CREATIVE OCCLUSION

‘Moon,Sea & Shore’ … Pen – WHB: Aug.2017

CREATIVE OCCLUSION

When the urge lies with me
To feed a need
With willing words
Then will my mind engage
With my pen
And satisfaction follow

But when that dire wound
Of vacuity descends to
Afflict my thoughts
Then I become
As the waves of the sea
Forever seeking to breast the shore
Forever conceding
To the pulse of the moon

Words From The Grave

A poem with alternate lines having the same rhyme . . . 
as –  A – B – C – B – D – B – E- -B . . .  etc.

WORDS FROM THE GRAVE

Tread softly as you pass my grave

Do not disturb these tombstones 

If you should hear

My sighs and moans

Fret not and do not tarry

It will be just my aching bones

Clumsy now and out of practice

Having heard those ringing tones

Fumbling in my bloody shroud

To answer that damned ringing phone

Yet once again to take a call

From that old seadog, Davy Jones,

Who, speaking from his seabed Locker

Invites me to a Game Of Thrones

Square Bashing

SQUARE-BASHING

Eight weeks I bashed that square,
Pounded that acre of ground.
Hurt and ached and bled,
The experience was profound.

“Serve your country’s need”
That is what they said,
“Don’t let the enemy win,
Suffer pain instead.

We need more cannon fodder,
Don’t let your country down,
So let’s see what you’re made of,
And get rid of that frown.”

And so I did my service,
My nation needed me.
Became a lowly sprog
By government decree.

Placed in a special POM flight
Given ‘housewife’, fork, and knife,
With such items in my kit-bag
I was number-stamped for life.

“Lay your kit out pronto
Neatly on your bed.
I want to see you bleeding”,
That’s what our corporal said.

Then out to the parade ground,
Twice daily we would drill
Until I ached all over,
Felt positively ill.

I pulled out all the stops,
To keep in step I tried,
But what I wished to do was
To run away and hide.

Route marching was no joke,
‘God Bless the Union Jack’.
I sweated and I faded
With full pack on my back.

I cut the grass with scissors,
Painted pebbles white,
Ironed my boots with polish,
All this to help me fight.

I did my share of jankers,
Scrubbed latrines that stank,
Peeled countless grey potatoes,
Flushed out the septic tank.

Cleaned my rifle daily,
Bren guns I dismantled,
Was oft confined to barracks,
All leave and passes cancelled.

This was my National Service,
It taught me to obey.
At the time it was a penance,
It was the British way.

Perhaps it made us what we are,
My fellow sprogs and me.
Did we in our small way help stop
The start of World War Three?

Misdemeanours – An Acrostic Verse

An Acrostic Poem is one in which the first letter of each line spells out a complete word.  The poem’s title is often given as this, usually single, word.

A short example would be . . . 

C ommitted a crime
R elied on his knife  
I  nterred doing time
M essed up a life
E verlasting paradigm

M aybe I can be forgiven,

I n my innocence I was misled.

S uffering then from youthful hubris,

D efeated by my life, I bled.

E very new experience seemed

M y very strength to sap.

E ach and every test I faced

A waited me with some mishap.

N ow at last I shall be brave,

O vercome my earlier errors,

U ndo the spell which youth has cast.

R esist with vigour all my terrors,

S wap my lifestyle now forever.

Nature’s Evensong

©  Photograph … ‘Sunset’ – courtesy of Canadian artist, Alma Kerr

 

Sunset

and the soulful sound

of the sea

seduces my senses

in the calm

of this still summer’s eve

ripples roll gently towards me

from the red sun-kissed sea

silhouette sails

hug the horizon

purposeful gulls

tread the foreshore

forever watchful

while I

a silent spectator

scan the scene

evening’s tableau

serene

and yet wholly alive

entranced and awed

mesmerised

beyond beauty

by Nature’s evensong

its benediction

on a desperate world

IT’S YOUR DECISION

Pen & Ink Drawing … WHB – July 2017

TO BE OR NOT TO BE –
IT’S YOUR DECISION

give in
just let life happen 
don’t resist 
or make a move towards it 
let it approach you 
and when it does 
just stand your ground 
and wait
don’t even think
for when you react 
then you will be committed
bound to some response 
compelled to a decision
confirmed in participation

in life

and thus
inevitably
to becoming
a human being

Say ‘Good Morning’ to the Sun

‘Good Morning – Ross-on-Wye’ … Wash – WHB – 2001

Say ‘Good Morning’ to the Sun

Say ‘Good morning’ to the sun
‘Good evening’ to the moon

The stars deserve more than a glance
Give them a nod
Say ‘How do you do’

And what of the clouds scurrying by?
Wave and send a greeting

Bless the rain that follows
Cries and wets your cheek
Bless its cooling frankness
Salute its welcome return
Say ‘Call again soon please
And whet my appetite’

And what of the wind?
It deserves a bow
Bluster and puffery
Merit some deference
If only to accompany
That boisterous demeanour
Which presage storm and tempest

Give resounding
reverberating thunder
Its rightful stature
And bless its presence
Not with terror
But with bold acceptance
As a welcome component
Of Nature’s benison.

