Spring. A Poem

Dandelions, like gold, cover the meadows.

Newborn lambs frolic in fields.

New leaves on the trees are casting their shadows

And winter’s cold grip quickly yields.

At the edges of woodland the primroses glow

And cowslips their scent fills the air.

Anemones dance when the breezes do blow

And birds sing with never a care.

Then bluebells and campions come into bloom

Their colour the blue of the sea.

The cuckoo, that herald of spring, will come soon,

His call echoing over the lea.

The song of the blackbird is like molten gold.

His notes are so pure and so clear.

Hearing him seems to banish the cold

And brings joy to all those who hear.

Robin is nesting, and other birds too,

The hedgehog is active once more.

The young of the deer and the badger and shrew

Play their games as in old days of yore.

The sun climbs higher and higher each day

Giving more of his heat and his light.

It sparkles like stars fallen into the bay.

All smile at the beautiful sight.

Hope and excitement come with each spring morn.

What blessings will come with this day?

New starts can begin once again with each dawn

And send us all hopeful away.

I’ve submitted a book of poetry, including this one, to my publisher. I am currently waiting to hear if they’ve accepted it. I’ll keep you posted about it.

If you like my poem, please leave a comment in the comments box. Even if you didn’t, you can still leave a comment.

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Here’s a bit about the story.

Maria and her husband, Jack, have moved into an old cottage. They want to furnish it with period furniture and buy a medieval table.

That’s when the mystery begins. Strange sounds in the night. Have they bought a haunted house? But a medium tells them it is not a ‘lost spirit’, but something else she does not recognise.

What is it that is causing them to lose sleep? The answer is more unexpected than anyone thought.

My Welsh Holiday

In September I went to Pembrokeshire in South Wales for a week’s holiday. Now Wales is not noted for wall to wall sunshine, but this year it decided to be exceptional. Glorious sunshine. Shorts and tee-shirt weather.

Because I’ve written poems about Scotland and England, I decided to write one about Wales, and to share it with you all. I hope you enjoy it.

Croeso y Cymru

Land of the dragon,

And King Arthur’s court.

Land of Myrddin

Where Magic was wrought.

Land of the Druids,

Land of the bards.

Land of mystery

Her secret she guards.

Land of song

In chapel and pub.

Land of mountains

Soaring above.

Land of beaches

Next to the sea.

Children playing,

Laughter and glee.

Land of deep valleys

Known as Cwm.

Land of coal mines

In underground gloom.

Land of the last gold

In Britain is found,

The Romans dug it

From deep underground.

Land of Eisteddfod,

Of singing and dance.

In Llangollen’s valley

The whole world does prance.

Land of the Celts.

Land of the sheep.

On her green hillsides

The lambs they do bleat.

Land of the raven.

Land of the kite.

High soaring above

In graceful flight.

Land of steel.

Land of slate,

Dug from the mountains

Our roofs for to make.

Land of a language

With beauteous sound.

But try to pronounce it

Your tongue will be bound.

Land of the daffodil

Land of the leek.

Symbols of Welshness

For those who do seek.

Land of green hills,

Of valleys and dales.

Croeso y Cymru.

Welcome to Wales.

I would love to know what you think of this poem. Please post your comments in the comments box.

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Passing

Food for thought from Kevin Morris.

Another of his wonderful poems.

K Morris - Poet

I left the woodland path
To let the couple pass,
And heard the young girl laugh.

I think on urban foxes mating
And remember men impatiently waiting
Whilst the police cleared away.

All this fleeting thought
Of our brief day
Must end in nought.

View original post

Guest post from kevin morris, poet.

Today I welcome one of my favourite poets to my blog.

Kevin Morris is a poet who writes both humorous and serious poetry. I will hand over to Kevin now, and he can explain about his poetry much better than I can.

Welcome, Kevin. Please tell us about your poetry.

I have, for as long as I can remember, been a lover of poetry. The first poem I recollect having read is Alfred Noyes’s “The Highwayman”, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43187/the-highwayman. I was (and remain)entranced by the rhythm of the poem and how it matches the beat of the horse’s feet, as the Highwayman approaches the inn:

“The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.   
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.   
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,   
And the highwayman came riding—
         Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door”.

