Behold this welcome image.
Where a hill rises from a bay.
There a tiny sheltered village lay.
All in the shadow of Windmill Cottage.
Steady breeze most every day.
Sails from afar spill their goodwill.
From their nets sea treasure abound.
Farms thrive above on fertile ground.
Good fortune trickles down the hill.
Sea birds fill the air with sound.
Ancient timbers shade from lofty stage.
Labored grain grows upward at the season’s rate.
Winds howl, warmth’s aglow on the hill top grate.
Flour flows freely down from Windmill Cottage.
Where nature’s breath spins the wheel of a poets estate.
He attends happily to familiar chores.
Quarterly ledgers bulge beneath waistcoat fair.
His quarterly journey to the bankers’ lair.
His shadow alone opens Main Street doors.
Harvest moon will guide homeward the fortunate heir.
Dusk creeps up as day slips by.
Modest and ordered with nothing ablaze.
Must avoid the many scrupulous gaze.
In the shadows inhibitions die.
A visit with strangers, heads all a daze.
Journey’s end in darkness where hill meets bay.
Tufted coaches dash the posh up to their inns.
Others huddle by fire pits drinking homemade gins.
The trades of the night swap those of day.
Church bells echo, atoning for their sins.
Just another blurry face on the wooden shores.
Where the day’s death lingers and ships bells ring.
Taverns fill, ale flows and drunken sailors sing.
Fiddles play and jigs are had on the dirty floors.
Habitual killers all, Oh what joy they bring
Few will stay, most homeward bound.
Some laugh loudly while others cry.
Some will fight, some will die.
In search of peace to be found –
In the deep or endless sky.
Faceless comfort fills empty space.
Men with silver are sick for a day.
Boys with gold suffer years away.
Moonlit romance lingers on perfumed lace.
Then life’s anew beyond the tiny bay.
Sharing much common thread,
In this moment “ brothers all.
Whale lamps flicker on sooty wall
Making friends while breaking bread.
All await the Bosun’s call.
In a corner where shadows overlap.
The poet searches for his light,
Where the day’s brew flows all night.
Safe, for now from his hilltop trap,
Layers of darkness, out of sight.
Behold this most unwelcome image.
The seat no more where the poet presides.
Now in his shadow a filthy little demon hides.
Return not quenched to Windmill Cottage –
And wait again for the new moon tides?
Lonely candle spews depth on a lonely face.
Unseen pests sing their unwanted song,
The scent of time ticking long.
His travels must be many, all left a trace.
In the darkness our senses strong.
Hat brim low to hide his shame.
The poet stutters with utter surprise.
The traveler snickers, doesn’t rise.
With sideways glance he asks the poets name.
Honestly answered by the fear in his eyes.
When after long hesitation a hasty reply ”
“A traveler like you” was all that he said.
But after some ale the silence was dead.
Yard by yard many distant words fly.
Palettes grow when faces shade red.
Cider was next and followed by rum.
The traveler’s tales all told in prose.
The wetter the lips the faster it flows.
Hated by most, loved by some.
That’s how a traveler’s life often goes.
The poet a rather tall fellow.
The traveler a poet by name.
So many ports traveled they all looked the same.
His heart pumped blue, the poet gay and mellow.
Opposite sides of a coin, no one is to blame.
“With little time to hone a craft –
With a draft from an open door.
To close then return no-more.
To open then evermore – the draft.
Spirits gone, gone the craft – nevermore.”
What dribble do you speak my friend?
The poet inquired in disgusted tone.
“The dribble I think when thirsty and alone.”
The traveler quipped with message to send.
I’ll tell you another, that’s my own.
“Silent words are never heard –
The voiceless poet stuttered.
Repeated babble muttered.
His rhymes always sputtered.
More mindless words would be absurd.
The air he breathed was glutted.
His helm so poorly ruddered.
His shirts all heavily buttered.
From his many toasts self-uttered.
His mind so free and uncluttered.
His weaknesses many and unobserved.
Blinded to the Reaper’s shadow – deserved.