Blessings too
to all four seasons
each in turn
bringing its delights
enthralling us
with its unique personality

In summary
Let us be glad
Let us respect
Let us prize and revere
All the moods
All the humours
Of creation

For Nature
Rules our lives
And deserves
All the credit
For our successes

Our failures are man-made.

Cor Blimey & Gee Whiz

Gordon, Fanny, Nora and Jiminy

(A light-hearted tale involving idiomatic language of a questionable kind)

Four one-time friends met up one day,
Their language was extreme;
Given to bombast, bluster, blather,
Just invective it would seem.

Expletives of the milder kind
Soon cut the air like glass,
From’ Fiddlesticks’ and ‘Jeepers Creepers’
To ‘What the Dickens, You silly ass?’

“I must say now, sweet Fanny Adams”,
Gordon Bennett said,
“Cor Blimey, you look cute just now,
Why don’t the two of us get wed?”

“Bloody Nora”, she replied,
“You can’t be serious.
Our dearest friend just next to you
She will be furious .”

“Don’t you ‘Bloody Nora’ me”,
Gordon Bennett replied,
“I’ll have your goddam guts for garters.”
Then Bloody Nora upped and cried,

“Oh, Streuth”, she loudly uttered then,
“Crikey and Gadzooks!
I thought ‘twas me you fancied most,
What about my famed good looks?”

But up spoke Jiminy Cricket then
The mildest of the four
Offended that he’d not heard right
“But it’s me, I thought, that you adore.”

“Crikey, you all get on my wick”,
Gordon began to moan,
“I don’t wish any of you ill,
But do cut out the whining tone.”

Before you could say “My giddy aunt”,
“Bob’s your Uncle”, said Fanny,
“Stone the crows you bunch of twits,
Your oafish language is uncanny.”

“You speak in riddles and in slang,
Codswallop is your tongue;
Holy Mackerel and Hell’s Bells,
You all are very highly strung.”

And so this odd exchange went on
In voices loud and shrill.
They hardly stopped to take a breath
‘Twas dubious language overkill.

But then, at last they quietened down,
Ran out of steam I suppose.
Their parting shots were more than rude,
But those I daren’t to you disclose.

The Birth Of A Poem

THE BIRTH OF A POEM

Generated from the furnace
Of a fervent mind
A poem defines itself
As a jewel
Precisely cut
Precious and lustrous
Clustered about a ring of gold
Encircling thoughts
And reflecting
In its faceted faces
Feelings and emotions
Otherwise Ill-expressed

The poet
The visionary
Frames the template
Bringing life to contemplation
Substance to inspiration
A peasant in the fields of the imagination
Cultivating conceits
Ideas and concepts
Labouring at the word-face
Crafting thoughts into expressed truths
Weaving feelings into reasoned words
Bringing all to fruition in
The gemstone of creativity

Creative Sparks

Pattern, Shape, Texture and Inspiration

 

Tell-a-tale Patterns on a wall
Shape and Texture all enthral
tell it all

I speak to myself
of myself
as I write
the blueprints of rules
should guide
not govern
flair and skill
for good or ill
let inspiration be found
in the scope
of my vision
natural occurrences
instances
of the imagination
mind’s saturation
sculpted by sea feather
weather-assisted
twisted
by time

stones
worn and
moulded
bruised and folded
by the breeze
these
speak to me in telling verse
ideas diverse
intersperse
my thoughts
broaching themes
word streams
new memes

this tree
disguised
surprised
anthropomorphised
attributes
of patterned roots
suits my style
brindled
dappled
nature’s offshoots
veinlike
skein-like

And then
the shortfall
inspiration stalls
until that wall
enthralls
recalls
my pitfalls
windfalls
then my palette
revives
thrives again
and in its archives
My muse is revived

Thus
this new view
a breakthrough
the connective tissue
come to rescue
my mind-block’s
black box
and to resuscitate
my failing powers
of inventiveness

meaningless
yet meaningful
but tension taut
and overwrought
linked by thought chains
succoured by mind games
built into high rise blocks
of language fodder
ever odder

eroded
exploded
colour coded

oil-spoiled
and rainbow-coated
wordless surface
followed now with purpose
and augmented clues from

(

such as this
plaster-disaster
a certain
crack in the curtain
a remix, fix
new tricks
new script suggested

dream instances
silent witnesses
to my imagination’s
flights
those dizzy heights
of know-my-rights
endeavour
hinting at the next
text

the creative process
to which I’ll succumb
and produce this
my next pennyless
poetic income

Lanturnes
rictameter
diamonds and pyramids
drape
and shape
my poems
mechanical poetry
composed to formula
but adding
when it comes to the crunch
a knockout punch
not all about pattern
because convention
needs to be coloured
by considered thought
wrought
from life
wrenched
from strife
moulded
by meaning
seen and felt
through my muse’s lens
into gems
of terse
verse

nothing worse
than the curse
of banality
pattern
controlled by reason
liberated by
inspiration
Calliope’s lifeblood

Nature’s example
Of how Creation
Life
Followed by Death
Followed by Re-birth
is accomplished

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Reproducedd from my previous blog . . .

© Photographs copyright – all by WHB in various locations – Orkneys, Argyll (Scotland), Devon, Essex, Surrey, Sussex (England),  Stavanger (Norway). 

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