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Keith Beavon Poem
Choice
1
Comes a time when all is said and done.
And there and then just turn and walk away.
When living is just no longer any fun.
2
And even if life was a race well run,
If it's at the end of a perfect day, why stay?
Comes a time when all is said and done.
3
As quality of life slips steadily away,
For every joyous ounce, a price to pay,
When living is just no longer any fun,
4
First pause and wallow in good memories.
Then with a soft chuckle, smile, and boldly say:
“Comes a time when all is said and done!”
5
Eventually, for all of us, it will come.
Despite desire the body will no longer Play;
When living is just no longer any fun.
6
Before dignity impairment is begun,
Will I face the inevitable? I may!
Comes a time when all is said and done,
When living is just no longer any fun!
Copyright © Keith Beavon | Year Posted 2016
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Keith Beavon Poem
City of Trees
1
Johannesburg, home to ten million trees,
It’s the world’s largest urban arboretum.
Streets in summer lie beneath green canopies.
2
From sidewalks their branches meet with ease
And soon, very soon, each street’s a shady sanctum.
Johannesburg, home to ten million trees.
3
If only we humans could jump up and fly like bees,
We would look down on something awesome,
Streets in summer lie beneath green canopies.
4
Seasons change - the leafy cover changes colour
Leaves sprout and fall ad infinitum.
Johannesburg, home to ten million trees.
5
October! Now there is a purple frieze,
Yes, it's the jacarandas in full blossom.
Streets in summer lie beneath green canopies.
6
But then winter brings a different freeze;
Each leaf fades, then flits, like a phantom.
Johannesburg, home to ten million trees,
Streets in winter lie beneath bare canopies.
Copyright © Keith Beavon | Year Posted 2016
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Keith Beavon Poem
Things
Things . . .
Things?
Things!
Just ordinary
Things.
Familiar Things.
Everyday Things.
Obvious Things.
Even trivial Things.
Things seen
Front on or
From an angle.
Things glimpsed.
Things touched.
The smell
Of Things.
The feel
Of Things.
Things?
Yes just Things.
But all Things
That remind
Me of you.
Some Things
Cause a smile
Some Things
Even a laugh.
But other Things
‘Touch’ me more,
Moisten the eyes
And block my throat.
Such as when
In my mind I ‘see’
‘Mongst other Things
Just Where you
Slept that last night.
At the backdoor
I clearly ‘see’
Where the anorak
And dog leads,
Hung on the gate.
Then the wedding
Picture on
My desk frames
Your smiling face.
Elsewhere in a drawer
Two packs
Of Bridge cards
With cosmos
On the backs,
A pair of
Red epaulettes
With Green
Maternity Bars
An empty
Spectacle case.
Also ‘neath my feet
Persian carpets
You picked out.
The couch for two
In the family-room.
In your garden
The yellow clivia.
The smell of Jasmine
In the spring.
The roses
In full bloom,
Fresh leaves on
Summer trees,
White and mauve
Petals of Yesterday,
Today and Tomorrow.
Back inside
Bowls of potpourri.
White Nagai
Dinner plates.
And the aroma
Of roast leg-of-lamb.
Needlework in frames.
Tiny squares for
Another quilt.
Hanging in
A wardrobe
An Icelandic sweater
From Aberfoyle,
Another from
Edsel in Fife.
And others
You wore when
Walking your dogs.
In a crowded room
From time to time
The back of a head
With hair like yours
‘Perhaps it really is’?
And on many a day
I sit and stare
At the empty stairs
Into our space.
Then on occasion
My heart leaps
For I see you
Stepping
Down to bed
Still wearing
That beige uniform
After twelve hours
Of night duty.
In one hand
A piece of
Bovril toast
And in the other
A beer-mug
Full of tea.
As in stockinged
Feet you sweep
By me to your bed.
Yes anything you
Touched, wore,
Made, or used.
Simple Things,
Everyday and
Trivial Things,
All those Things
Those tiny Things
Remind me of you.
Unlike the
Pimpernel
I see you here,
I see you there,
Indeed I see
You everywhere.
And now as I
Write these lines
You nestle in my mind.
And in a flash
As I ‘see’ clearly
In my mind again
All these Things,
These little Things,
Even the trivial Things
I’ve mention here
I miss you
More than ever.
K
Copyright © Keith Beavon | Year Posted 2016
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Keith Beavon Poem
I love the quiet and long shadows of winter,
Thrown as I walk in the veld through brown grass tall,
When the sun is low and the cold is bitter.
Finches and waxbills no longer twitter.
Under foot the frost crackles at each footfall.
I love the quiet and long shadows of winter.
In the silence deep I have an urge to call
Out loud, to claim a patch however small.
When the sun is low and the cold is bitter.
Alone in the veld I feel that I own it
As far as my shadow reaches. And recall
I love the quiet and long shadows of winter.
