Temper – Poem

Began writing this back at the end of March, through April, and have finally come back to tie it up. Don’t believe I’ve posted it before, but it is a long time for me to hold on to one of these!

Temper

Set in tantrum, the boy’s toe (nail picked) face
Purples and blubbers in dark recessed mess.
Points of view – misaligned with his mother’s –
Expressably held to are uncovered.

Little one, wrenched expressions earn no work
From carrying hearts; and though pity’s uncorked
In simple glass, all call for you in fear:
“Come from the waters edge, my boy, my dear.”

Tut less at common birdsong, but listen,
Listen closer to what they’ve known and seen.
In pride there’s no learning, so be patient;
In patience we know our place, time, and length.

But the sun just risen has yet to light
Darkened hills, and – with roaming clouds in sight –
May wait some time before the boy can see
All you want to show him; put it simply.

Little one, never know man’s heart; it drowns
Disturbing the water around and owns
Unknowing suffering – it’s death down here.
“Come from the waters edge, my boy, my fear.”

Bells Of The Forest – Poem

Taken last week some morning I can’t recall which, but I think those are bluebells and whitebells (if someone knows otherwise please inform me!). Either way, the flower heads have often made me think of faerys/fairys, especially wearing them as hats.

Bells Of The Forest

Ringing through Spring morning tree-shade
In green grasses, beside the light,
The Blue and white bells, there they grow
– Content as hats for flitting fae.

The Young Dragon And It’s Duty – Poem

Don’t worry! The smoke coming from the stump wasn’t by my hand, I happened to find it, and it was dealt with by two park workers. (Peckham Rye if anyone’s interested.)

At first I thought it was someone with an e-cigarette relaxing on the grass and I was going to sneak a picture because it looked quite cool, but then I found no person, but a discarded cigarette butt burning the rotten log! 

The poem below is about youth, discipline, stickability, and duty.

The Young Dragon And It’s Duty

The flame from a Southern Wyvern
Ashens the farmhand looking North,
For ferocious howling winds turn
The mind to wishing for the earth,
But simple burns the blaze of youth
Spent drying rotting stumps to death.

Still a blue and still a green grows;
Not a good leaf taken too soon,
Nor bad ones broken. And this shows
Young dragons must take care for whom
They fire a smoke upon – to end
A duty is a bless├Ęd trend.

Wild Woods – Poem

I and Monty (the lovely Labrador seen previously) were walking in and I took this photo just past where the first was taken. Thinking about it Monday and going through a few possible lines of imagery and different themes, I settled on what we have below.

To draw the curtain back, this poem is simply about dark times in life.

Wild Woods

Blossom below the dark, chilled, shaded trees
Reminds of light behind the wood, and hope breathes.
That there might be a sun beyond the wood
And with the sun a life of living free.