My Guitar

My mute guitar neglected lies,
Encoffined as when someone dies,
But awaits no funeral she
And therein is a mystery,
Look - dead she lies but touch her string,
Full of life she starts to sing.
Caress and woo her - before long,
She will sing a lovelier song.
A lover's ardour you'll require,
For her to sing as you desire.
A stoic's patience you will need
For your courtship to succeed.
I, a lover, wooed and failed,
Pressed my suit, but nought availed.
And since a love that's spurned soon dies
My mute guitar neglected lies

The Spider

She spends her time in magic play,
Weaving silken nets all day,
Airy fabrics, light as cloud,
Spun with love to form a shroud.
With her masterpiece complete,
She herself doeth then secrete,
And the period of her stay,
Depends upon her foredoomed prey
Who entangled by her skill,
She emerges then to kill.
What perverse and cruel heart,
Decreed that death parade as art.

The Mirror

I caught my image unaware,
The sagging flesh and thinning hair,
Reflected in a silvered glass,
That I was just about to pass,
Was stunned by the discrepancy,
Of what I saw, and what felt me.
What time had etched upon my skin,
Denied the youth I felt within.
An older man stared out at me,
And I seemed shocked as much as he.
We nodded both and turned away,
Sure to meet another day.

Wild Flowers

She beckoned me as if to look,
Upon a rare and precious book.
I leaned, and then to my suprise,
Were jewels arrayed before my eyes,
She made their names a litany,
Cranesbill - Campion - Bryony.
I knew the joy that she found there,
No book could bring however rare.

After the Feeding

Sated now, all false love cast aside,
She leaves her bowl, aloof, tail high with pride.
A random spot she sniffs, and then moves on,
Looks back, returns to it, muses there upon.
And all the while, the pink tongue, issuing out,
Describes an arc, cross whiskers, jaws and snout.
the chosen spot she circles, gingerly,
Subjects it to a closer scrutiny,
Then satisfied: some primal fear allayed,
Sinks to a bed that's always ready-made.
With langorous ease to grooming she attends
Cross silken coat the darting tongue doth bend.
A labial bath upon each limb conferred,
By dampened paw to head and ears transferred.
Eyes once alert begin to slowly close,
And all is stilled as she begins to doze.
A meditating Buddha drifting deep,
Within that consciousness twixt wakefulness and sleep.

Untitled

Just lately I've been scribbling in my journal,
Though if I speak with perfect honesty
In my diary - since it is diurnal,
But journal seems more scholarly to me
A snob who would have every word eternal
And kept intact for future man to see,
And yet the truth the words I daily write,
Are uninspired - innocuous and trite.

Oh to have the gift of writing prose,
Or poetry - or anything that's art,
To find the right word - know just where it goes,
Without re-drafting changing part by part.
To know that all one writes so smoothly flows
Upon the page. I wish with all my heart
I had that talent, it's cast of all restraint,
But then again, I think I'd rather paint.

K.P Norbury 1922 -1991

Within the curtained gloom I saw the face
Of one who for so long watched over me,
As guardian, father, friend - but not a trace
I could discern of him that used to be.

He had not downcast eyes and muted tongue.
No hollowed cheek and waxen skin had he.
The man that I recall when I was young,
Had left the shell for all eternity.

His soul had fled, rejoicing to be free.
Escaped at last, his corporeal prison left,
And pity him no more, but such as we,
Who of a precious friend are now bereft.

Untitled

I don't want to leave behind
All the things I cherish most.
Books and Art, things of this kind,
Even marmalade on toast.

As for talk of after-life,
Smiling angels -loving God,
I don't believe it - No; just death's knife,
The gnawing worm beneath the sod.

Quo Vadis?

Quo Vadis? Said the Roman,
Wither goest thou?
What amazing scenes he'd scan
If he were living now.
Everyone in motion,
Hurrying to and fro.
Anger and commotion,
If aught impedes the flow.
The legions with their measured tread,
A natural pace maintained,
And if they wanted speed instead,
The horse for this was trained.
But now the march is progress,
We boast we've come so far,
And feel a sense of near distress
If we don't own a car.
Now families but rarely talk,
And silent, watch a screen,
So many that despise a walk
But for a drive are keen.
Let's slow us down, while yet we can,
Enjoy the here and now.
Quo Vadus? Said the Roman,
Wither goest thou?

Untitled

My love declares herself a dieter,
And once beloved foods are now forsworn,
And struggles which will be the mightier,
Hunger, or desire to wear what once was worn,
She fasts for two days of the seven,
Then partakes for five on which doth please,
Then she finds that mostly she's in heaven,
But oft in hell when hunger's pain doth squeeze.
So joy succeeds to pain, as day to night,
And with the passing weeks fond hopes arise,
That the beautious gown cast off as over tight,
Will now adorn a figures perfect size.
And if this trial should spin out to success,
Then I shall love her even more, though less.

Consequences

"Who killed the Pigeon?
Stopped him for good!"
"I", said Cock Robert
"With my piece of wood."

"What! Murdered a Pigeon
For a moment of greed?",
"One of God's creatures
For a handful of seed?"

"A handful of seed,
And the other birds' share,
Who are now busy feeding
So I really don't care"

"Who killed the Pigeon chicks,
All starved to death?"
"I" said Cock Robert
And my heart is bereft"

Growing Old

I may be old with wrinkled skin,
You may pity me, the state I'm in,
Think, 'Look what's now become of him,
Hard of hearing - hair so thin,

I shuffle now, where once I'd walk
Without my teeth, it's hard to talk,
By 3 a.m. I'm wide awake,
Hands once steady, often shake.
I feel the cold - I feel the heat,
Have rheumy eyes, and chilblained feet,
And all because (or so I'm told),
Of passing years - I've now grown old.

But it's just the outer shell you see,
It's not myself - it isn't 'ME',
I am deep within my memory,
And any age I wish to be.

So I ramble on hillsides - stroll along lanes,
Make the girls smile - see their eyes flash again,
Marvel at birdsong - take the scent of a rose,
Sing along when Sinatra croons 'Anything Goes'.
And though for my body the song may be sung,
Yet the 'ME' in my memory remains ever young