The Web Poetry Corner
The Web Poetry Corner
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Mind on Track
A train of thought on an Italian train
As I sit in motion through the rural plain
My two companions are lost in lines
Through the dust stained glass I search for vines
A clear blue sky brightens up the scene
Of yellow, red, blue, brown and green
My mind relaxed at this travelling pace
In that dust stained glass I see a smiling face.
Wake up and touch first base
"Get back to the land of reality,
Come down of your big dreaming cloud !"
Was the pleading I got from my sanity
But my imagination was bold and too proud.
Miss Interpret, she won't get the meaning
While Miss Taken will always be wrong
Miss Leading won't show you the right way
While Miss Demeanour won't be good for long
Miss Handle, her touch is uncertain
While Miss Spelling is never correct
Miss Cellaneous will tell you about everything
While Mis Use is a little suspect.
What is it you like to do ?
I like to read, to write and drink !
What is your ambition then ?
My ambition is to think !
Where do you see yourself in ten years time ?
Asleep in a comfy bed !
The interview was over then
They gave the job to someone else instead !
The Morning After
Staring in the mirror
With shameful reddened eyes
Slight soreness around the head
Hardly a great surprise.
Memories vague and distant
Of the time, the group, the scene
Sketchy are the details
The slate is still unclean.
The Siege of Menace
On all sides by my own unhappiness
Towards an abyss of discomfort and despair
From replying by time and circumstance
That I find respite somewhere.
Shes known to one and many, a friend indeed to all
Today she turns another page and lets the sand grains fall
Another year has drifted by with days that fuel the flame
An extra shade with colour sprayed, but still she is the same.
A plain and simple rearing with comforts small and few
But always sure and willing in all she had to do
A lifetime lost in labouring with heartache, sweat and tears
And memories vast and varied assembled through the years.
Theres no one to compare her with for none can fit the mould
A loving caring mother with a telling heart of gold
I see in her so many things that fill me with great pride
It means so much, with a gentle touch to have her by my side.
All the words that could be written and all the colours in the pail
Could never paint the picture nor ever tell the tale
But in the hearts of many, be it family, friends or more
There lies the telling snapshot of this one we all adore.
I know her as my mother, my soulmate and my friend
Someone Ill live and laugh with and love right to the end
Someone that I can talk to in a manner true not feigned
For shes that someone special, so natural, never trained.
In a green and open setting on a cool bright rustic day
I see him toil with reason in an age old natural way
He wipes the glistening sweat drops that form upon his brow
And slices up the cold brown earth by his steering of the plough.
The labour long and tiring, an endless path of pain
Drenched with summer sunlight rays and biting winter rain
No words of resignation, just a knowledge of the truths
And a lifetime love thats buried deep within his rural roots.
His manner unassuming with some distance from the crowd
Yet striking when the cause need be to voice his thoughts aloud
A calm and real acceptance of the cards being dealt his way
The shrewdness of his deft reply, a measured timely play.
Theres pleasing warmth within his smile, sharpness in his wit
Caring in his family role for so the shoe does fit
With knowledge that belies his years both general and defined
For when its due in a crossword view or a tabled state of mind.
I see him as my father and I see him as my friend
I know hell always be there for on him I can depend
Those helping hands, that patient ear, the reassuring voice
A trouble shared, a problem dared or a humbled sacrifice.
In a warm and homestead setting on a cool dark summers night
I see him thumb through pages by the teasing turf firelight
Silent and contented in a world thats all his own
Throwing a watchful eye on the news thats freshly grown.
The Big Fellow
Michael Collins man supreme
Innate wit so extreme
Callous consequential fate
Harrowed deep the Irish state
Actions spoke with gripping grief
Enwrapped Gaels in one belief
Lofty English searched in vain
Collins present in the plain
Obscure struggle incomplete
London beckoned midst the heat
Lamely signed with grave distaste
Instinct tempted fate so haste
Nation mourn untimely truth
Sadly laying their son to root.
I dream of wishes
And wish for many dreams
I think of nothing
And get nothing for my thoughts
Im lost in wondering
And wonder why Im there
Im free from confinement
And confine myself to freedom.
A paradox of purpose
A purpose not defined
Double edged and striking
The street ways of the mind.
There are days
When I am forever lost
I soar above
The hilltops and the clouds
That form the
Landscape of my mind.
I stay there
For a time
That seems endless
Not wanting to descend
And live again
In the commonplace.
But when I return
I bring with me
The pleasures of the travelling
The sightseeing and the stay.
Memorable photographic imprints
To tell the tale some later day.