I regret of travelling years
Shouldn’t have been to many places
Memories do disappear
Faces mix with other faces
Shouldn’t have been humiliated
When they asked how long I’d stay
Should have turned my back and waited
For a flight home the same day
You don’t dare to question me
Should have said, but chickened out
Offered my excuses politely
Was allowed to join the crowd
Once I stood beside the study
Of the Constable’s Leaping Horse
Thought I’d rather be that muddy
Piece of clay on painted earth
Than to bear this old torment
Of the human pedigree
But if you could say that moment
Wasn’t my best, I would agree.
Well I did some today.' I know this cause
In older by a day.? Hmm..Now i missed
Breakfast.' So can't say whether it would
Have been (good or bad?) Yet i have an
Empty feeling, maybe could that be a plus.? If so
I should be glad.' I think I might be thinner.?
Yet not (waisting away) so that seems I've achived
Quite the two opposltes..I'm now inclined to say, If i could go way back further.? Or foreward?? I could
Always check the winners..So some advice
To you Tom Woody..Be aware there could be sinners.' Who won't give out the information yet have had more than three
Dinners.' You won't tell by their bellys, or any other sign.' I know it would be helpfull in the cause of saving money ' if thats why
You put this contest up, I could think that its funny? A way to get the info on how to cheat in time.' And forget the science plod
As a matter of course, if you ask my horse?
He'll guess its par for the course.' Just make sure the burgers arn't part-sourced in any equine history.'
From a leg that was once hind.'
If I could press a button—just one,
A brass lever humming in a midnight room—
And shudder back through history’s run,
I’d pause before the urge to bloom.
Would I fix the world?
Avert a war, mend a broken vow,
Convince a poet not to end his song—
Or simply wish I’d learned the cello by now?
Perhaps I’d find the seven-year-old me,
Ears crimson with playground shame,
Letting the bullies’ words root deep—
I’d kneel and whisper, “Your name is not their game.”
Or would I stand on the moon’s dust,
1969—Neil Armstrong’s boot suspended—
And yell, “Try a somersault!” just for the laugh,
So history books would end, “and then he upended.”
Maybe I’d just nudge Newton’s apple,
Make it miss his head by an inch,
And watch him wonder, “Did I imagine that?”
While gravity waits at the bench.
But here’s the truth:
Every itch to change the past
Is really a wish for mercy, for someone—anyone—
To say, “You did okay. At last.”
So I’d use my power not for grand designs
Or rewriting the universe’s rhyme.
I’d find a lonely moment—mine or yours—
And simply show up,
On time.
On such days
what holds my senses
to the world loosens
and all becomes a background
blur, a kind of peripheral haze
as seen through a rain glazed
window to that place ‘out there’.
My mind drifts and soon
I am here where time
has stood still and a hot
summer sun prints the cool shade
of almond trees on ground
where I lay during those long, lazy
afternoons on school holidays
seventy years ago,
dreaming of a future,
the adventures I would have
in a world to come, the one
I live in now.
The Sun and the Sea—
a blessing on this perfect day,
while seagulls sing their wild, untamed song.
There’s something here, in this Mediterranean way,
a peace that settles—deep, and pure, and strong.
We breathe it in,
this life beyond compare,
somewhere between the places we have known.
It teaches us
how small the world,
when seeds of wonder’s sown.
And in this ease,
a thought begins to bloom:
perhaps the gypsies were right—
to move
and drift,
escaping every room,
to never let a single place hold tight.
Maybe we can do it to.
Dedicated to Stuart A. Staples
I want to break someone's little finger
In three places
Give me strings on a hollow wooden body
Crumpled suits and apprehension
The warbler, the jongleur
The slur, the trill, the quaver
I can only serenade in that way
Without drop z tuning
Barmonies and mashed taters
Send in the French horn
Alone in the living room
The air conditioner remote
Engrossed and enthralled in the music
The dog watching me
Day after day for decades,
away the ocean waves wash
the Apostles pieces by pieces.
Hours by hours some projects
drain people's time and energy bits by bits.
Now, only 6+ Apostles left
Standing there smiley.
Who knows what has been going on
In that head under that beanie.
Does Australian feel sorry
For the Apostles gone missing?
I don't know.
Does any1 miss that stubborn person though?
Only time can tell.
33 bits 45 goodbye,
66 hardly spares the words "good night".
Travelling home to meet my mother,
I held memories of past times in a foreign land,
We have had pleasurable moments over the phone,
With smiles and laughter during video calls.