I find good rhyming poetry profoundly beautiful, and much of my own work is written in rhyme. Take, for example my poem “Autumn Fly”, which appears in my forthcoming collection, “Light and Shade: Serious (and Not so Serious) poems”.

Image by FRANCO PATRIZIA from Pixabay

“An autumn fly
Buzzes around my head.
Summer is dead
Yet will not die.
Seasons pass.
We are brittle as glass,
This fly
And I”.

Whilst sitting in my study, in late autumn, a fly began buzzing around my head. This brought to mind the mortality of this tiny insect and also that of man. Hence the above poem was born.

I have many happy memories of strolling through the woods with my grandfather and it was from him that I gained my love of nature. This affection for nature was, I believe encouraged further by my reading of poems such as Keats “Autumn”. Much of my own poetry touches on the theme of nature. Take, for example my poem “Rain”.

Image by AlbiF from Pixabay

“The rain
Patters amongst these leaves.
I listen again
And ascertain
That it’s the breeze
Midst these trees.
Yet it sounds the same
As rain”.

As with “Autumn Fly”, “Rain” came to me naturally as a rhyming poem. I could not have expressed what I wished to convey had I utilised free verse, as rhyme comes naturally to me, whilst other forms of poetic expression do not.

Whilst there exists some wonderful poetry composed in free verse, to me much free verse is poetic prose rather than true poetry. Many poems written in free verse are beautiful. However, for me their beauty resides in their poetic prose, they are not, in my opinion poetry as I understand it (I.E. with real rhyme and metre).

One can not always be serious, and section 2 of “Light and Shade” is devoted to my humorous verses. Take, for example my poem “Jane’s Sad Refrain”:

“A young lady named Jane
Sang a most mournful refrain.
I could repeat her song,
As it wouldn’t take long,
But it’s copyright of Jane!”

To conclude. Poetry is, for me about rhyme and its rhyme with which I feel most comfortable. There is, as I said, some wonderful free verse poetry out there. However, for me at least much of this (but by no means all) is poetic prose rather than poetry proper.

(“Light and Shade: Serious (and Not so Serious) Poems”, by Kevin Morris will be available in the Amazon Kindle store, and as a paperback in July 2020).

Links:

Blog: https://kmorrispoet.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/drewdog2060_
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6879063.K_Morris

Thank you, Kevin, for telling us more about your poetry. I agree with you about free verse. It’s something I’ve thought for a long time. I have written poetry that doesn’t rhyme, but it always has rhythm. And I love the poem about Jane!

I would encourage everyone to search out your poetry books and to visit your blog.

Good luck with this latest one. I look forward to its publication.

If you have any comments to either myself, or Kevin, please enter them in the comments box. Feel free to reblog this.

3 Haiku

RAIN

I decided, a few weeks ago, to try my hand at writing Haiku. We’d just had a very rainy, wet winter and so I began with 3 about rain.

Gentle rain, sweet rain.
Pitter-patter on the leaves
Helps the flowers grow.

The rain hammers down.
It drenches the sodden ground.
Rivers overflow.

Rainbow in the sky.
The sunshine split by raindrops.
Glorious colour.

Winter: A Poem

Everything dead.
Nothing moves.
The skies of lead
Press down on the roofs.

The icicles hang
Like teeth in the maw.
Each one a fang
In a wolf’s jaw.

The wind with his knife
Cuts through to the bone.
Soon snow will arrive
And the swallows have flown.

The trees that were green
Are now turned to white,
And everything’s seen
In a glowing bright light.

But look what I’ve found!
A tiny green shoot
Pushing up through the ground.
A snowdrop, no doubt.

It tells of the spring
Not so far away,
And how it will bring
All the flowers of May.

A Poem from my Work in Progress.

This story is set in Britain, in what is now Yorkshire at the time of the Danes and tells of the trials and tribulations of Helgha. This is a saga told by a scald (the Danish equivalent of a bard.) It tells of how Erik won Helgha from her father.

