Long Barrows Poems
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On the dusky roads
Full of calm and autumn charm
I walk with brisk steps
But not in haste
With enchantment and ease
In a melodious mood
In harmony with nature
Conscious of the purpose
Dearer to my soul
With discipline and diktat
Of body and mind
In the company of Maghrib prayers
And the returning barrows
Talking with the trees
In silence and whisper
I have been walking since long
On the lonely paths
Far from commotion, merging with myself
Lost in the lap of solitude
I move with the virgin nature
And walk with the slippery moon
Full of quietude
I move with twilight breeze
The blue sky loosing shine
Awaiting the twinkling guests
The singing birds return to nest
The warning bells of cold breeze
Remind me to return
Glued to my schedule
I continue to walk
In succour and solace
Few more steps and I am done
With freshness, endurance and peace
And a promise of cozy sleep
I return rejuvenated
Xiou Xue
‘Little Snow’ her story. ( my son's family 'home helper)
Ma wars, with earth to conjure a meal, Made in a kitchen which all pests have vacated.
Weariness blinkered, Pa contends, In a haze for contentment, in tobacco & drink.
A vision become probable, neon signs wink to her, Negative gains still seem to offer fulfilment of dreams.
Desolate in the dark room, prospects evaporate. Scenes of homely environments bridge bitter memories.
Jesus answers, She phones, They touch, Tobacco fades, Hopes rise, Christ lives.
Beijing Hutongs.
(Old alleys & narrow streets.)
Grey dust over all the piles of food waste, Snow Bikes & barrows. No flies no smell!
Wind chills’ no deterrent to sellers or window gazers. The tourist shivers alienated by culture.
Shoes happily shinned, smiles warm. The barterers laugh. Do half-hidden homes reflect the same?
The night before the longest day a man
Went walking on the chalk path on the hill
Collecting stars. He had a little pan
To sift them as they fall, for fall they will
Some crumble quickly into silver dust
But others do remain, and of them rings
Are made, and spells to satiate the lust
Of wild priestesses and of summer kings
He sifted them, and as he sifted sang
A song of summer roses soft as smoke
And mists that in the early morning hang
Above the barrows and around the oak
The oak. He felt the roots before he saw
The leaves, and felt the leaves around his head
Before he saw that he was stood before
The wild priestess. 'You summoned me' she said
Her skin was light and luminous, her eyes
Were blue as sky with flecks of rose and gold
Her dress was made of silk and butterflies
With meadow flowers slid in every fold
And she was old and wise as was the wren
That sat upon her shoulder, and as young
As any maiden had appeared to men
Who had their songs of love and longing sung
He gazed in awe. So bright was she that he
Could barely see his hand before his face
What was that feeling? Electricity?
That caused his blood to round his body race
And that, that buzz, that buzzing like a bee
But louder, buzzing outside and within
And beating, like a drum within the tree
Within his soul an old and holy din
She took his hand. The last thing that he saw
Was her in all her glory as her dress
Of butterflies flew slowly to the floor
His fingers on her body, her caress
She laid him down. The last thing that he heard
Was sizzling, and the fizzle of a flame
And high above the whistle of a bird
A song about a King who had no name
'It was the lightning done for him' the folk
Did whisper, 'and so say there was a swarm
Of bees around the oak before the smoke
And some do say they saw a figure form'
'A woman?' 'So they say. And with a wren'
The old man nodded wisely. 'That was She
The wild priestess, and He the king again
And all is well as ever. Blessed be'
© Gail Foster 17th June 2022
Winter is hiding around the bend and forcing its way towards the center, it is carrying a hundred thousand shovels in a boat and generators pile up to its throat.
Hundreds of snow boots, gloves and battery made heaters lay flat on top, snow blowers galore and insulators to line the floor. Hundreds of wheel barrows and bags of barbecue coal to heat the house and everything you need for winter was on the boat.
It is docked around the corner with an elephant standing guard waiting on the signal to move.
The weather pattern is not right; you have got to roll the dice to get the weather pattern back on track to ripen the fruits and furnish the ingredients for the one pot soup.
You must go back to the international space station and check the angle of the moon and position the weather spoon, before the sun rises, then place a snow bait on top of the gate, before day break.
