Japanese Garden

The mistress of the mini-masterpiece 
was fixed upon her purpose of renewal, 
her garden of Japan, her plot of peace, 
her precious gem set in a royal jewel. 
One day we saw her tending plants at Kew. 
‘We should remember this', I think I said. 
So there among the foxgloves and bamboo 
I drew her in acrylics on the shed 
and now she is a memory of you. 
She gardens on when all the flowers are dead. 
I see her toiling there the winter through. 
It's not a fertile spot but some flowers grow. 
She talks to them perhaps. Would it were so.

v

Train passenger

She did not see the endless stands of trees, 
their hollow eyes in shadows by the tracks, 
through once-enchanted regions where the bees 
were sealing clover honey up in wax. 
She did not see the murmuration write 
its fleeting charcoal message on the sky; 
girls diving like kingfishers in the bright, 
reflective river as the train passed by. 
The chapel, listing in eternal rest 
to founder in the soft, decaying earth: 
she did not see. Her thoughts were unexpressed. 
Perhaps she wondered what the world was worth 
while she sat there with neither smile nor frown 
as if a final sun were going down.

Wastes of Wishful thought

Your memory, the flower that I tend, 
my insubstantial relic of desire, 
grows pale despite the time of mind I spend 
to bring alive a remnant of your fire. 
A second's thought, a minute or an hour, 
an age of recall: you are absent still. 
Too much of this has made my mind run sour 
and no philosophy can cure my ill 
for I am lost in wastes of wishful thought 
without a prayer to mend a withered rose. 
The heavy weight of learning comes to naught. 
The world is wearier than I supposed. 
Of glorious Creation who can boast 
it brings us love? It kills what we love most.

Paganini's theme 

It seems to summon demons all around 
with snatches of the devil's private prayers; 
to fill the air with wild, disturbing sound, 
with doctrines dangerous and rebel airs. 
The kick and stamp and dash of heel and toe 
go on until a master stroke, unplanned, 
comes in to soothe the endless welts of woe, 
to put a treasure in the master's hand. 
The eighteenth variation changes all 
as if some jungle balm made from a leaf 
had turned to flowers every cannonball; 
made us forget the price of love is grief; 
put scarlet roses in the armoury; 
turned all our conflicts into harmony.

Night Ambush

Above our heads the night is glorious and  bright. 
Rain has relieved the fever of the day 
and compo rations stay the appetite. 
In all its nakedness the Milky Way 
provokes eternal questions which are quite 
above our heads.

Nothing must give our rendezvous away; 
the chilly stars are all our firelight; 
the music of the spheres our cabaret; 
we are as silent as the comet's flight 
above our heads. 

We are not creatures of the shining day 
but fall from shadows with a hidden might 
on foes unready or in disarray. 
We do not hate though theirs is not our way 
for fighting soldiers share a common plight, 
above their heads. 

We are not shepherds, only wolves at play, 
until we show the power of our bite. 
If angels come to speak they do not stay 
but leave among the noises of the night 
above our heads.

The Strider of Worlds

Where there are only bare and empty fields

he scatters stardust, drenching it with light.

He harrows every plot until it yields

a new creation worthy of his might.

His words are furnaces with fearsome blast

of metals born to bear his hammer stroke.

Niagaras of flashing stars are cast

to swirl in maelstroms where he trailed his cloak.

He walks in empty worlds, by barren seas,

globes clothed in fertile greens or airy blues;

in fragrant forests diligent with bees

where orchids dress up in outrageous hues.

Sometimes he talks with things that grow and thrive

upon these ashes, glad to be alive.

Limericks

Whatever you're writing is prose 
or it's verse; it depends how it flows. 
If it rings like a bell 
then it's music as well 
which is terribly hard to compose.

You must think and then carefully weigh 
every word lest your thoughts go astray. 
‘But', she said with a wink, 
‘I don't know what I think 
till I've seen what I happened to say'. 

A troubled young man said, 'I swear 
there is nothing to breathe, only air 
and to eat: only food 
so I go about nude, 
but for clothes I have nothing to wear'. 

Lion Gorge, Thurrock

Our mother earth has ancient wounds and fresh

where pelting asteroids have scarred her face

or men have sucked at her sustaining flesh

deriving substance from her fond embrace.

Here they have dug out pallid pits for chalk

where once were places set with ornaments,

with velvet lawns for silence or soft talk

amidst delightful slopes and herbal scents.

Among the naked poppies, one by one

I planted acorns; that was long ago.