Soon the voiceless poet will be unheard.
Then blissful quiet on his paths wandered.
His welcome silence – forever heard.”
Drunken rabble roared with delight.
The poet withered belittled.
The traveler’s attention fizzled.
When laudanum’s sipped out of sight.
The poet escaped most grizzled.
Out of the dark into the night.
Bellowing air; cold, wet and starless.
His poisoned lips know no finesse.
His state of mind out of time – not right.
The poet’s mind wanders aimless.
The traveler tucked snugly in his bunk.
With help from many new joyous fan.
All loved the howls of this traveled Wild-man.
His tales make perfect sense “ drunk.
The favorite carried and the pompous ass ran.
Boot heals clack on cobble slick.
While stallion slumbers atop golden bed.
The poet stumbles upward with achy head.
If only to have his gilt throat-ed stick.
This shadowy path he may be found dead.
The wind that is my fortune is slowly killing me.
This hill of heritage too high for me to climb.
With forceful push from the hands of time.
Drawing me back to a frigid sea.
My misery oh-so great ” it is oh-so sublime.
Head tucked low, bottom up always slow.
Darkness wanes to purples then red.
Day is born, horrors of the night soon dead.
Hands and knees bloodied and bruised – falls of woe.
Alas the bodies of servants to guide to downy bed.
Winter’s behind, graven plans regress.
Fevered sleep past, shadows of death dawdle.
Summer awaits, the poet’s lessons dwindle.
His magnum opus went off to press.
Journey to Main Street, praise to guzzle.
Surveying high atop his magnificent mount.
The poet exclaimed “behold this welcome image”
Deceived by the bustle, not he the homage.
But a tome by a worldly traveler – no doubt.
It was “In the Shadow of Windmill Cottage”
I woke up early but not sure why.
The sun yet risen, no stars in the sky.
This shortened day will too soon pass.
Memories linger of lush green grass.
The water boils and cats get fed.
Should I persist or go back to bed?
Bed is warm, my kitchen’s cold,
New England winters’ getting old.
My pad awaits and pencils ready.
Ideas are shaky but hands steady.
Now is now but soon to be then.
If not today perhaps not again.
First a letter, then words will follow.
Most are solid, some ring hollow.
But any start’s better than none.
Good or bad, at least it’s done.
It’s time for another Christmas poem,
cos it’s that time of year.
It’s to be filled with good will,
love and holiday cheer.
I could write about Santa,
with his busy little elves,
maybe an ode to their toys,
now cluttering my shelves.
I can get sappy for a tree,
our spire of light,
I could rhyme about nothing,
as I do every night.
My purpose was clear,
at the start of this poem.
Blessings received I was to emote,
but that’d be a tome.
So now I’ll just end with good will to send.
Happy holidays to all, to all a good friend.
May your new year be one to transcend.
And a kiss to some, but that’ll depend.
It must be love when
passions can’t be expressed in
haiku’s of amore
It must be love when
our hearts beat faster by a
footstep at the door
It must be love when
broken hearts are aching yet
we love all the more
It must be love when
burning hearts blaze hotter than
science can measure
It must be love when
our hearts are left shattered yet
chests still hold treasure
It must be love when
all life appears inspired
and our hearts feel pure
It must be love when
only a greater failure
seems to reassure
It must be love when
our hurting hearts are healed with
love – the only cure
It must be love when
hearts and minds know not, but it
Must Be Love – for sure
Writing an end to darkness
When there’s no bright side
Un-Free Times –
When do poets sell?
When all my time’s spent writing
Or thinking I can’t
Scientific Optimism –
Nature’s law shared in
Physics and psychology
Is that all things bounce
We’re off to the swap meet today.
Dad says its work, I say its play.
Mom thinks it’s all a bunch of junk.
Who needs an old cast iron skunk?
Every year since I was two.
Seen the toes of many a shoe.
In my wagon with squeaky wheel,
once pulled string from an old fly reel.
Saw a ship of wood, bone and hair.
Dad got nervous, said don’t go there!
Great memories of dad and me.
I wish that mom would come and see.