“Erik loved the beauteous maiden, Helgha,
The most beautiful maid
Amongst all the Danes.
Her flaxen hair flowed like moonlight on the seas
And her blue eyes glowed like the sky in summer.
But they could not marry.
For Erik was promised to another.
He visited his love often
Until her father challenged him
To a battle.
Sword rang on shield.
Axe split the air with sound like thunder.
Young and strong, was Erik,
Older and wily was Biorn.
Who would win?
Youth and strength or
Guile and Experience?
Biorn struck first with his axe,
But Erik raised his shield.
Biorn’s axe glanced off.
Erik fought bravely
Until Biorn’s shield broke.
Biorn hit Erik with the edge and drew first blood.
Brave Erik did not flinch.
Blood streamed from the gash in his cheek
But he fought on, ignoring pain and blood.
The battle continued for hours.
Erik parried the axe with his shield.
His sword longing for blood.
His eyes burning with the pleasure of the fight.
Then Erik saw Biorn tiring
The man’s steps became slow,
His axe dragged
As if reluctant to hit this brave young warrior.
Erik backed into a barn wall and feigned a slip.
When Biorn came with raised axe
To finish the battle and send Erik to Valhalla,
The young warrior rolled beneath the axe
And as Biorn raised his weapon,
Erik sent his sword upwards.
Into the heart of his foe it went.
Blood flowed over both.
As Biorn crashed down, Erik rolled away.
Helgha screamed.
Her lover and her father both drenched in blood.
Who lived and who died?
Then Erik rose and seized the maiden.
He fled to Stjarna, his horse,
And leaped to her back with Helgha.
They galloped all night
Until at dawn they arrived in Jorvik.
Now Erik has a beautiful bed-slave.
And a scar on his cheek
To remind all of his bravery.”

The book is undergoing the editing process at the moment. I’ll keep you all informed as to how it’s getting on. Nearly through the first rewrite.

Those Were the Days. A poem by my Mum

Today, for a change, instead of posting my own writing I thought I’d let you see a poem written by my Mum. She died in 1992, but would have been chuffed to see her poem on the net. She had a terrific sense of humour.

This one is one of several she wrote about growing old.

 

Everything is so much further
Then it ever used to be.
The little shop around the corner
Seems twice as far to me.

The buses were always punctual
I could go with the greatest of ease.
But now they seem to be early
And my legs do just as they please.

The stairs are made so much steeper
I’m flat out when I get to the top
Amd the print in the papers is so small
That my eyes are beginning to pop.

I can’t do with the way people mumble.
I only hear half of the tale.
They tell me the news in a whisper,
Or shout till I feel I could wail.

The dresses are made so much tighter
Especially round waist and hips.
And diets are all in the fashion.
No goodies, like good fish and chips.

Even people are different this day and age
They all seem to look so much younger.

Yet people my age seem old and withdrawn
And look to be dying of hunger.

I met with a friend the other day.
She really looked old and withered.
I’m sure I look younger than that, I thought,
And I know I’m not half so bothered.

I looked in the mirror to see for myself.
For I’m really not ready to go on the shelf.
But a grey-haired old woman was looking at me.
Even mirrors are not like they used to be.

 

Spring. A Poem

Dandelions, like gold, cover the meadows.
Newborn lambs frolic in fields.
New leaves on the trees are casting their shadows
And winter’s cold grip quickly yields.

At the edges of woodland the primroses glow
And cowslips their scent fills the air.
Anemones dance when the breezes do blow
And birds sing with never a care.

Then bluebells and campions come into bloom
Their colour the blue of the sea.
The cuckoo, that herald of spring, will come soon
His call echoing over the lea.

The song of the blackbird is like molten gold.
His notes are so pure and so clear.
Hearing him seems to banish the cold
And brings joy to all those who hear.

Robin is nesting, and other birds too,
The hedgehog is active once more.
The young of the deer and the badger and shrew
Play their games as in old days of yore.

The sun climbs higher and higher each day
Giving more of his heat and his light.
It sparkles like stars fallen into the bay.
All smile at the beautiful sight.

Hope and excitement come with each spring morn.
What blessings will come with this day?
New starts can begin once again with each dawn
And send us all hopeful away.

 

I hope you like  this spring poem. Please tell me what you think in the comments.

Bedwyr’s Song #writephoto

A beautiful poem.

via Bedwyr’s Song #writephoto