The Fair Majesty Of Folk At Peace

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The Fair Majesty Of Folk At Peace

( Inspired by the life of King Alfred, my poem was published in the Spring 2014 issue of The Dawntreader, a quarterly poetry magazine, published by Indigo Dreams Publishing: http://www.indigodreams.co.uk
Searching For The Sangreal, my poem inspired by the Quest of the Holy Grail, was published in the Summer 2013 issue of the same magazine, and Windmill and Rainbow, my poem inspired by a painting by Turner, has been accepted for publication in a future issue. )

I will make you of steel,
hammer you on stone,
hang you on the wall,
my sword, to glimmer there, alone,
in hope that war will never come,
that I will never hear the horns,
blasting in far vales,
the beating of the drum,
and I will remain a farming man.

The warrior in the war,
let him fade in the mist,
with the spear in his hand,
the black gloved, hardened fist.
Let me and my fellow villagers,
fish in waters in the marsh.
let winter be our only foe,
snow and ice enough is harsh,
without the hard axe and rough shout
of the marauding bands of villainous men,
who come in long ships, dragon prowed,
over the cold north seas,
to try to take our lands,
to make my wife a widow,
the maker of my last coat,
the weaver of my shroud.

Now Alfred is our lord,
the wise king of Wessex men,
the fair majesty of folk at peace will reign.
The wild boar with his sharpened horn
will not hunt through our woods,
nor will the red serpents of the north
bring battle to our fields again.

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Evacuees

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                    Evacuees

They showed me all these doors,
they gave me all these keys.
They stood me in a line of
bewildered evacuees.

They showed me all these signs,
they gave me all these chores.
They made me sign a paper
to sail to other shores.

They kept a silent watch,
and no one knew for sure,
if what was to come was peace
or something worse than war.

In dreams I was a knight,
sat armoured on my horse,
free as the far off falcon,
wild as the grass and gorse.

Some broke free from the lines,
could not take anymore.
They fled down broken hillsides,
the sky with thunder tore.

They told me all these lies
they had written down as laws.
They fooled me into thinking,
I lived at the end of wars.

They bolted all the doors,
they took away our keys.
We knew we’d be forever
bewildered evacuees.

 

The Rime of the Ancient Astronaut

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                     The Rime of the Ancient Astronaut

It was an ancient astronaut,
he stepped lightly from a tree,
to ask an earthly scientist,
who had lately had his tea,
to help fix his astral engine,
for he had forgot its key.
“Why ask me? Are you some kind of loon?”
said the earthly scientist.
“No, but unless I find my key,
I will never play my tune,”
replied the ancient astronaut,
his face white, cratered, like the moon.
“Tell me, ancient astronaut,
what’s it like, out there, in space?”
asked the earthly scientist,
lines of interest on his face.
“Space is very vast and empty,
and no solid shapes are seen,
but there is lots of air out there,
and all of it is clean,”
answered the ancient astronaut,
who beamed, like a sun lit bean.
“Why do you travel on so far,
in so much void and distant stone,
seemingly so solitary,
and so obviously alone?”
asked the earthly scientist,
his skin thin upon the bone.
“I map the cosmic pyramid
from its root to its cone,”
answered the ancient astronaut,
in a stern but solar tone.
“Why have you come and landed here?
It now dawns how strange we meet.
You are an ancient astronaut,
not a stranger on the street.
If I informed the newspapers,
they’d pay money to my bank.
I’d be rich enough to retire,
and I’d have you to thank,”
said the earthly scientist,
who was otherwise quite blank.
“I came to mend my astral wheel,
but I’ve lost my first light key,”
said the ancient astronaut,
as politely as could be.
Then in the pattern of his palm,
saw the imprint of his key.
Laughter relief after alarm,
flittered in him, like a bee.
“So sorry for disturbing you,
seems I had it all the time.
I must fly off and go away,
in lemon hues and lime,”
said the ancient astronaut,
and stepped back behind the tree,
leaving the earthly scientist,
to wonder what next would be.