Up before dawn, first at the gate.
If you’re not first, well than you’re late.
I think that second’s also OK.
Don’t follow, go the other way.
A laugh a push a yawn and sneeze.
New spring pollen made someone wheeze.
We’re squashed on the fence right up front.
Soon we’ll start a new treasure hunt.
The gate opens, I think we won.
I don’t care; I’m here to have fun.
We see faces we’ve seen before.
But the new ones are a lot more.
Soon the sun will rise in the sky.
Down the rows with treasures stacked high.
A day of fun, ready to learn,
Something new at every turn.
We pass the women in her shawl.
Sits alone, sells nothing at all.
Walking past, I’d wave and say hi.
But never did I catch her eye.
But now I’m ten, no chaperon.
Maybe she smiled because I’m grown.
She waved me over to come right in.
Glad to see her never seen grin.
I gazed into lots of old stuff,
even the best looked kind of rough.
She told me stories of each thing,
corner chair and ancient nose ring.
“I never sell my things of old.
They can’t be enjoyed when they’re sold,
loan things to friends once in a while,
like you” she said with a big smile.
“I’ve watched you pass since you were small.
On your dads’ shoulders, eight feet tall.
I’ve seen you smile and watched you grow.
Each time passing you’d say hello.
Walking past, eyes open wide.
You never dared to come inside.
Talking to strangers is unwise.
If I scare you, I apologize.”
She gave me a book that’s quite small,
not too many pages at all.
The book kept dreams lost in your head,
while you were sleeping in your bed.
She opened the book to page three.
Then whispered some secrets to me.
“Dreams are wishes stuck in your head.
They only come out when in bed.
Sleeping soundly, eyes shut tight,
mind wondering all through the night.
When you wake to start a new day,
write down those dreams before you play.
Follow your heart wherever it goes.
Record your trip in lovely prose.
Don’t stop writing until you’re done.
It’s never work when it’s all fun.
First open the book carefully.
Than close your eyes and wait to see,
all your dreams will come back to you.
But it might take a week or two.
Just be patient, don’t ever fret.
All things good you never forget.
I need not tell you anymore,
complete instructions on page four.”
She found a box, it fit just right.
I couldn’t wait to sleep that night.
Tied it up with ribbon and bow.
She gave me hug, told me to go.
It’s been a long winter since then.
Yes I’ve used up many a pen.
I wake each morning at sunrise.
Wipe the night’s sleepys from my eyes
Mom saw me writing early one day.
She asked to see, what could I say?
Together we both read out loud.
We laughed and hugged, she said she’s proud.
Now up after dawn, we’re not late.
Family’s first, treasure can wait.
Another year, there’s much to see,
at the swap meet; mom dad and me.
I hope to see my new old friend,
I’ll share my news with happy end.
I tried hard and my wish came true.
Now mom comes to the swap meet too!
Available at: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/470879
I promise you all it’s coming soon,
a poem I’ll write with no doom and gloom.
Spring will come and blossoms will bloom,
profoundly imagined locked in winter’s room.
Winters, like life, always end in demise.
Love again felt will brighten the skies.
Clouds will float and not obscure,
every breath’s a pleasure and pure.
Summer’s warmth brings the touch of skin.
Icy hearts thaw from deep within.
The hues of fall paint our ground.
A canvas of white offers promise all around.
