This is our town, this place we share
we’ve got lions, on our town square
old mills, big hills and Smithills Dean
no frills, aside from our home team
Rivington if you want fresh air
You’ll not find many millionaires
but dreams survive, with wear and tear
for what could be, or should have been
This is our town
London’s alright, but can’t compare
with Bolton where, I much prefer
Ye Olde pasties, Holden’s ice cream
Moss Bank Park and moorlands of green
why would I want to live elsewhere?
This is our town.
He sits silent with the old man;
as intrigued watching his gnarled hands
whittle away at the pine twig,
as he is with tales about Gran,
and their life on the wild moorlands.
As he now and then takes a swig
from a large, chipped, dusty brown jug
the man’s rheumy blue-gray eyes glint
with mischief; “See that big fat pig?”
he says, taking another chug
“won him in a wager with Clint.”
“bet the fool I could make a tree,
whistle the song Yankee Doodle.”
“Well, he lost big time and sure paid.”
He stopped, put his knife on his knee,
winked at the boy and his poodle;
then gave him the flute he just made.
Sullen would be onset of grey, indivisible-dawning;
Soon, lifting mist dissipating beneath the brae.
Comes then a gentle heat arising with the morning...
Thus the remaking of another new, glorious day.
Sun-kissed slopes now aglow with purple blaze,
Vast moorlands slowly stirring from quiet slumber;
Clamorous whaups, hanging above the veiling haze,
Burbling down to disappear into the tangled tundra.
Together, paired oystercatchers pipe in rapid flight;
Skipping wheatears explore dry-stone walls.
There, old Barjarg, aglow in Junes vibrant light,
And I awakening to the hidden otters whistling calls.
Oh! to stroll once more upon the Cree's hallowed banks
Inside the sanctuary of her jealously guarded hills.
When tramping through the myriad of dew-drenched ranks
That had across the sheep-strewn meadow spilled.
If I but could joyfully follow the meandering course,
Again, of those rocky, gurgling, opaque, amber waters.
Thoughts, such as these, that surrender to a remorse...
Nought but wistful memories that provoke to taunt us.
H.astily I traipse “amidst these tombs,” “untainted eye…”
P.reparing the way for the “hidden world of yore.”
Luring lovers in, “lost Nevermore…”
“O’er the midnight moorlands crying,”
Verily to “wreck the solace of the poet’s mood!”
Even now, “drunk of the fog-foetid fountains.”
Cerebrally “reject[ing] the language of the glowing heart.”
Revered and “done are my trials,” “my heart is reposing.”
“All the years of fruitless quest” culminate in this...
For all the “prosy thoughts,” past “ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,” a
“Tale confide[d]” in “the shade of Poe” and I will be forevermore alive.
Quotes from:
“Where Once Poe Walked”/ “Despair”/ “The Bride of the Sea”/ “Fact and Fancy”/ “Nemesis”
Acrostic Homagerie
Hildy Honey Badger was mad as unleavened beer hops
Alice her American Cousin said that she was tops
How dare you she said, and you are a carnivore too!
The bells I am said Alice. I’m an omnivore like you!
They decided not to speak any more that day on Zoom.
Hildy went around slapping everyone else in the room.
What did we do? They asked, astounded at her action.
I am angry with my cousin. Slapping gives me satisfaction!
Next Hildy got mad at Wilma Weasel, a distant Aunt.
So she slammed the fish out of their tank and kicked a plant.
The rest of the badgers ran out, giving her plenty of space.
By supper she had thrown up a hundred earth worms, a disgrace.
Is it safe to come back? Asked her neighbor, anteater Girdle.
I doubt it, the rest of them said and we are cooking a turtle.
They stayed out of the moorlands for a day and a night.
While Hildy Honey Badger destroyed every dhramned thing in sight.
Natures wonderful things
So many wonderful things to see,
On the planet all around,
Animals, the sky, the tree,
Flowers on the ground.
Valleys deep, the mountains tall,
Moorlands amazing views,
Spider webs, the water fall,
The frosty morning dews.
Rainbows floating across the sky,
Rivers, streams and springs,
Birds and bees and butterfly,
So many wonderful things!
(Re old poems)
By the moonlight, night's pearly softness glowed,
In their slumber deep, fog skirted knolls shoaled;
Through the winter cold, clipp'ty clop he rode.
Down the twisted alleys and to highroad,
Flew out in wind his fluttering hair gold;
By the moonlight, night's pearly softness glowed.
In the silence bare as the mist bellowed
O'er the turrets enshrouded in their fold;
Through the winter cold, clipp'ty clop he rode.
