Friday, 9 January 2009

Poem - Ulster Sonnett

A combination of the past and now
will blend together if we all allow;
for in the land where time seemingly stops,
a ruin comes among the harvest crops
which promise hope and value in the morn',
instead of pessimissm, hate and scorn.
Our fathers and our neighbours will unite
forgetting any reason left to fight.

When day returns forever and a day,
my people on my turf will see the way
that they should follow, like some follow on,
in stark contrst to Peter, James and John.

Unholy world, we have to leave behind;
the way, the truth, the life: indeed, we'll find!

Two new poems


In the busyness of it all, my shepherd
lays me down to rest. Among the quiet
pastures appears a certain serenity;
my restlessness is vanquished by the
touch of peace and tranquility.

A door
opens, following the closure of another:
inside there is bedding, so comfortable
and cosy.

My eyes deceive me from the
wonders of the world; when they say
"seeing is believing", they don't always
test the waters before jumping right in.
Temptation is there for me.

Give me peace
and solitude to hide away from what is
recognised as life's freewheeler, for I don't
want to fall asleep at the wheel.

Search me and protect me Lord; allow
relaxation and tranquility to come my way.


My jokebook collection's going to
expand today! So I can crack a few
gags and hear her laugh all day. Its
music to my ears and it sounds so
sweet; it brightens up my day each
and every time we meet.

I love to listen to her reaction whenever
she gets tickled; this makes a change
from today's worldly society - oh so
fickle. Be it black or white the colour,
I don't really care - as long as she keeps
laughing, I just want her there!

Poem - When flowers bloom

When a seed is planted into the ground,
the farmers sowing hasn't started.
He's a patient man. But, even still,
his patience is tried so much so he exits.
And when he leaves to go away,
the tempests come to try our patience,
for we only want what's best for all
and protect what we've got while it grows.

So up it grows, while the farmers gone,
and radiance beams on a daily basis;
the bees will come and attempt to make
their honey, because its only natural
while its sunny. For the farmer would
even find it funny. If only he had
a little bit of money, which he'd saved at
home before but greater things are even
more across the water, where he needs
to be; because he's not a bee.

A gardener waters his gorgeous fields
with the right idea to maintain such
beauty. So when the roses blossom and
flowers bloom, it could never be like
any other, like a daughter running to
her mother. Or a hero fighting for
his lover. What a plot of land we
bore in front of us! The battle grounds
exist no longer; there's new life to
keep us stronger - and why not?

Poem - East Belfast

Interestingly enough, the smell still
pipes from the Fryar Tuck; with many
locallers queuing up. I don't blame them -
the fish suppers are amazing.

Almost like the Blue Lagoon but with
more history attached to them.

While standing at the top of Bloomfield,
looking down to where Beersbridge runs
across, the stars and city lights look
shiny and electric. A charge connects
to me and longs to take me elsewhere.

Its picturesque down Cyprus too, where
Lottie likes to make a mess and walk
me while I pull her lead. She charges
at a smaller mutt; serves her right
for even looking over this way!

The rain is starting and I'm off
home; I cut through Kirkliston and think
about getting a house like these. But
I don't have the money.

(Neither will half of them, for a
crunch is munching everybody.)

Perhaps tomorrow, I will return to
the Newtownards Road, where so many
went about their business day-to-day
when I was a teenager.

Poem - Winter's Belfast morning

Without a spick or speck of rain,
the sun shines through the bitter cold;
no snowflake, hailstorm, cloud in sight
but frost and temperatures are down.

And down south is a different land -
the currency and language alter
from our part of town; as if to say
they are not like us. Well I'll disagree
myself for, even though we differ,
we are stubborn and could do with
moving on across the bridge and not
fall through the icy water.

Without a sighting of a storm,
the ice melts with the sunrise coming
up above what's horrible and lifeless
but the temperature's still down.

The city has advanced somewhat;
in many ways, its changed a lot
from years ago, when flying stones
could more than likely break my bones.
Like the ice before me, melting further
into waters still that circulate the Lough,
under the Lagan river. Memories still
cause a quiver.

Frosty fog leave months and spread
into the air, never to be seen again;
like the ice today attached to all
the runaway from yesterday.