To all the writers never known
To the few from which we’ve grown
From their words the future’s sown
Rearranged to call our own
To all of those that do it now
From palette pure to graven brow
Investing all we dare allow
Divesting that we can’t avow
Time records in poem and prose
Imagined journeys no one knows
From euphoric highs to deadly lows
The tide of emotion forever flows
Looking back at history
Or hypothesizing infinity
Sensations felt we can’t see
Ink bled sets us free
Where to start, that depends
Our time alone shared with friends
Yet all stories must have ends
Well submerged is where life blends
Write the dark to see the light
Time always wins the fight
And when you lay awake tonight
Rest assured our future’s bright
The expression of time in medium
Through focused jubilant tedium
Seeing our world with open eyes
Recording all without disguise
Art’s a cause for sharing good
A cause to share as we should
Art needs no leave or applause
Art is just, just because
Stagnation rots, life’s to quiz
Be cause, art is
Embers fade, waning moon
Sounds of day coming soon
Nights of bliss with our love
Counting stars that dance above
Sharing secrets from the past
Recalling joy that didn’t last
Time’s treasured in the dark
Horizons clear with the rising arc
By day we grow, eves recede
Priorities given to what we need
Quills in hand, arm in arm we’ll fly
Soaring and diving in the endless sky
In search of a hilltop on which to lie
It is here I’d wish to die
To rest and ponder life’s miracle
Where the arc becomes full circle
Love poems are many.
True love’s but few.
Love poems worked out.
True love’s in you.
Love poems imagined,
penned from the blue.
True love is felt,
a shared point of view.
Love poems warm hearts.
True love warms through.
Love poems we read.
True love we do.
I think my pencil’s broken,
nothing’s coming out.
I’ve tried lots of paper,
now I’m feeling doubt.
Could it be a dream,
the writing that I’ve done?
Or perhaps a nightmare,
this time I’ve spent as one.
I wake up every morning,
before the sun will rise.
My chair awaits its ass,
glasses await their eyes.
Coffee I will slurp,
watching hours burn.
If I were a younger man,
it’d be of less concern.
Time is not to waste,
though I shouldn’t squawk.
My pencils served me well,
though I may try chalk.
I know I need my fix,
words do the trick.
Perhaps I’m not a poet,
just really, really sick.
Outside my window perched in a tree
Tis a winged demon that caws at me
At me it caws and caws all day
Till darkness consumes then caws go away
Tis then a candle lit, awaiting peace
Creative spark await release
The hourly chime hourly chides
This spark within creatively hides
Searching I pace in this tiny room
From shadow to shadow returning to gloom
Going in circles around in a square
Till wearily I slump back into my chair
Through random lacy limbs I spy the moon
With gentle breezes the patterns I swoon
Patterns swooning dance on dingy walls
The net surrounds and the demon calls
Consciousness concedes, silence relieves
In the dark the dark the mind believes
Rest and wait or rise and scream
Choices few at the edge of a dream
Wax drippings lapping pages bled
Of serpentine spine and heavy head
Blackness cloaks the demons night
Their quills aplenty shade the light
Demon, oh demon please let me be
Yet still they tap, tapping for me
Tap tap tapping on my foggy pane
Tap, tap tapping with no refrain
Without refrain demons tap in kind
Tapping demons tap, tapping my mind
Is this tapping, tapping to remind?
Or is it tapping to seek and find?
Oh demon cloaked with hidden face
To take from you is my disgrace
Your gifts adored left on my sill
Yet to rest on your back I am still
To be only still is reverse
Dive or fall, a lover’s curse
To soar or sink is to immerse
The spirit wishes to guide the verse
This spirit and I of common goal
Each to rise from the hole
One to fly, one to scratch and claw
Each may fall, one to caw, caw, caw
Our bond’s made to find a link
If to trade my soul I wish to think
I wish to think another’s ink
Of golden quills and wine to drink
In gilded glass I wish to wink
Then step away until I shrink
Till all is gone with a blink
But for the ink, I wish to think
I think I think, I think I see
I think I see light shines on me
Sight and sound now distortion free
The path’s clear toward tranquility
If to be a final rest, now’s to be the time
Drifting in an open mind is to be sublime
Or if to rise and most joyfully find
I’ve awakened as a different kind
To be warm of heart and cool of mind
Forward moving and never behind
Of filigree hands to align and chime
Tis then the taps return, tapping in time
Taps on the window from arms of the past
To embrace their grip the future’s cast
When cracks appear in my shield of glazing
The demon swoops for the dawns hazing
With inky beak and beating wings
Caw, caw, caw the demon sings
They dance upon the empty pages
Quills ablaze their fire rages
Then morning breaks the lidded seal
Illuminating all thought real
Am I to be taken or to consume?