Something has shifted up there and is causing chaos down here, you must find it and repair it before noon. Observe where the rain is falling and where the fire is burning. Place a tag over it and mend it with your spit.
The year is coming to a close, and you have got to tie up the loose ends and get everyone back in line to cooperate with the divine. You have to examine all the countries on the list and make an offer that they cannot resist.
Once the list is clear and everyone must draw near, those who refuse to join will be cut out off permanently from the divine. You will recall your ambassador and cut off all international flight that go to their land and cancel all foreign aid, trade and business transaction.
And withdraw the multitude from their land the multitude will leave before dawn.
The one pot soup is easier to cook; the one pot soup is in my playbook, read it carefully and gathers the ingredients from every culture on the list and combine them together and give everyone a bowl to partake of the one pot soup.
Poets: Tzeblon Ft Paciolo Pen Saint Ft Abisola
Where numbers were wished to become valuable notes,
barrows are made to carter their northern struggles,
butterflies dare not tread these places– it wings might see the face of doom/ even lions succumb to its travails at times...
Don't walk these plains if you don't have the ear for noise– of thievery, anger, hustle and maybe the audible sobs of an empty stomach,
On this side... I am still there,
we sell our sweats for a penny
so don't come near if you don't have the arm for struggles,
an eye for ruthlessness,
legs for swiftness– who knows when the men in black will go berserk again...
Valour is all that matters on this side
and that's why we are still breathing
so tell them...
these streets ain't just for poets...
Like I used to say.
(2)
The first crack lines
On the other side you see,
Are butchered fountains of hope
Those struggles are driven by "at least"
Don't let our grave mock us
Dying not feeling at home "again"
The second crack noises you hear
Like the roars of the OAU lions
Pale - sick but weave with fury
Yeah, just that - rage - nothing more
The crack lines/voices behind the wall of our lives
On the other side of the street
Ain't for poet / but strong poets
Who still can scribe/not the dead ones who've given up but still live
(3)
The sacred memory_better locked in Oblivion
Trembling feet of ill_fated
Walls of facade
With a glamorous appearance
Glittering shone all a mirage
Lies the stone_which mustn't be turned
For in it begot tools of destruction
Sweet sound of pain agonize the dwellers
Where death is soothing
On the other side lies the most dreadful
History of mankind
He runs to another world to seek comfort for his weeping soul
He cannot find a place to hide except inside the oracle of his mind
The world is getting too large for him and he cannot find a place to live
The streets are bare and empty and the lamp posts are dangling in the wind and something tells him that heaven is watching and the mountains are listening
He traveled from the Middle East to appease his mind but the thoughts he entertained are sometimes strong enough to drive him insane and when the music starts to play courage stands up right in his way and his spirit began to sing. How much I have tried desperately to help him but he continue to follow his own foolish ways and my heart began to pound with a profound message from the sky with a choice for him to live or die.
Sometimes I watched him goes off into a daze as if he had a mission
to travel in space and I watched him relive the moment, gliding like a missile through the clouds and his purpose kept steadfast to the ground and he locked inside a world that is reserved for the dead and a pillow of clouds stand up exactly over his head. It is a strange world that is spinning around in his head. it is the world that deprived him of his daily bread.
The world beneath the ground is cold empty and brown
The corners are sealed and the middle is covered with a shield and its core is stuffed with seeds, I can hear the daily counting and shouting and the barrows around the ant nest will take you into the inner depth
Just follow the lines wherever it leads and you will find his world
Wrapped up in a seal.
Times such as these test body soul and mind
So should our thoughts be pain and dark confined
Or loosed to concentrate on brighter things
Like furry puppies, flowers and girls on swings
In this bright morning sun as I roved out
Past village houses waking to their day
With little gardens, blossoms all about
As all across this England’s pleasant brae
In scepticism native to my heart
With self restraint on humour that’s sardonic
Ever seeking inspiration to my art
I crossed heath margin gloomy and achromic
Then onward later passing black swamp marsh
Of putrid mud and roots round dead stumps curled
As sunlight penetrated tree top arch
I found myself in new and magic world
Tread higher then, along the wooded track
The earth grew ever brighter to my eye
The canopy now thin, then folded back
Til nothing seemed above me, only sky
A single buzzard circled in the blue
Then as my eye adjusted, were revealed
Another, then Red Kites made patterns
new
With searching eyes they scanned the sunlit field
In echelon of helix high then higher
More birds soared in great three dimensioned bowl
In choreographed flight dance; did they require
Direction by divine traffic control?
