oh dear is it very bad ?”
“ not as a box of frogs if you please,
but if pushed I’d say mad as cheese
so there’s really no reason to be sad.”

I said “what makes you think so”
“well you teach wasps to make jam
keep several goldfish in a pram
and think god made the sky too low.”

*“Oh, so it’s just something I said,
not that I think I’m a shark
or understand every dog’s bark
and keep biscuits under my shed”

“Not in the slightest old fellow
why I often think I’m a bat
while reading books to my cat
and I keep my trifle in a cello ”

Nigel, you are always so positive your words flow and sing. It makes the day lighter.

poetry - raindrop
 

The lover’s first kiss

There is that moment,
a pause,
that does not trouble time
with demands for days, hours or minutes.
It is when a thousand pieces of jigsaw
fall to earth as a picture whole,
or when a single drop of rain bursts
upon each and every leaf at once,
and when eyes blacken,
the pupils opening wide,
offering mutual surrender, releasing
lips to gently purse and touch.
All around greys to a fade,
and sound holds it’s breath as
senses gather and focus on this one act.
An act that can never be just so again.
That love and passion,
will always express themselves with a kiss
is certain and always here after
remains that knowing,
only this one time can
a kiss feel like this.


Generations v2

Cake crumbs tumble from eager lips
as small hands wipe buttercream,
smears on school trousers,
watched by dew laden pale eyes,
that sparkle still under a creased
brow and the lock of a white hair
question mark, that seems to ask
what he’s thinking.
The old face, lights up as young
legs tap in time to her favourite song.
She loved to sing.
He hears her still
when the lad comes calling, asking to
hear the old tunes , with tea & cake,
sat in a well worn chair scented with
strange pipe aromatics, the smoke resting,
spent from working the heat of hot coal.
Young eyes look again, hinting, at the
box on the hearth.
An old smile given consent and it’s opened.
Bits and bobs placed with reverence on
the chair arm, the beautiful singer, cap badges,
cigarette cards, each has a story heard before,
that young ears want to hear again
and an old voice again wants to tell.

I fear to miss her special day

I fear to miss her special day,
when all her beauty,
without and within cannot be held,
but leaps at life and is wondrous,
wondrous as a kiss between sun and moon.
She will turn Gothic stone into
flawless marble that day, and the
air will be filled with rose scent
floating on the crackling static
about the chosen few, as their heads
swivel hoping to claim first sight.
And I will smile, when alone, silently
holding her favourite stuffed toy,
watching her sleep one last time,
in a room forever hers, before the morn.
And the music will sing
‘Behold the bride !’
and I will see only my little girl,
my beautiful child.
I know on that day, the love she feels
will not be for me alone,
and though another man
has stolen my throne,
my blessing I will gladly give.

A raindrop

I caught a raindrop before the shower came,
or maybe it caught me,
my cupped hand I held out, so to tell
if the storm was on it’s way.
It’s landing left only the slightest touch,
and in an eyelid flick of time, it ran,
capturing odd tiny rays of light as it
coursed around callous and crease on
the miniature palm etched map .
From how high had this perfect pearl
fallen, only to be delayed in completing
it’s mission by my unexpected hand.
Undaunted, it slipped over my skin
to the ground, disappearing into that
beneath, to refresh the first crocus
as it struggled to arrive in spring time.

I picked an apple
 

“The richest man is he who sees wonder each time a bird takes flight.” N P Smith


I PICKED AN APPLE


I picked an apple from the bowl,
it was russet and hazel,
uneven in shade.
I bit into it and tasted it’s flesh
exposing the seeds waiting in
it’s core and I wondered.
Awaking at midnight I saw the moon’s
curiosity had got the better of her,
as she had crept close under
cover of night to sneak a peak
at the sleeping world
and I wondered.
A river trout broke the surface,
for a second free from it’s
fluid prison, it gasped at a midge
before breathing water again
slowly it’s form undulating
making me wonder.
And a dove taking flight,
denying gravity’s purpose,
slipping loose from ties
that prevent me from soaring
aloft and swooping through
the invisible seas above,
always makes me wonder.


Is that you


Is that you I hear,
at times,
in the half light shade,
a silken voice as though all
the world’s songs of love
are a single melody,
caught and carried to me
by precious memory.
Is that your touch I feel,
sometimes,
in the morning mist’s
promise of light to come,
when time blinks and
I feel a hand pass
over my cheek leaving
a tear’s ghost in it’s wake.
And as I lay pleading for the
night’s pity to grant mercy
and take me to where all
is possible, I place a kiss on
the dark nothing beside me
that is you.


As sleep ebbed

As sleep ebbed into dawn’s first touch,
the morn still held fast by night,
there above the snow gilded streets of
a town’s first winter wake,
flew a silent flock of creatures unknown,
swift and with purpose,
a ghostly grey shimmer
against the dark’s dominion,
tiny bodies and blurred wings
caught by the ice mirrored lucency
of fading moonlight.