Travelling home to meet my mother,
Oh, how I long to see her face,
Sit with her on the porch in the twilight,
Stroll with her in the ambience of autumn.
Travelling to meet my mother,
The lamp that gave light to my home in the dark days,
When the Iroko’s boughs grew feeble,
And its leaves finally fell.
Travelling to meet my mother,
She made me discover the beauty in nature and the arts,
She pulled me out of the dark waters,
Teaching me how to fight and subdue my monsters.
Oh, mother, I haven’t yet lost sight of Zion,
Your words have buoyed me in a foreign land,
Oh, Mother cradle and surround me with your love,
And the hills of your wisdom.
Oh, mother, I’m home,
Where are you?
November 28, 2024.
There's a sweet young lady named Jill
for whom travel is such a big thrill.
She sees many places
and lots of kind faces
in Asheville, Nashville,
Seattle and Seville,
Belleville, Louisville
and Copacabana, Brazil!
Trinity Street, Bolton,
it was Jack and Jaya’s first date,
Jack had got there early,
worried he’d be late,
the ticket woman said,
to head for platform two,
“you’ll have to get a move on though,
your train is almost due”,
from Moses Gate to Manchester,
the world went flashing by,
factories and football fields,
beneath a clouded sky,
soon the train screeched to a halt,
with much anticipation,
our young couple disembarked,
and left Victoria Station,
Jack and Jaya walked and talked,
round Manchester for hours,
Jack laughed and said that “their town hall,
is not nice as ours!”,
in Piccadilly Gardens,
Jaya groaned at more of his jokes,
whilst they ate cheese pasties,
and shared a can of Coke,
travelling back Jack wondered,
about a kiss on the cheek,
but Jaya simply smiled and said,
“let’s try Wigan next week…”.
We pull into a Winding Station,
Hand the Attendant our key,
Head into the Station Inn
For a snack and Earl Grey Tea.
In less than an hour,
Our machine being oiled
The tension being adjusted
And our spring tightly coiled,
I slip the motor into gear
And we are off on our way
To the next Winding Station
One hundred miles away.
At Fifty miles an hour,
A once undreamed of rate,
Along the new Travel Road
Such a joy to navigate.
We pass Steam Waggons
Pulling their heavy loads
Along the mostly parallel
Heavy goods roads.
With canals and railways
The country is connected
And once long journeys
Take far less than expected.
The Waggoner with his lad
Pulled by their great Shire
Makes the local deliveries
Always there for hire.
Can this world be bettered
Clockwork coal and steam
Let us travel at speeds that
Were once but a dream.
The thought of traveling is inspiring to me.
So many amazing countries I've read about.
Places I've dreamed of visiting and long to see
by plane, rail, or car. Whatever my chosen route.
Excitement begins when my decision is made
as to where I'll go, close to home or far away.
Walking on a beach and watching the sunlight fade.
Perhaps this winter, riding in a one horse sleigh.
Planning the journey is always part of the fun.
Whether I'll be daytripping in Scotland's heather
or the Alps, my travelogue will be finely spun.
When it's time to get away, I have no tether.
I'll pack a bag on an impulse or merest whim.
Destination not always chosen in advance.
I've not thrown a dart at a map as a prelim,
but wherever it lands, I'd find reason to dance.
The travellers wandered with word and song
Along the banks of the river long,
As each one chose their place to play,
Peeling off from the crowns along the way.
Stories told from near and far,
Reflect in the river as she reaches the bar,
Flowing from source to salty sea,
The land’s life blood, veins eternally.
Through every word, and note they strum,
A new dimension in the river’s run,
Revealed in rhythm and language rare,
To travel along the sun baked air.
The troubadours in modern form,
Embracing hearts so kind and warm,
Of the ones who listen, closing eyes,
Or longing toward the cloud patched skies.
Scents of autumn are creeping in
Wind starts to rally leaves within,
Yet still the sun shines on our band,
Of happy journeyers passing o’er the land
On margins wet and mud filled creeks,
Birds wade knee deep and probe with beaks,
The ecosystem in perfect harmony
Preserve this for next generations to see.
avelling Star
Here I go following my travelling star
That I can see on the horizon from afar
It guides me on to I don’t know where
As I travel on in my never ending dare
I go on to where the sun always shines
Just wanting what should be mine
Travelling seeking my guiding star
Alone as I wander seeking it from afar.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Nothing but green trees.
A sight which still brings my mind
To a mindful state,
Knowing this sight is truly
What I always want to see.
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