A slight breeze ruffles the grass like a drifter.
As the day is ended there comes nightfall
When the sun is low and the cold is bitter.
Now far away I see candle lights flicker.
As the cold night bites I tug on a shawl.
I love the quiet and long shadows of winter
When the sun is low and the cold is bitter.
Copyright © Keith Beavon | Year Posted 2016
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Keith Beavon Poem
Red to Black
Pink?
Pinkish!
The first flush of youth on the face at the gate.
Who? Pat Bouwer.
Then she’s maturer
And peach is the more appropriate word.
Whilst Red and Black are sep-a-rate.
A life-time of years
One of love not tears.
When out of the blue
There’s a transitional cell.
Bottom line? Please tell!
Cut to the chase.
Cut! Cut? Cut!
The knife excises the renal invader and its cancerous bower.
(Oh my Pat, it’s a fearful pun.)
One organ is gone
Still with poisons and rays they smack her in case.
Then hope flares up like a flame
But the crab bites deep
And begins to creep
Ever on, and silently on, like a veritable ghoul.
Peach fades to pallor and blanches like powder the beautiful face.
Now days are Black
And the western horizon is increasingly Red.
But Red inside her is read as life.
Something to grasp and hold very tight
Albeit only a straw.
Then in a twinkling Red switches to Black
And the dreaded Black blood gushes upward and out
Filling the dish she, yes she, holds alone in her hands.
A stainless-steel dish with a renal shape.
What bitter irony is that?
Worse still, she’s all alone;
A nurse without a nurse.
The ultimate curse.
What’s a vocation it’s only a ‘jop’
In any event the bell does n’t ring.
‘Bloken ?’ Oh yes it certainly is.
So move out, move out to where there’s love,
Care, and compassion but void of hope.
Now it’s gentle Black hands and Red epaulettes.
Calm are the days and gentle the nights
As warmly wrapped in her morphine cocoon
She wanders content with ghosts of her past.
And the Black is contained as she slips gently away
But there is time for a final whispered exchange
And a tender last brush of our lips
“I love you lots”,
“And I love you too.”
Then with a sigh and smile she is gone
As one of her own softly squeezes her hand.
Now Black is the hole that is left behind
And Red is the grief consuming my mind.
Copyright © Keith Beavon | Year Posted 2016
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Keith Beavon Poem
A day in June.
Tuesday.
Week’s worst day!
Twenty to five.
A wintry sun,
Low in the sky,
Casts long shadows,
Emits no warmth.
I’m in a dorp
With tired shops,
Bank and church,
GPO and a Court.
Tucked together
Along a street,
With bumpy tar
And dusty holes.
Now and then
A small bakkie
Clatters past
Carrying ‘boys’.
A thin veil
Of dust rises
And wafts
To where I sit.
On a bench,
On the stoep,
Of the old
‘Royal’ Hotel.
As I sit I see
No hustle or bustle;
Just a person or two
Moving listlessly by.
Across the road,
An Algemene Handelaar
Stocks and sells
Assorted goods.
On its stoep
Amongst other things,
An ancient plough
And three-legged pots.
An adult ‘boy’
Shuffles out,
Begins to take
The things inside.
Exiting the Bottle Store
Ou Cronje sways out
Sipping a half-jack
In a paper packet.
Church clock
Marks the ‘quarter to’
With a dull
Ding, … dong, …ding,
Enough already!
No waiting till five.
At other stores
Doors begin to close.
Doef-doef-doef !
A tractor bobs past
Pulling a trailer
Loaded with bags.
From Rita’s Fashions
The assistant emerges,
Pulls on knitted gloves,
And heads for home.
Three youngsters
From rugby practise
Sidle past with the
Scrunch of studded boots.
From the Kafee
Two clients emerge;
Half a loaf each
And bottles of Fanta.
Three farmers,
Wearing shorts,
Enter the bar
For brandy and coke.
A car trundles by.
Again there’s dust,
From unfixed holes
That pepper the tar.
Quiet returns.
Sun is lower.
Shadows longer.
In Enniedorp.
Now wisps of smoke,
From chimney tops,
Signal day’s end
And a wintry night.
Copyright © Keith Beavon | Year Posted 2016
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Keith Beavon Poem
On the anvil that’s the dorp
The noon-day sun beats down.
So between twelve and two
Life in the place is suspended.
Doors to the stores are ‘toe’
And in their dusty windows cheap
Mannequins sleep with open eyes.
The air is still and heavy.
So in the sparse foliage
Of small pepper trees
Feathered creatures perch,
With beaks agape,
And wings spread wide,
Trying to beat the heat.
At the door to the bar
Of the ‘Royal’ Hotel,
In a sliver of shade,
A mastiff lies panting.
Inside the trade is slow.