My Ghost is there still

I loved
the slight crunch
of fallen needles underfoot,
the seeping balsam hint,
redolent of something past,
just on the nose then gone,
the secret glade of baize like grass,
where drowsy with calm,
I would sit against the thickest bark,
just in the shade, to gaze
at the contrasting glare
of sunlight swatch before me.
I would follow the beck,
knowing where every foot
needed to be placed,
slow and deliberate as
that place became me.
And by the bridge,
where clumps of violet Bluebells grew,
their delicate petals bowed,
shy or tired, vivid against
the deep emerald of wild garlic.
My ghost is there still.

In the shadow of a smile

I woke in the shadow of a smile
from the Morning Star born,
and as she leaned close
and let slip a hush
upon the waking world,
I saw in that moment brief,
that all the love once thought lost,
was never lost at all,
but drawn by her breath
into the sapphire light,
there ever to remain
as the Morning Star’s bright.

Nigel,
As always very thought provoking....

I PICKED AN APPLE; I had to read it a few times before I found myself "wondering".

Sad; but beautiful, Is that you....? Reminded me of a place in time that still occasionally returns.

And... where we have been in the past, our Ghost remains. Again; "thought provoking"..

Thank you again for sharing.

Gerry

Niggs your words are always thought provoking, I read them yesterday and came back again today.

Your beautifully written words took me to to ponder the words sad and whimsical. To consider how each emotion can influence the readers every thought. Words are amazing they can lift you up, hold you there and sometimes drop you without a care.

Is that you took me to a place where I imagined my long lost nana who used to care for me as a child, she passed on my 14th birthday.

Beautiful words, cleverly crafted together. Thank you :hug:

Firefly jars +
 

Firefly jars



The days fading heat melts the air.

into the amber wash of twilight fall

and with a brush like breeze so fair.

then thinly paints the cottage wall,

as across the bay escapes a song,

almost lost upon the water stilled,

to weave amongst shadows long,

as all with summer's scent is filled.

While above, the darkening sweep,

can now reveal those early stars,

glittering facets dispensing sleep

and infant dreams of firefly jars.



Beech

The colour of limes, cooling in shade,

appears, seemingly as watched,

to feather the venous cradle

of branchlets with downy leaves,

that hint of suede, and curl up or back

when buffeted by winds of late spring.

Some flashing their modesty, their underside,

while others part gently,

like a child's hair being combed by

a doting mother,

startling the sparrows and finches

about their work within,

who are rendered

briefly quiescent, until

the lunge and parry

of their beaks returns.




Beach storm

As if tethered to the above,

the sea was drawn back,

back beyond sight and sound,

until there was nothing but sand

yielding to footprints, which blurred,

and sank between blinks,

and bits of errant sea

caught in shallow dips while others

formed rivulets to hasten

after the rest.



Into this nothing the sky dropped,

smothering all with shades of steel

and iron, weeping rain such that

soon it may leave no room for the

returning tide, its fury tumbling

the spray laden air, lips glanced

by its salt spiced edge, darkening

dunes until they caked and fell.

I have seen fog congested forest

and sheets of sleet cutting

across pasture,

and found beauty,

I could not honour this place so.



Lover or friend



Would you leave tomorrow's tale

a virgin sheet,

on which no pattern of life,

by hand encrypted, will lie,

and future meet........

such that I must ask of others also, were you real?.....

or has memory jumbled truth

with wishful want, erroneous sight

and false feeling.

Your scent is freed

as I press your clothes to my face,

yet no print of a lover confused, stains them from garment

into shroud of filigree lace.

Perhaps it is I who would bring

this story to its end,

who would write a final chapter,

if so, I would know with certainty

whether the premiss past

was lover or friend.



Burden

My burden is greatest at sundown,

before evening smudges the sky

with charcoal fingers,

when Swift and Swallow, soar on

warm summer risings,

freer than silver bellied shoals that

flare their brightness as one,

in a dark that is as clay to air,

and draw my sight to lift and

fly amongst them............

and when dogs wonder about

a last walk of the day,

and mothers shout ten minute warnings to tired kids that

won't come in, but marry

the warm day's slowing,

regaling past glories and games

of endless playtimes,.............

when life's set-backs did not exist,

and the approach of night's vagaries,

heavy with intention to make sport with

troubled minds was a fear never felt.


The sweetest drink


She is delightfully lost to all,
in her small garden kitchen
as she makes dinner for a family waiting for time to catch up.
It looks like pine cone stew
she stirs, in between picking
buttercups for afters,
enjoying make-believe tea,
with those I cannot see.

Her tiny face tells the story
as lips purse and pout in
mime, telling proof of the way
grown-ups can sometimes be.
She then looks up with a start,
a smile exploding before me,
I'm offered an imaginary cup,
and my first sip made me think,
it was by far the sweetest drink.


Dead bird


Huddled kids await the moon,
hoods tilted to the ground,
there by the hopscotch rune,
all forlorn without a sound.

One grabbed a shed lent stick,
to move the sky fallen form,
with a silent funeral flick
under the threatened storm

A hole was scraped by spade
for wings that no longer soar,
stone marked in daisy shade
the grave for a bird no more.

I counted 50 fireflies a minute last night. :wink: