O’ friend! Son of this realm your native land
and Knight of the Long Bay on the long shore -
Fisher King to its isle and rock and sand
where long ago we drank and gazed The Tor.
And I echo back to that flickered light
when the fires of youth burned in you and me -
your joust a friendly repulse to my smite
in our sometime world of headfu-ckery!
Truly we are each to each older bound
so stoke the fires that blaze up on the Firth -
think on its mortal flame, its living sound
how one day it shall perish from the Earth.
O Captain! My Captain! I say to you
the mind is still young and the heart is true.
Written: June 2010
For CB on his 50th Birthday
Note: The Tor (pictured) is a rocky outcrop
in the East Coast Bays on the northern
beaches of Auckland, New Zealand.
Captain is a reference from a Walt
Whitman line. It was an epithet CB
would often jokingly refer to me as.
In the street I found you
oblong pebble
Where did you hail from
an outcrop or some bizarre barrier reef
I let you chalk
to all the lost and lonely
I love you like Jah
I cannot bare any flowers in my seed bed
I lay you in the mud
chlorosis of zinc and potassium
unpurifying the London Waters
In the street I found you
oblong pebble
Where did you hail from
an outcrop or some bizarre barrier reef
I chalk on you
all the lost and lonely
I love you like Jah
I cannot bare any flowers in my seed bed
I lay you in the mud
goodbye zinc and potassium
Pontificate the London Waters
when I'm brewing a cuppa
A man with horn-rimmed glasses
knelt in the sand
thinking: "my office just got a whole lot bigger."
He had just flown from sea to shining sea
to survey the sea lions.
He walked barefoot to a rocky outcrop
to count the creatures (for he was an accountant),
the counting took many days -
he was engaged upon a sea lion census.
The sea lions would dive into the tossing waves
and so deplete the sea lion company or rookery,
other's would arrive with unaccounted-fore friends,
The rest yelled all day long or grunted huffily.
it was a rowdy crowd.
The accountant took off his glasses and wiped his brow.
The sea lions continued to bark at him
while scratching their ears with distaining flippers.
Reluctantly he turned to fly back to New York,
where sea lions are parked carefully
in a funky concrete compound.
Each one of those aquatic New Yorkers
could be counted upon
and they were
as they swam moodily in the small oily pool
generously provided for them.
the lips of sunset
caress teal outcrop
damp with anticipation
ever speeding up
and illuminating every last aspect
however reluctantly
as it
has to relinquish
its grip on reality
and find
blessed relief
after the day’s toil
to rest
a final burst of colour
in horizontal rainbow
celestial cymbals herald
the climax of the
verismo
whilst the setting sun reflects on how it squandered dawn
Damp leafs random toss by autumn gust,
hue stain bold foliage unfurls,
brown, golden amber, red-orange curls,
into town or country setting thrust
Thin laid ice chill air must plummet,
taut azure sky wing creatures flourish,
palm warbler, barred owl, cedar waxwing perish,
orchard fall strain on moss clad branch summit
Stout heart trudge on rust decay meander,
pockmark mud stone surface brittle,
black cloud grain spice wind counts for little,
to pale mute green paddock’s wry candour
Daylight glow cold shoulders summer tint,
tan quartz beach once boisterous ghost town silent,
August lakeshore swarm a breed less vibrant,
weathervane gloom monger’s doleful hint
Beaver moon plunge or peak as lunar auspice,
outcrop toiler’s eggplant harvest purple struck,
breezy whoop of yield beneath the groundswell pluck,
amid a sullen grey November hospice
Dull tones smear and coddle in a gray muddle.
Cow munch cloud fields.
A reality steeped in prismatic conjecture
until I find my spectacles.
I enter reality, a Columbus arriving in America;
not on the continent, but on some island
and outcrop just short of finding.
Gradually, through the resurrection
of rods and cones,
a little myopia and less blind faith
feeds the expectant mind,
until it can see both the daffodils
and the ancient hands that brought them here.
standing on the jagged rocky outcrop
calm solitude
reflecting
I shout
loud
word
echoes
across miles
barren valleys
whispers a stranger's hello in return
written September 6, 2021
Off to Mount Rushmore
To see the presidents:
Washington, Jefferson,
Lincoln, and Roosevelt,
Men of enormous stature
In the land of The Lakota,
Keystone, South Dakota
Fourteen years undertaking
Borglum’s work breathtaking,
With sixty-foot-high faces
Carved into granite outcrop,
One of our country’s
Most celebrated places.
written August 15, 2021
Featured on All Poetry's Front Page
September 28, 2021
Dull tones smear and coddle in a gray muddle.
Cow brains munch cloud fields.
A reality steeped in foggy conjecture
until I find my spectacles.
I enter far horizons
like Columbus arriving in America;
not on the continent, but on some island
and outcrop just short of finding pay dirt.
Gradually, through the resurrection
of rods and cones, a far-seeing reality sucks
clearer vision into me - to back away
from this ‘all or nothing’ perception now
is not a practical option.
I could probably find the real America,
even Columbus did in the end, but as we know,
being rather ‘put-out’ by not having discovered India
he set out with a vim
to slaughter the locals in the name of God.
Not that reality and perception has that effect on me,
but there are times when a little myopia,
and a little less blind faith feeds the mind
until it can see both the daffodils and the dog S...t
navigating a path through both
like a New World explorer.
Gray hills of impenetrable coppice draw down clouds in misty rain.
Limbs and leaves weigh down with invited teardrops that keeps their soul alive.
Forest floor whose dress adorn with verdant ferns, shrubs, and young trees.
Picturesque waterfall's resounding clamor rushes forth in abundance
and streams upon an outcrop of epiphytic moss draped rocks and woody roots.
A tree hollow speaks of creature’s footstep on land of encouraging beauty.
3/31/2019
Poetry Contest: Best free verse 2019'
Sponsored By: John Hamilton
We climbed to Keppel Cove and pitched our tents,
others camped at Grizedale Tarn by the shore.
From either side we agreed to make ascents
getting up early on Sunday before
other hikers would be reaching the top.
By compass ascending through murk and mist
above the clouds to emerge on an outcrop
with views to exceed what any had wished.
On to the summit we came together
with friends from the south who beat us to it;
blessed as we were with glorious weather.
On the trig point I blessed a ship's biscuit
a beaker of sherry shared as a sign
of Communion with a view so divine.
Deep inside the silent forest
trees stand erect saluting the amber sun
a waterfall cascades upon an outcrop of rock
fine mist fills the surrounding air
a small pond formed at the bottom
while free floating water lilies wave
the babbling brook progresses down
following the shallow bedded rock
devoid of all human contact until
two lovers found their way
carving their names upon the tree
knowing it would stay for all eternity.
On one sultry August day
In a clearing in the woods
Within a long delay
for salvaged auto goods
Amid decaying vans, under glaring sun
High above one ant, homebound, on the run...
Along a rugged trail
of micro hill and dale
Between pebbles and sprigs
Over shards and twigs
For seconds brief, beneath a leaf
‘Round a rock, willy nilly
Root outcrop, dilly dally;
Up the maple, fast
With head-on-haul in grasp
In and out of bark
Inside crevice, dark
Astride the edge, at last
Across a lichen patch
Behind broad leaves of dark green hue —
To my chagrin, beyond my view;
Out from under the shade
Into the open glade
Within the reflective collage
of glinting metals and shards
Beneath the tranquil sky — recharged!
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