The Sentinel

I sit beside the fire,
I think of all I’ve seen,
Of Kingdoms and of Dragons,
Adventures there have been,
But oh what a surprise to find,
That soon I’d leave them all behind,
To go upon my last
My final journey.

Across the misty mountains,
Beyond the Chalice seas,
Through lush enchanted valleys,
Filled with watching trees.
At last I reach the caverns,
On Midsummer’s Eve in June,
Here I sit whilst waiting
For the rising of the moon.

So as the moon begins to climb,
Revealed within the light,
An ancient tomb carved from the rock
Upon which stood a Knight.
This dusty, aged sentinel
Looks kindly on my face,
He nods and steps down from his plinth
And I take up his place.

Shocker

There are no words
for this.
Through clenched teeth
the hiss.
Speechless,
dumb mist
here from nowhere.
Now where?
How, why, what, when,
what hope is there then?
And as I start to rationalise
I feel the salt burn in my eyes.

Listen!

The candle that burns brightest,
Burns down before the rest,
The car that’s always speeding,
Will crash before the best.
A rocket will not reach the moon,
If no one adds the fuel,
And children who don’t listen,
Will not do well at school.

England in Miniature

Have you ever been
To the Isle of Wight?
We went over Tuesday,
And stayed till Friday night.
Although it isn’t very big,
It’s larger than it looks,
And worth a bit of planning,
With your trusted travel books.

The roads are often narrow,
And they weave around a lot,
I guarantee, you’ll be amazed,
At what a lot it’s got.
I wouldn’t like to pick one thing,
And state it as the best,
But rather say, head there today,
And put it to the test.

You have to get a ferry,
But it isn’t very far,
The buses there are really good,
So no need for the car.
But if I may just recommend,
A favourite place of mine,
Godshill Model Village,
If you find you have the time.

Instant Fix

Convenience, you temptress,
Driven by the clocks.
The lure of something instant,
Straight out of a box.

Life-style show contestants,
winning instant fame,
And quick-fix renovators
Who cover up their game.

Transformation stories,
The folklore of our days,
Promising to change our lives,
In rapid easy ways.

Breaking news across the globe,
Updates every hour,
Social comment by live feed,
Instant super power.

Can we take a moment
To stop and watch things grow?
Let’s take the World more slowly
And not miss half the show.

A Plastic Poem

When man discovered fire,
Or woman, (either one),
It must have been so brilliant
To see what they had done.

Lighting caves up in the night,
Heating up a pot,
But then the people all found out
That it can get real hot.

Fire burns, and it can kill,
We have to use with care,
Everybody understands.
We’re “fire-safe aware”.

Then we discovered plastic,
Which does fantastic things,
But now we‘ve come to realise
the damage that it brings.

Use it once, it stays around,
Messing up our seas,
It’s got inside the food chain now,
We’re eating plastic peas!

Plastic can be useful,
And does impressive stuff,
But honestly, It seems to me
It’s time to say “enough”

Just like fire, treat with care,
Use it when you must,
But try to cut your usage down
Or live with Killer Dust.

England’s Country Roads

The joy of England’s country roads,
Those rivers made of stone.
Where great adventures first begin,
And minds are free to roam.

The leafy canopies above,
The fields beyond the hedge,
Where squirrels hide to spy on us
From the tarmac edge.

Here the trees are tightly packed,
In twisty, twiggled knots,
By cottages with mossy hats,
And weeping figs in pots.

The charming village pubs we pass,
Complete with red phone boxes,
And then we’re back by open fields,
with badgers, bees and foxes.

We pull into a farmyard lane,
And park up for a while,
Then stretch our legs out on the path
through cornfields to a stile.

Those pretty little English lanes,
Where wild flowers grow,
Taking us from where we are,
To where we want to go.

 

Old Muso

Old Muso, now you’re older,
Does your guitar arm get cramp?
Are nerve ends numb and colder,
When you lift up your new amp?