All Carnivores! life based upon life cycle
Thus nature’s way is seen in rhythm born
Seasons and the land each follow pattern tidal
(These barrows once stood bare in sand dune form)
In crisis deep we face a time of trial
Could nature’s message give a way to vow
Whether raged against or treating with denial
All cycles shall complete; as then - so now
25 March 2020
Written for the Avebury Gorsedd, 24th September 2016
I wish you well...
I’m here, again…
Come riding in, upon the western wave
My hair all wove with golden leaves, my breast
As pale as moonlight on a hidden grave
And all the sins of summer long confessed
I come, again…
In sweeping skirts, with white swan feathers strewn
To brush the summer dust from weary grass
Make ash of aspen, damp the flame of noon
Before the frost freeze water into glass
I bring, to you…
Windfallen apples, berries from the hedge
Long shadows on the barrows, and the chalk
Wild winds to stir the willows and the sedge
And mist, and myth, down every path you walk
I’m here, again…
The promise of the harvest to fulfil
The energy of autumn, streaming through
The swirling springs that spiral round the hill
To drench the land in red and russet hue
I come, again…
Between the longest day and shortest night
To fill the blood and marrow of your bones
With all the orange glory of the light
Before the dark descend upon the stones
I bring, to you…
A cornucopia of ripened fruit
Dark juices of the vine in bottles bright
To nourish soul and body, to transmute
Your thought to dream, your dream to second sight
For I am She…
Am Autumn writ, in every field and tree
Am mistress of the Owl and running Hare
So yield unto my kiss, and blesséd be
And dance with me, oh Druid, if you dare…
@ Gail Foster 23rd September 2016
Guernsey, How Great You Are
Instead of Romeo and Juliet. it was Kit;
Were such a pair who never would quit
Being present in each other's midst;
Talk about Guernsey was hard to resist.
There are also two other islands adjoining;
And ocean with water had been anointing
Surface of beaches and sides of each ship
So to Guernsey we had to plan a nice trip.
Once we stopped there did sit and stare
At the elegant beauty we saw everywhere;
Down in a valley or on top of a high hill
Wherever we went was always a thrill.
Living on Guernsey, what will it be like?
How about bright-colored bike or a hike;
Maybe great tour guide down should hale
Who will please us greatly without fail.
Saw friendly faces standing in front of her
Talking of Guernsey and what it did endure
Which to all of us was well worth knowing;
Now back to ship we had better be going.
James Thomas Horn
www.poetrysoup.com
www.story-telling-around-the-world.com
We are going on a cruise on Royal Princess
from South Hampton, England to Guernsey,
Ireland, Scotland and Normandy and return.
This will be late in month of May. Annette
Henry Tours will be in charge of our tour
through Guernsey Island. This is really
going to be a great trip. This whole trip
kind of was perpetuated by the book,
"Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel
Society" written by Mary Ann Shaffer
and Annie Barrows. Jim Horn
With his go-go soul and sultry sound, he kicked out many lyrics and spat out many rhythmatic rhymes…they in the main stream at first rejected and disrespected his sound. They said it would corrupted the youth! Don’t mean a thing, he might say to them, if it ain’t got that go-go swing! With his trade mark glasses he sported with his guitar in tote as he strutted across the stage sporting that familiar treasure cat smile…as the black young youths on the dance floor…grinded out and sweated to his almost hypnotic beats and lyrical remixed of a restructured hit song …in a blacked out hole in some night club in the back streets of DC the former murder capital of the world! As he hollered out individuals names of people that seem to always follow him to just about ever one of his sold out shows…he even called out segments of each DC barrows as a show of appreciation for their loyalties and support. It took the main stream awhile to catch onto his different take on music…but he was not just the father of go-go music, he was an ambassador of all who truly love music and the lyrics of a song…he just remixed with his own flavor and called it the Chuck Brown and The Soul Searchers sound! Rock on Chuck, cause we know you got Gods Angeles grinding out to one of his sultry Go-Go songs! Even though we will all miss him, I know he got God even shaking his head to his Bustin Loose song!