His shadow tossed on the water that flowed,
As galloped o'er the bridge, ' twixt moorlands old;
By the moonlight, night's pearly softness glowed.
Meet his bonnie lassie her chin furrowed
'neath her cherry lips in his hands to hold;
Through the winter cold, clipp'ty clop he rode.
Her dark eyes under green eaves that mellowed,
Where blushes of their love in whispers told
By the moonlight, night's pearly softness glowed;
Through the winter cold, clipp'ty clop he rode.
..
© gautami Phookan (24/5/2011) , All rights reserved?
1st Place 'August 2011, Poetry Soup Contest'
..
Early in the spring the variable winds and rains fall heavy on grass meadows,
Adding a spring in the turf, waking the mosses on stone walls and stone paths
Purple stems of woodspurge hang in the wet winds with its pale green flowers,
Ancient orchards left unattended have gnarled twisted trees with sour apples,
These grounds are bestrewed with the whitest of violets, a carpet of beauty.
But there are other flowers that have been out in colder, hard bitter weather
The humble daffodil has been plucked and strewed by children for generations,
A beautiful old English flower which belongs in village gardens and commons,
The old daffodil is one the hardiest flowers it grows anywhere and everywhere,
In box hedges, neglected arbours of alleys, hard rugged moorlands and glades.
Daffodils in desolation grow long after the planters hand has turned to dust,
Buried deep in disused graveyards, overgrown with nettles and thorny bushes
And dwellings around it have fallen to decay with passing of many hard years,
Even the other flowers that have grown nearby have been cleaned, swept away,
Outlasting memories that have perished along with families of old homesteads,
In the wintry countryside, January bares her soul and lets little buds grow,
Under drifts of pure white snow, hedge high frost hardened, there is movement,
Shoots of brave winter flowers wake, and they in turn wake our summer flowers,
Then the rarest of all our flowers the blow flower stirs hidden away from all.
With frosted snow lay-ed and the skies clear, it reflects a lapis lazuli blue,
The new snow that has fallen on top of icy snow the breeze blows it into spray,
The binding of the snow beneath there is hardness that allows us to walk on it,
Walking on snow is a wonderful feeling looking over hedge tops and deep valleys.
It's good to feel the frozen mass crunching under foot but we sometimes slide,
Only rivers show themselves, their wintery hues amid the trees and grey rocks,
And because it has been a snowy winter stories circulate around warm firesides,
Of travelers lost in great drifts on the wild moorlands and snow laden forests.
In the wintry countryside, January bares her soul and lets little buds grow,
Under drifts of pure white snow, hedge high frost hardened, there is movement,
Shoots of brave winter flowers wake, and they in turn wake our summer flowers,
Then the rarest of all our flowers the blow flower stirs hidden away from all.
With frosted snow lay-ed and the skies clear, it reflects a lapis lazuli blue,
The new snow that has fallen on top of icy snow the breeze blows it into spray,
The binding of the snow beneath there is hardness that allows us to walk on it,
Walking on snow is a wonderful feeling looking over hedge tops and deep valleys.
It's good to feel the frozen mass crunching under foot but we sometimes slide,
Only rivers show themselves, their wintery hues amid the trees and grey rocks,
And because it has been a snowy winter stories circulate around warm firesides,
Of travelers lost in great drifts on the wild moorlands and snow laden forests.
Living life in all its fierceness,
Birth and death and joy and pain
We struggle on our unknown journey,
Sometimes lost and found again.
We are indeed like lambs to slaughter
Death will be our final goal.
But while we live,let us live bravely.
Let us not destroy our souls.
Climbing in the hills and moorlands
In the heather, children play.
The sun half blinds me with its light
Yet still I see the given way.
I received a call to climb.
These hills are my essential home.
My vocation is to dwell here
While in the silence,mind may roam.
Noise in cities is destructive.
Though nature's fierce,it's also true.
Struggling on life's craggy slopes
I offer up my words to you.
Come to the meadow just you only,
Where autumn weaves her spell;
On hills and purple moorlands lonely,
Where the magic of her presence dwells.
Beneath blue sky and fields of heather,
With soft humming of honey bees.
And I'll hold you, just us two together,
To share the scent of autumns leaves.
We’ve time to share asters in the meadow,
With all that we love best;
With the swallows wings and your shadow,
And summer's grass that built the nest.
To hold and hear the soft wind singing,
To see your hair tossed and blown;
And meet the bluebird softly winging,
Through heaven and earth, we too fly alone.
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