Have you noticed, in your voice,
A slight disturbing wobble?
And are you finding packing up
A little too much trouble?

Have all those constant set-ups
Been repeating like a wheel?
Have the late night parties
Lost their rampant sex appeal?

Do you sometimes lose your place,
Half way through a song?
And have you ever noticed that you
Play the third chord wrong?

Old Muso, you are older,
But your pulse will always beat,
To the sound you make upon the stage,
Until the song’s complete.

 

A Real Dad

Dads come in all shapes and sizes.
Some sleep in, some early risers,
Fishermen, oft in disguises,
Generous or sometimes misers.

Fathers can be gentle too,
The strong and silent things they do,
Or loud and noisy, one or two,
But loving, honest, brave and true.

Not all men become good dads,
Too much time out with the lads!
Or lost inside their new ipads,
They chase unhealthy drinking fads.

A real dad is hard to find,
Strong and tough, but soft and kind,
Confident within his mind,
One who’s washed, and cleaned, and ironed.

Dads can fail in many ways,
And sometimes it’s not he who pays,
But on these special family days
Dads deserve their share of praise.

An Actor Prepares

Real and unreal, 
Technical star, 
Line learning hypocrite, 
Truth in a jar.

Deviant lover, 
Strutter of dreams,
Beggars belief,
Not what he seems.  

Hero most noble, 
Darkling desires, 
A child on the shoulders
Of tricksters and liars. 

Dino Chick

Doyouthinkhesarus?
There’s a T.Rex standing there,
Looking very scary,
Like some monster-sized nightmare

But what’s this coming round the bend?
A chicken on the run,
Someone needs to warn her,
She’ll be gobbled up in one!

The chicken stops dead in her tracks
They eyeball one another,
The T.Rex takes a small step back,
They’re transfixed by each other.

No one moves, no one breathes,
Just the sound of rustling leaves,
Far away a jungle cry,
I’m sure he’ll pounce, that chick will die.

But chicken doesn’t seem to care,
She eyes him up and down,
Then lets out an almighty SCREECH!
And stamps hard on the ground.

The T.Rex looks as if he’s stunned,
He turns and plods away,
Thinking as he’s heading off,
What did he see today?

It only goes to show you,
That size can be misleading,
Especially if you’re hungry and
A chicken who needs feeding!

Natural High

We went to find the big outdoors,
A plan we’d had for weeks,
To head off on a great escape,
And climb the highest peaks.

Our rucksacks were so heavy,
With coats piled up on top,
Woolly hats and picnic mats,
And drinks for when we’d stop.

First we crossed the stepping stones,
Squelching in the clay,
Wearing hoods, then through the woods,
We were on our way.

We climbed up through a steep ravine,
Our legs were feeling weak,
Past the mill, then higher still,
We climbed towards the peak.

And as we reached the very top,
Relieved that we were there,
Nothing else above us,
Surrounded by the air.

The city was a distant speck,
A million miles away,
All the World below us,
We were mountain kings that day.

And In that moment, on the peak,
Neither of us had to speak,
For on that mountain in the sky,
We had found our Natural High.

(Robert) Zimmerman

Bob Dylan, he was born today,
In nineteen forty one,
A poet and a troubadour
Bettered yet by none.

Whether blowing in the wind,
Or tangled up in blue,
His thoughtful lyrics strike a chord,
His message fresh and new.

Though times may now be changing,
He remains a rolling stone
Not meant for the establishment
He walks his path alone.

He may not stay forever young,
And hard rain may well fall,
But happy birthday to you Bob,
Your songs have touched us all.

The hangman

Who are we?
Who claim to see,
Everything
That life can be.

Yet mystery,
Delights us all,
And fantasy,
Our coloured ball.

But if we leave
Our facts behind
We hang a rope
Around mankind.

(Image: The Hangman by Paul Julian)

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