Down In A Dream

Down In A Dream

( Lines for Anahit Arustamyan, poet of Armenia, author of My Wandering Muse, My Lyrical Tongue and The Phantom’s Dolphin )

The Armenian mountains,
I come down in a dream,
cross an old stone bridge,
step stones to ford a stream.
The wilderness is silent,
none could hear my call.
Before I wake, I look up,
see your portrait on a wall.

In dreams, no need for passports,
train time tables, money in your pocket.
I come home from Armenia
with your portrait in a locket.

In your lines speaks the soul of your land,
like a lit lamp it shines in your hand.

Been Through The Mill

Been Through The Mill

We’ve been through the mill,
still we’re put through the mill,
and we will until
we spill out from the mill.

Sitting outside your shack,
holes in your shoes,
now you know how
they found the tones of the blues,
but you will swim on,
the muddy duck on the water,
never the swan.

We’ve been through the mill,
still we’re put through the mill.
We hate those who kill,
still we’re put through the mill.
We roll a stone up a hill,
still we’re put through the mill,
and we will until
we grind out of the mill.

The golden lion, his mane matted and shorn,
weeps over the wheels that turn to grind corn.

Woman, my muse, sits long in her tower,
waits for worlds to renew, burgeon and flower.

There’s a way if you’ve the will
still to wind down with the mill.
The hawk waits to kill,
still the dove hovers over the hill.
The hollow will fill
still with water until
the banks over spill.

We may have advanced from the field and the farm,
but we still need a shelter to shield us from harm.

We’ve been through the mill,
still we’re put through the mill.
We hate those who kill,
still they sharpen their skill.
For those who are born,
we must grind more corn.
We rust down until,
we spill out from the mill.

The Bard’s Birthday

The Bard’s Birthday

Today is Thursday, 23rd, April, 2015, Saint George’s Day, here in England. It is also William Shakespeare’s birthday. To celebrate, here are a few lines from the Bard himself:

Forsooth, tis my birthday today,
I Will was born in April
on the twenty third day,
merry was I as the green wood in May,
so to yon tavern,
bring barrels of ale to laden a wagon,
for tis also the day we remember,
Saint George slew the dragon.

Though I type on my new fangled laptop,
methinks, still I prefer the quill and the pen,
I Will, master of blank verse and sonnet,
the like thou wilt not see again.

thy most humble, celebrated Bard,
William Shakespeare