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Sonnet for the many coloured seasons of the soul
Come many coloured seasons of the soul,
The soul that is creator of all art,
Come show the arching rainbow of the whole,
Encompassing each life, from start to start!
See how these colours painted once so bold
Can fade into the mists of muddled time,
Can run and drain away to being old,
Encompassed by the lie of King of Crime -
That shabby-coated stranger Mister Death,
Is but a passing wind, a winter's breeze,
A ghost of winter with white spirit breath
Whose only art is cold, to try and freeze
Your red and gold, your blue and green, the whole -
Your many coloured seasons of the soul!
The Morning After...
The birds sang and the sun shone on,
Just like I had told them to;
My self and life had both gone on -
Grass still green and sky still blue.
The boys played and the men grew up,
Just like I had told them to;
The moon shone and the birds flew up -
Sky still high and grass still grew.
The girls danced and the women wed,
Just like I had told them to;
And I lived on though I was dead -
Sun still shone and birds still flew.
Flames
Pale, flickering flames that lap and lick
Upon black, shiny coals;
I gazed entranced, deep, as they danced
Like lost and lonely souls.
Pale, flickering flames of amber and gold,
Of pastel greens and blues,
As dancers sway and bravely play,
Their little lives to lose.
Pale, flickering flames, transmuting all
They touch and see and breathe,
With soft caress, and delicateness,
They sadly take their leave.
Pale, flickering flames, where are you now,
Where is your lambent light?
Could you not find your peace of mind?
God speed - sweet sleep - Good night!
Sonnet To Grandad
The bitter, twisted remnant of a mind
That lay in wrinkled ruin, bleached in bed;
Old bones embalmed with patience of a kind,
Endorsed by doctors to the living dead.
The best is done by nurses taught to clean
And clear the cluttered corridor of death;
No bottom pinching patient to be seen,
Just one old man alone to his last breath.
So we visit, bring our flowers and weep,
And look into unseeing, vacant eyes,
And from his bed, unknown, we quietly creep,
And quietly so does grandad when he dies;
This pensioner, this pioneer of pride,
My father's dad, my granddad, when he died.
Cup of Life
To take a crystal cup and sip
A taste of fragrant night;
To rest your head,
Your weary head,
Upon a bed of light!
To feel your words,
As feeble birds,
That flock upon your lip;
To take a crystal cup of life,
And sip and sip and sip!
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