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Best Poems Written by Raymond Westley

Below are the all-time best Raymond Westley poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Raymond Westley Poem

An Asymyotic Friendship

Why was it that you were so shy?
I have time and again crossed your path
Have I wasted my time trying to catch your eye?
When we were together we didn't do much
We laughed together, but reserved our space
Modern dancing can be subtle,
But gone is the closeness of touch
Expressing feelings in my dreams
Wasting away life in fantasy
It could never become a reality
In all those feelings there were promises,
All trapped in realms of imagination
Being free to go, or do as they please.

After all these years we drift apart.
All because,
Of our shyness,
We formed,
This fruitless,
Asymptotic,
Friendship.

Details | Raymond Westley Poem

The Water Tower

As I stand on step number one,
I feel the warmth from the setting sun.
Another foot forward, step number two.
I pause a while to enjoy the view.

I turn my head for one last time,
As I start on up, my tedious climb.
I hold the wall, there are no railings,
Another of the tower's failings.

Does it lean to the left, or the right?
I wouldn't risk it in the dead of night!
The room at the top is a bit damp,
But anything's good if you're a tramp.

The wall is warm as it touches my arm.
All is peaceful, and I feel so calm.
Because of a piece of bread, and a sip of wine,
For the moment at least all this is mine.

 2001

Details | Raymond Westley Poem

The Morning Dew

As the sun rises in the east and the shades of night are slowly lifted,
I view the morning sun slowly rising in the east. 
When the darkness makes way for the light, one can see the fresh dew hanging heavy
on blades of grass. It has bent them, some only slightly, while others
droop towards the earth. These fragile droplets sparkle in the rays
of the morning sun while displaying colors of the rainbow in every direction.
The warmth from the sun will soon shorten their life, and some will die,
evaporating under the rays of the warming sun, while others slide down the blades
of grass to feed the earth. The air is cool and fresh with gentle breeze,
and this is the inspiration for the morning stroll as I walk towards the sun.
I am free to choose, so why go west? Enjoy the sight while it lasts, before
the heat of the day. The sky changes as the sun rises and the reds
and orange fade to merge with the blue. Some insects emerge to forage again,
while others hide away, until the shadows of the setting sun heralds
another night of their particular life.

And so another cycle begins.

Details | Raymond Westley Poem

On the Beach

To catch a crab if you need to know,
You have to go to the beach.
Take off your shoes and wiggle a toe,
But keep a stick within your reach.

Details | Raymond Westley Poem

The Storks

It is 5pm and I arrive from work
Things are changing, and I have visitors!
Storks are circling, checking their position.
They have returned to their second home.
The storks swoop in, one by one.
They glide in, silently............. gracefully.
I hear the swish of air through feathers.
They disturb the leaves and break the stillness.
They select their place on a branch of choice
Make hissing sounds, which is their voice.
It is dusk, and they have returned from afar.
Winged migrants will settle in pastures new.
I look up to view them on their branches,
They are dotted as singles, and in groups.
Heads drooping down with wings hunched up,
Each looking like a lawyer, pondering a case.
During the night I can hear some movement.
It’s amazing how they keep their place.
As they sleep away till early morning,
They are silhouetted against the moon lit sky.
In the morning glow they become restless.
The dawn is breaking through wispy clouds.
There was some rain again last night.
There is movement in the branches now.
Having filed their flight plans for the day.
They leave their roost in every direction
Some will change course and fly due north.
Where do they go for this days outing?
I see some later, but not near home,
But way out yonder, finding thermals and height.
Soaring, and circling round and round.
Until, as specks in the sky, they escape the eye.

Is this graceful display their form of relaxation?
I wish I could be so free and away from strife.

Details | Raymond Westley Poem

My Friend the Bat

My friend the bat while hanging from the eaves,
spends much of his time watching the leaves.
Waiting for the night so that he can go out,
joining some friends to go “Fly about”.

The clouds are wispy, ever changing their colour.
Drifting slowly, intertwining with each other.
With clouds changing from reds to purples,
Bats take to the skies, scribing large circles.

When the night is over and the playing done,
they return home as if they are one.
To hang from the eaves, or even a branch to borrow,
for a day’s rest just waiting for tomorrow.

As they rest they hear the wind and feel the breeze.
All is restful, lulled by the sound of bees.
The day is spent where it’s safe, where it’s dark.
They will take off later for a jaunt in the park.

Details | Raymond Westley Poem

A Bit of Nonsense

Is your desk calendar a reflection
of your thoughts?
Or are you neat and tidy?

Because, if it is.

A scribble is just a tangle of ink
with nowhere to go.
A design so intricate you don’t have to think
just follow the flow.

Doodle completed.

Is it a work of art?

Or is it just graffiti?

Or you could borrow a ladder 
And become...............

''The Scribbler on the Roof.''

Details | Raymond Westley Poem

The Pond

A roaring sound engulfs my head
What is it I ask? as I look for protection
At last I rest and look from the shed
The storm approaches in my direction. 

I see the raindrops piercing the pond
Water shoots up as if resting on spikes
The wind blows hard and the green leaves fall
The sky is black and the lightning strikes.

The birds take shelter and animals hide
The fish don't worry, "We are protected"
The air is gusty, and the wind blows wide
The water rises but this is expected.

Suddenly, gone from a pond of plenty
In just a few seconds, that's all it takes
The water spills and the pond becomes empty
Migrating ones home, far down to the lakes.

Moral:

Don’t take thing for granted!

RVW 2001

Details | Raymond Westley Poem

Drip, Drip, Drip

Drip, drip, drip,

I hear drops on the ceiling,
Now to the shed and another trip
Another chore that’s no too appealing.

The night is young and I am restless.
My mind is planning the next day’s work.

If it rains I will have an excuse,
And, if it stops?
Oh, what’s the use.

So where do I start?

Details | Raymond Westley Poem

Water In the Gutter

It is two o’clock and the sun is shining.
Its  rays are shimmering on the ground.
The rain had come with perfect timing.
School is out, and boys fooling around.

The rays are reflected from high above
and the rain has fallen at the usual time.
Why does it happen always at lunch?
And yet again for afternoon tea?

Those were the days on the high veldt
when summer days were predictable.
School is out and shoes are off
some are paddling in the gutter.

The water is warm, but not from the sky.
Warmed by the road that was steaming hot,
after a brief shower it then becomes dry.

The warm water flows only one way,
until it finds the grate of the drain.
With a gurgle, a swish and a sway,
it will be in darkness until it emerges again.

Now as a stream it will see the sun.
It’s hard to imagine that some of the drops
will find their way to the mighty ocean
and start all over again.