Manne on barstools
Nurse brandy-and-coke.
House windows are closed.
In the darkened interiors,
Hidden from sight by
Slatted wooden shutters,
People flop on chairs,
Avoid all movement, in
Attempts to beat the heat.
At two a slight sputter of life.
It is ‘government’ employees
Returning to work.
The magistrate and two clerks
Dawdle back to the court.
The post-master and staff
Re-enter the GPO.
It’s still quiet at the ‘Royal’ Hotel.
With no shoppers the doors
Of the stores remain closed.
Under the shade of pepper trees,
Outside the shuttered Co-op,
And alongside the ‘Prokureur’s,
A bakkie and tractor are parked.
The ‘garage’ is deserted
Save for its two Caltex pumps.
From all sun-baked surfaces.
Hot, dry, and dusty air rises.
So every now and then
The wind-pump in my yard
Creaks as it turns a little.
In school classrooms
Pupils slump on desks.
Teachers no longer teach;
“Lees jul voorgeskrewe boek.”
Two-thirty! At last!
The school-day’s over
And also the worst of the heat.
Now en masse
Pupils scurry out,
Head for home, then
After something to eat
It’s back for athletics
On a grass-free track, or
Tennis on concrete courts.
Eventually the glowering sun
Sends streaks of colour
Across the western sky
As it slowly dips out of sight.
Then when twilight is over
The moon is bright and bathes
The town in silvery hues.
By nine o’clock
It’s cool and still
Save for the flutter of moths
Around the outside lights.
And I lie on a bed
Outside on the stoep
With my dog at my feet.
Copyright © Keith Beavon | Year Posted 2016
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Keith Beavon Poem
Not all acquaintances
will become True Friends
but for them who do
male and female alike
i will bequeath
all those things
those honorable things
that lie embedded in
the special phrase
You are a True Friend of mine
as such i will
be there when you
are sick and lonely
i will be near
when you might
need an ear or
when you are
in despair
albeit in the
middle of the night
i will be there
in good times
and in bad
i can promise
you my loyalty
and assured support
material or moral
to you my true friend
i will never lie
nor cheat
let alone deceive
i will admit my errors
i will not use you
to polish my ego
and then
without a word
. . . . . turn
my back on you
abandon you
or spit you out
like a bad taste
and then
in silence stride
away as if
you never existed
as this friendship
is forever
Copyright © Keith Beavon | Year Posted 2016
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Keith Beavon Poem
We are thirteenish.
We meet.
I know.
She does not.
We meet at times
When home for hols.
Then I’m at varsity,
She’s a student nurse.
We meet more often.
Deep down I still know,
It’s clear she does not.
We qualify.
We split.
She’s in London,
I am not.
I’m in London,
She’s in Scotland.
She’s back in London,
I’m near Brighton.
We meet at weekends.
We sit and talk.
We walk and talk.
We do short trips.
We work all week.
I know I know,
I think she knows.
Late one night
We both agree.
We return.
We wed.
We are one.
We relocate.
We see
We talk
We touch
We love
We laugh
We cry
We work
We parent
We move
We travel
We achieve
We look
We celebrate
We smile
We care
We kiss
We wave
We climb
We swim
We pet
We tease
We rub
We grow
We age
We stare
We sleep
We come
We go
We caress
We love
We think
We cook
We eat
We drink
We bathe
We feel
We explore
We find
We check
We learn
We weep
We treat
We win
We lose.
I know.
She knows.
I know
She knows.
She knows
I know.
We retreat,
We linger
We eye
We touch
We love
We hold
We whisper
We fear.
She goes in
I stay out.
She drifts.
I visit.
We both know.
We kiss,
We touch,
We whisper.
She sighs.
I cry.
She smiles.
I try.
She sleeps.
She wakes.
She sighs.
She’s gone.
Gone, gone,
Forever and a day.
Copyright © Keith Beavon | Year Posted 2016
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Keith Beavon Poem
Cold Eerie Dawn
Misty
pre-dawn
shivering
not moving
just absorbing
graveyard silence
standing on
brittle brown
stems of grass
poking through
fresh frost
while surveying
my river
lying between
steep banks
wrapped in shadow
where willows
trail branches
in waters
flat and calm
a watery mat
slides by
slow silent dark
when light grows
wisps of steam rise
above grey waters
silence more acute
mist hangs low
only water moves
then suddenly
some fish
with lazy rolls
break surface
ripples spread
ight reflects
flickers
pierces
dark shadows
silence deepens
then two doves
perched up
high in
bare trees
softly coo
again
total silence
reigns
watery sun
creeps higher
air much colder
I shrug
turn leave
and still
the river
slides by
silently
60 years
and more
slipped by
since last
I stood
watching
dark waters
sliding past
on that cold
eerie dawn
so long ago.
Copyright © Keith Beavon | Year Posted 2016
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