Or wake to sunlight returning to gloom
Betwixt the shadows exposed by the light
Tis demons craft conjured last night
With nary a blotch nor stroke askew
Flawless leaf scribed by I know not who
I dare not share these words unknown
Through my window they have flown
The prize of demons cawing in a tree
Thus return I must this gift given me
Colorless leaf crackle beneath sole-less feet.
The smell of death lingers sweet.
Bramble thick draws blood on paper skin,
digging more deeply the deeper within.
Then starlight fades to the darkness I fear,
moonlight shadows disappear.
Columns abound supporting endless night,
numbers multiply consuming the light.
Welcome dew hangs heavy in unseen air,
to drink deep I do not dare.
Outstretched hands replace teary useless eyes.
Senses heightened, alert of endless cries.
Vibrations of night; soft, loud, far and near,
distant from all, we all hold dear.
Wanting now only to curl-up and weep,
my soul is still for the sickle to reap.
Return to the path I lost yesterday,
blackness turns slowly to gray.
Long nights journey in the forest of hell,
surviving again, except for my shell.
Summer love leads to fall.
Autumnal changes effects all.
Leaves turn, soon to drop.
Life moves on and won’t stop.
Chills felt to the bone.
Warmth’s gone when alone.
Seasons cycle as they must.
Tomorrows come, we have to trust.
Truth felt in the heart.
Minds make lies art.
Sleep’s unknown for many a night.
Sadness fills each line I write.
If not loved a future is to find.
If not a poet, perhaps then blind.
Hues created we want to see.
Now the fall’s here for you and me.
I think I had a hapiphany,
an epiphany of living happily.
It’s the manifestation of all things good.
And living the life I know we should.
Surrounded by loved ones and good friends,
my face hurts a little cos the smiling never ends.
I wake each morning eager to rise,
I watch light fill the starry night skies.
But with the good comes the bad,
I read the news and feel real sad.
So I write of love, joy and bliss.
Then I run upstairs for the day’s first kiss.
While my angel slumbers peacefully,
I rearrange animals to make room for me.
Then I slip back in bed with never a peep.
I’ll kiss her shoulder till the end of her sleep.
“Good morning, I love you” are the first words she’ll hear.
She’ll then pull me closer with warmth to share.
She’ll open her eyes and “I love you” returned.
And a great day has started from all that I’ve learned.
I wrote a poem called yesterday when I was not so old.
I wrinkled it up and threw it away because the story’s been told.
I could write about tomorrow but the end would be a guess.
I could share some happy thoughts but what if the end’s a mess.
I could just write something simple and I’ll name it today.
Although this day’s not over yet so far it’s been OK.
So I’ll let you know soon how my little poem worked out.
It could be short or too long but an end there is no doubt.
I’ve got nothing to say,
but that’s OK,
maybe again tomorrow.
I’ve no new ideas,
observations or fears,
no places I plan to go.
I’ve got coffee to drink,
a place to think,
but my thoughts a definite no-show.
So I’ll sit and just wait,
it’s never too late,
something will come I know.
With the sun now bright,
I see the light,
words now starting to flow.
My poem’s now done,
it’s silly but fun,
my face’s now all aglow.
So good morning to you,
and whatever you do,
do it with vigor and gusto.
Mornings give light.
Emotion fills night.
Eyes force sight.
Legs flee plight.
Opinions oft slight.
Truth’s never quite.
Souls know right.
Minds will fight.
Hearts feel blight.
Tomorrows bring fright.
Yesterday lends insight.
Fortitude means might.
Sparks do ignite.
Love shines bright.
Hands do write.
Life’s to delight.
Has a Ball
What surrounds us all;
Warms, chills, cries – never dies?
Ever changing skies
Old flames reunite
Fueled and mingling freely
When all becomes ash
Around and around
We all go, around what is
What I’d like to know
Poetry is speech
From hearts not minds – unconfined
Grammar cast aside
A net full of holes
Will always fill with something
Without there’s nothing
Hands write history
A mind writes philosophy
Hearts write poetry