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.....
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.......
