The steep steps go down
the winding wash,
along the plodded cobbles
between the cottages
with their smuggling hollows,
their sleet rinsed eaves.
Beyond the scarp
the bay tumbles over
shingle, shale, and scree
to a shore and its contesting tide.
Above my flying coat,
the huddled village
bobs and floats in a flooding cloud.
I could throw a stick
at the sea here
and the wind, like a dog
would fetch it,
elemental voices
return from the deep.
Now a chopping fray,
squabbles at a brim where
flurries of tern and guillemot
trawl for brill;
a pell-mell of light
roiling on a harrying spray.
Today, I allow myself to fail
here at the surging squall,
and crashing crests;
to lapse and founder -
to be redone in the one gulp
of self.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This one was written a pretty long time ago,
but recently fiddled with.
Categories:
harrying, poetry,
Form: Free verse
The steep steps go down
the winding wash,
along the plodded cobbles
between the cottages
with their smuggling hollows,
their sleet rinsed eaves.
Beyond the scarp
the bay tumbles over
shingle, shale and scree
to a shore and its contesting tide.
Above my flying coat,
the crag huddled village
bobs and floats in a flooding cloud.
I could throw a stick
at the sea here
and the wind, like a dog
would fetch it,
and more will come back,
as if ancient voices
returned to us from the deep.
Now a chopping fray,
squabbles at a brim where
flurries of tern and guillemot
trawl for brill;
a pell-mell of light
roiling on a harrying spray.
Today, I allow myself to fail
here at the surging squall,
and crashing crests;
to lapse and founder -
to be redone under
a gulping spell of myself.
Categories:
harrying, poetry,
Form: Free verse
As I am walking into my destiny,
With my tattered blue jean that I have conserved in the family archive.
The giggle, cackle, chuckle can witness how I have been pestered by life.
Even the silly cat and dog in the house distance from me,
Because of my persisted wrangling, bickering and squabbling life.
I have been quarantined without any infection in my biological home.
When will this pestering and harrying life will stop.
While my colleagues have be blessed with sparkle life,
I am not exempted from derision and whisperer.
As I walk with a heavy heart,
My self respect having evaporated in the hands of tattlers.
So when will I escape from this miserable mystify life,
I cannot wait for tomorrow.
I am walking toward where my destiny has be stolen into.
My heart flares not in the journey of discovering my destiny,
Though the road may attract with numerous brutes and dangerous beasts.
It is goodwill to die in war front like soldier than to live and die chagrin life,
Even the tattlers will appreciate the gallant and chivalrous journey to discover my destiny.
Categories:
harrying, anger, destiny, life,
Form: I do not know?
This Regency Dandy flying across the river,
Jumping Jack Flash of kingfisher blue that
I was lucky t see, this dainty dandy of English rivers and streams.
A compact colourful apparition my sore eyes waited some
Sixty years to see, others boast much earlier visitations of these
Bluish-green, orange and red feathers attached to a Cyrano De Bergerac
rapier beak,
Outshining the honking harrying flotillas of Canada geese not capable of
Competing with this fisher of minnows, as we strolled across the Georgian
Bridge at Blatherwycke straddling the nonchalant flowing Nene of this
shire of shires,
Now of only one squire, but still many fine spires in this shire of Northampton.
Categories:
harrying, bird,
Form: Free verse
A Vision.
The track can only been seen from the air,
and memories from times before mine.
I saw children playing near a cottage and
a woman sat knitting by the sunny wall.
Water from the well put in urns, placed
in the sun for cleaning pots and pans.
A man, ploughing a meagre field while
gently harrying the docile donkey on.
A cloud halted the sharp sunlight and
I clearly saw a ruin, stones and thistle.
I knew what I had seen was real time
before mine had opened a rift of the past.
Categories:
harrying, allegory,
Form: Couplet
Wounded barbarian none gainsay is brave,
Enemies harrying him to his grave,
Trench filled with valiant comrades, struck
And split by the axes, or arrows that stuck.
Orgies have slated and wasted his brain:
Wenches and wine left a mid-morning pain
Dulling his eyes as he slashes and swings,
While straight for his body a javelin zings.
Slowly his sword-arm is losing its strength;
Whistling arrows are leaping the length
Spanning the distance from bow-string to chest,
Encircling his breast like a feather-barbed vest.
Sagging to sand in a pool of rich red,
Shutting his eyes, he imagines instead
Maidens besprawled on a silken divan…
Valhalla entices the soul of this man…
Categories:
harrying, war
Form: Verse