Lost Friends, Found Friends, Re-Found Friends

The Grove.

Between the two valleys,

There's a quiet still grove,

A hidden green place,

Where she likes to go.

To escape from the grim,

And shut out the grey.

To sit, or to stand,

To take stock of a day.

I came into this place,

As I wandered, in error,

Thinking of little,

I walked into the terror.

The scars on the grove,

I saw were her pains,

Left where she'd poured them,

Discoloured dank stains.

She watched me from without,

Speaking no words.

Her silent thoughts echoed,

By paradisian birds.

I flew from my tree,

I now know without seeing,

What I needed to do,

To effect her freeing.

Back in one valley,

I felt her return,

Neither could speak of

What I had learned.

A gilded cage, perch, trap,

An imprisoned bird.

I sit here quite cat-like,

Perhaps I should purr.

Predatorial manners tell me,

Its time to stop playing.

But the caged one can't seem to,

Understand what I'm saying.

Days later, I'm thinking,

Of the grove in the wood.

I'm considering what I've done,

And the things that I should.

"What you saw was not you,

Nor aught you have done."

"I couldn't quite share all,

Not with you, nor with none."

Her words fell on deaf ears,

As they've oftimes before,

Convinced me I can't hope

To settle the score.

Between these two valleys

An empty quiet grove,

Hidden from eyes that pry,

Where she used to go.

No, I'm still not letting the blog get "personal" so won't flesh out the post's title in any revealing way, it just seems apt given the last few weeks. These have been, and continue to be a bit "dark times" but randomly some glints of sunshine do manage to break through the clouds, so there are things to think about beyond work.......and surviving.

As I alluded to in the last post, I am more or less down to the very barrel-scraped-dregs of my juvenile ramblings, so present them as they are. There just randomly might be an odd oldie in the future, but if so, it'll be out of the "questionable" folder.......!

Let's kick off with whatever presents itself......

  My "Home village" Upperthong. With Black Hill in the background....

Just for balance...."Netherthong"

We're good at place names in this neck of the woods.....

The Holme Valley, from Thurstonland, with Holmfirth High in the foreground.

The Ant.

The picture of the ant

By the burning lake

Burning mass of consequence

Flames of a second life of torment

Lick at the legs

And the eyes

And the ant licks back

Spitting first at your hands

And defending soul's right to all

Deafening unsound from fire's edge.

Spit out the insane poison

Into my ant's eyes and legs

And we may watch the souls

Burning for a billion years.

Green aura need not be envious

But white may never come to us

Think "white" to heal your soul

Think of it, to make you whole.

The ant faces consequential flames,

Brave and stupid.

Time for second thinking

While the flames are stoked up

While the coal's raked over

While the cruel smile of the overlord

Blanks out thoughts of accepted justice.

But this picture is on a page dog-eared

Soon turned, soon burned

Soon forgotten in the fires of it all.

 There are beagles in the picture above, just in case you can't see them.....

Star Child.

Silly child,

Come dance the ages,

Hawthorn wild,

Infinite stages.

Strange child,

Come dance in bars,

A kill-me smile,

Thoughts of stars.

Simple

We are simple, as an atom to a molecule,

Or a molecule to an entity,

To the real beings of this point in the whole,

We their vessels, their transport, their succour,

Their medium, their water, air, earth,

Ultimately, fire and death,

Ours, not theirs.

Where now the original thought,

Original rebellion is original sin,

Dilute the whole by mass,

And detach, unitary not complex,

Cut-off and close the door,

Not easily achievable to the simple, idea conduit.

Silas The Beast.

Silas, a man, a spirit of cold grey,

Stands with the van, at the brink of the day.

Enters the town, where nature gave him birth,

Unnatural clown, who knows what its worth ?

Silas is still, and Silas is calm,

The panicking viceroys raise the alarm.

But Silas says naught, and glances around,

He's nothing to fear from this miserable town.

His forces are gathered, but there's noone to fight,

Now is the time to establish his right.

Silas, the beast,

Plays the awkward game,

Chess with men's souls,

Gambling names.

Unravelling minds,

like bits of old twine,

Hoping to find,

Some kind of sign.

Silas stands up,

Smiles to himself,

Picks up the cup,

Drinks his own health.

Silas grins at the sight,

And turns off the light,

He has no need of it

During the day.

His people await,

The conqueror's fate,

Though maybe no blood shed,

They'll still have to pay.

A purple emperor, dancing the breeze,

Catches that vanishing eye.

Silas now knows

He's lost all that he sees,

Is gone with the emperor's sigh.

1000 Miles.

One thousand miles, down,

Darkness,

The jaw-ache of rushing air.

Intense cold, muscles cramping.

No visual impression, occasional mists,

Skin pushed tight onto bones.

Faster than possible, falling,

Spinning, air rushing,

No, it doesn't take long to finish a thousand miles.

Screaming, intense cold, darkness,

Your stomach several hundred feet behind you,

Tumbling out of control, rushing jaw,

Intense mists, tight faster air, rushing intense,

Occasional miles, skin down, spinning, finish,

Possible falling, intense skin, one thousand bones,

Cramping screams, intense falling, rushing,

Falling visual mists, spinning skin faster....

Is the fall killing me, or am I ?

 

A Camping Scene.