From water to the pit’s edge, green was spun

by root and tendril where the oak trees grow.

Around the pits, upon the fertile ground,

a new suburbia spreads all around.

Elizabeth Quéripel of Guernsey 

Liz Taylor had eight husbands I believe.

Zsa Zsa Gabor: eight times she changed her spouse.

Good housekeepers they are for when they leave

a man he always lets them keep the house.

Liz Querépel was lovelier than both

and never made a pledge she could not keep.

To go with gallant men she was not loth

but on a marriage bed she would not sleep.

Wild daughter of a wicked witch she was

yet lived among the gentry of the isle;

abandoning the kids she bred because

she liked to leave a lover with a smile.

If when the Germans came she slept with Fritz…

Well! Women must. It won’t be me who spits.

From 'The Book of Ebenezer' Le Page by G. B. Edwards

Archbishop Valerian Trifa (1914-1987)

His former rule of life perhaps you know:

to guard the old tradition to the death.

‘The faithful had no other way to go

than fight to save it till their dying breath.’

In 1941 he took the bayonet

against the hapless Jews of Bucharest

and so befriended Himmler, viler yet

than Trifa was. The Feds found out the rest:

he claimed asylum in the USA;

rose in the church. A holy penitent?

The careful Nazi clerks had filed away

the chummy mail to Himmler that he sent.

Was Paul redeemed on the Damascus Way

and is redemption possible today?

---

"For you have heard of my previous way of life in Judaism, how intensely I persecuted the church of God and tried to destroy it. I was advancing in Judaism beyond many of my own age among my people and was extremely zealous for the traditions of my fathers.’

Saint Paul

Dawn

S

un over earth, a brusque untimely warning

to nubile night, for morning pales the moon

with fiery chariots of dazzle dawning

and comes upon our loving bed too soon.

I am no tiller of infertile earth. 

I don’t expect a kindly, new tomorrow

to turn our mix of madness into mirth

to fetch us more of gladness than of sorrow

and give our failing enterprise rebirth.

Beyond the bedroom is a world of care,

precedent plenty driven into dearth.

Because I’m love-sick for the flowers there

I cultivate our couch for all I’m worth;

they grow the better for the purple night

and turn unwelcome day to dark delight.

What’s that went past?

The road is dark.

A doe has wandered from the park.

A furious approach she hears

that swiftly nears.

The road is black,

a blaze of light.

She cannot move to left nor right

a blinding dazzle binds her here

in rigid fear.

The tyres scream.

The hooters blare.

She calls in terror and despair.

The cry is passed from deer to deer

that death is here. 

The Third Law

I throw down my challenge, Fate,

Chaos, Fortune, Chance…

whatever you wish to call yourself.

I defy your imperative force.

In your anonymous face

I fling my glove.

Reader, why should I try to deceive you

in the attempt to deceive myself?

Chance rules the life of man.

I cannot oppose it;

for its creature, time,

works its Paganini tune,

scratching its legs like the desert locust

on a gypsy violin,

irretrievably eating its way

across the cosmos.

Kiss me and I shall return

Kiss me and I shall return

like the salmon to the burn

surely as the rising sun

comes to say the day’s begun.

I’ll return forever after

like the swallow to the rafter,

like the honey-seeking bee,

if you give your kiss to me.

On your ruby lips your laughter 

shines and sparkles like a sign.

Kisses of your mouth hereafter

bring your soul the gift of mine, 

Learn the secret of my heart:

kiss and we shall never part.

Spectacular art 

H

is spectacles left at the Tate

lay by a wall, artfully flung,

which started up a new debate.

What truth did they communicate?

We listened to their praises sung

which helped us to appreciate

this art of very recent date

by which significance is wrung

from simple things like bricks, a plate

that open hell’s or heaven’s gate

until all brazen bells are rung

in tones of transcendental weight.

We heard some prattle and some prate

as back and forth opinion swung

but all agreed the art was great

until a man came in to state

his spectacles had come unstrung:

his spectacles left at the Tate

which started up a new debate.

Wishing for skylarks

A sudden smile and lightening of the heart

were mine before I glimpsed her waiting there,

at that beloved corner. There I go

to linger yet though she can never come.

She sleeps with skylarks and one nightingale

who sings to her to gain the loud applause

of little birds whom she once fondly fed

who perch, side-by-side, in bosky shadows

until the pale dawn comes and skylarks sing.

Once she slept guarded by a little dog

who thought he was a lion. So did I

but neither of us guarded well enough.