Never known how to be

A tent peg for your love,

Could not have guessed,

Could not see,

The blade, hanging just above.

Holding up the awning,

In the dawning of relief,

Sees me sometimes yawning

In shadows of disbelief.

The guy-rope of the marquee,

Where love has gone to drink,

Tension has now got to me,

And made me stop, and think.

Fine weather means no cover,

No shelter from no storm.

So this 'camp' accessory, your lover,

Leaves the campsite, on your lawn.

Pagan.

The pagan and the Anglican,

Stand there talking man-to-man,

Face-to-face, well its a start,

For who can tell them apart ?

Bishops' Wood.

Perverse pornographic imagery,

You are so funny, so near to me,

So undressed for the shot,

So unimpressed by what you've got.

You wear my old waxed coat,

The picture, maybe three years old,

Turns me on, rutty as a goat,

But that day was wet, not cold.

We lived like we knew it all,

And left like we'd just come in,

The dark greenery forest hall,

Where we laughed away the sin.

Then the ground opened to a crack,

Some geological quirk of mother nature,

I loved you, and only saw your back,

But loved you, so could not hate you.

I hate you, and I hate 'us', I think,

So much wasted time between our lives,

Too great a waste, gives off a stink,

Like abandoned rotting meadow hives.

But I am a near a junction in my life,

Where things clear and choices are made,

A point where I could ask you to be my wife,

Or at least where we both are saved.

That could be a chance for you to say,

"Not right, no the time is wrong for me,"

I should get used to this game you play,

Should know I won't go down on my knees.

But we dance from a distance,

We both need what we both can give,

The thing is neither will give a chance,

And so "mythical" our love must live.

 

A Spot Of Sea Air.

Left alone, but not unloved,

At least that's what I tell myself,

Like the seaside town,

Visited once a year by the people.

"We always come here, we do like it so."

"We like a spot of sea air."

Do people say that about me ?

I doubt it.

Hard Bargaining.

It is not a foregone conclusion,

Not a predetermined thing,

Not planned out by the hand of fate,

Too late, too soon,

Too much, to expect.

Not a frank admission of God

Cumulus sits on weathered frown,

Brow to heathered thought stream,

Not the soft imagined solstice,

Simple and delightful in time.

Stretched out your belief once,

Twice and sits comfortably,

But not in this ridiculous song.

Never should you shoot at fish,

Nor clouds nor stars nor suns,

Test leads reactions to new surrounds

Test mine to heavy guns.

Seeking late Elysial entry, to deny.

(Is this denied ?)

Forever to exclude

To sink ethereal, forget my cloud

Never to predict

Not to forget

Never to submit

Predetermine my demise, admitting mistakes.

All.

A Sense Of Drowning.

Cut lashes with razor kiss tongue,

Lick my eyes and sockets,

Sting my lips with shocking lust

And strip my mind of reason.

Then dance-bizarro on my body,

Insano profano and pure depth,

Creasing heat and intent of chase,

Then release us into cold mind flight.

Suck at my heart from without and within,

And remove all doubt.

Shout your name out !

But to scream out "I am here, this place called X"

Is not the done thing, baby.

Not the thing for us to do.

So lay your leather love on my broken skin,

And bleed your love on my chest and face.

Clench deep screaming long lusty ballads of sense,

On my soul and wet singing in stormy love.

Be my insane mistress of broken scenes,

Trade your name to visit my dreams,

And let my mirror reflect your actions,

My body-mimicry cries out diversions.

Now lick these stupid wounds clean,

With words of false conciliates,

And holding hands re-enter my dream,

Drown in these loviturates.

It's October, it's been a funny year so far. At least I still occasionally manage to get out on the hills to watch hounds working. Controversial? Not to me. Though the times we're living through are, and the lies, hatred and bile that seem to be taken as truth, by so many people, it's very hard to see how the old world will survive, which to me is a very deep sadness.

Without legislation, it was slowing suffocating, through the lack of interest of the younger generations, and these changing times. Not that there aren't any, just not enough to keep the tradition going.

14 years after the ban became Law, so much has changed, and so many good friends have passed, hunting friends, social friends, casual, and close friends. I feel a touch of not just Autumn, but maybe the whiff of Winter not far away, and I am thankful for good, and bad days out with hounds. Good people, good crack, good company, and beautiful country.

A wise man once said that the particular view in front of him was so exquisite, the only way of improving it, was to run a pack of hounds across it, and I utterly agree. I apply it wherever I happen to be.........

10 years after I left kennels, none of the hounds here are now the ones I bred, though just maybe an odd blood-line survives, I do hope so.

The end of a good day, even if I only caught the last couple of hours.......

Feels a bit like my life story in an allegorical sense these days.

Still, I do love where I live, and the life I've had wasn't all bad, not by a very long way.

Here's to many more "good days".



On the poetry front, I now have realised that yes, this was the last post of the text/document pieces, I still have acres of old scanned hand-written stuff, that never got typed up to sift through.....

Bugger, and stuff that was typed up, on my old typewriter, but with several pieces on a page, that need splitting, and saving as individual ones....

I wish I'd indexed this blog as I went along, as I really don't want to repeat post, without good reason...

Anyway, that's for me to think about. It's time to start actually producing and trying with the stuff in my current note-books.......

Now that the nights really are drawing in.......