After Reading Metamorphosis

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                      After Reading Metamorphosis

After reading Metamorphosis,
he woke a giant spider,
crawled out of bed,
how many legs he had,
eight or twelve,
was beyond him as decider.
Lay sprawled on grubby carpet.
For this, he thought,
I’ve Franz Kafka to thank,
now I’ll never be a
bowler hatted businessman,
civil servant at the bank.
Found he had retained
his human appetite,
sniffed the carpet fibres,
for food trodden by his slippers,
he ached to smell a frying pan
sizzling tomatoes, eggs and kippers,
even licked the legs of chairs,
soon gave up, never ate in his room,
only in the communal kitchen,
down a narrow flight of steep
descending stairs.
Started butting the door
with the furry, black soot bag
that functioned as his head,
wished he was not a live arachnid,
still glad he was not dead.
Landlady creaked up the stairs,
each step made a dent,
thumped the door with her fist:
“Are you in there? It’s Mrs Hock.
I’m here for the rent,”
she bellowed, like a gorgon in the mist,
and that is all she said.
His stomach made a growly noise,
wanted to make a human excuse,
that his spare money had been spent.
Then came the nightmare true.
Landlady turned the key.
He legged it up the wall,
and to the ceiling clung.
She bulldozed in the room,
looked up at him, as if she had been stung.
Wanted her to go away,
now she saw him as he was,
he was certain she would come at him
with a hammer and a can of fly spray.
And to think he had planned
to read The Castle and The Trial,
no more books by Franz Kafka,
even if he did write well, made him think,
and oddly made him smile.
Was then he woke,
human, pale, cold and dry.
Won’t read a book like that again,
he vowed, no more transformation dramas,
glad to see his window framed
the grey early morning sky.
Creaky boned, he fumbled out of bed,
drew his yellow mothy curtains,
and looked through his smudged glass window,
felt thin and hollow in his rumpled
dark moss green pyjamas.
What an existential nightmare, he thought,
as he planned his summer visit to Peru,
to see the Andes, Inca ruins,
and to ride about on llamas.

Angel War by Philip Dodd: Wishing Shelf Finalist

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In 1967, when I was a fifteen year old schoolboy, here in Liverpool, England, I read Chapter Six of the Book of Revelation for the first time, which spoke of the war in heaven, fought between Michael and his angels and the dragon and his angels. The idea of there being a war in heaven astounded me. That was when the seed of my story was planted in my mind. It was not until 1986, when I was thirty four, that I began to write what became Angel War. In September, 2012, when I was sixty, I completed the final version of my story. Angel War was published as a paperback by Fast Print Publishing in April, 2013 and as an E-book in March, 2014. It was chosen as one of the twelve finalists for the Wishing Shelf Independent Book Awards for 2013 in the adult ( fiction) category, I am very pleased to say. The Gold, Silver and Bronze medallists were announced at Author.con in Manchester, England in May, 2014. Angel War was awarded with a Wishing Shelf Finalist logo and a sticker for its cover and a Wishing Shelf Finalist Certificate. Before the end of July, 2014, I will be getting feedback on my book from the group of judges in London and the other one in Stockholm and reviews of it by them on Goodreads and on Amazon.
  Angel War could be described as a work of fantasy fiction, rooted in The Bible. It is fundamentally the biography of Azel, the Prince of the White Castle of the Angels of Light, who plans from an early age what he calls his great rebellion against the Father. It is he who begins the war in heaven. After his defeat in that war, in his exile from the angel lands, sat upon his Citadel throne, he becomes the one known on Earth as Lucifer, the Devil, Satan. From the time of the garden of Eden to the time of the tensions caused by the Cold War in the 1980’s on Earth, the later chapters of the book reveal how Azel used Earth as his battlefield in his war against the Father and his holy ones. More about Angel War and reviews of my book can be found on Amazon and on my Author Profile Page on Goodreads at: http// http://www.goodreads.com/PHILIPDODD and in the Fast Print Publishing on line bookshop at http://www.fastprint.net

    

Enki

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                               Enki

I sang on Cedar Mountain,
I rejoiced beneath the sky,
ran in glee on the grassy peak,
like an eagle, soon to fly.

I called the name of Enki
from old Sumerian stone,
saw the bright necklace of Ishtar,
who shine in the sky alone.

Enki built a submarine,
made from bended substance strange,
black bars and ordinary wood,
submerged from sight, out of range.

Wise god Enki in his boat,
built without windows or doors,
sailed far, deep beneath the ocean,
till he came to other shores.

There his own people landed,
children to whom he was king,
of the first civilizations,
to new lands he them did bring.

He taught them to build spacecraft,
pyramids of golden stone,
then, his helmet on, he lifted,
mounted to the stars, alone.

From his ziggurat platform,
inside his black starship bright,
tall in his eagle winged helmet,
free in his soul, born for flight.

The ziggurat of Enki
in the city centre square,
his people built in his honour,
like in Eridu and Ur.

Sumerian stone tablet
told tales of Enki the wise,
spoken by a poet prophet,
master of what floats and flies.

I rose up from Cedar Mountain
inside my own spaceship wheel,
went wandering, like Gilgamesh,
with the sky beneath my heel.

The ocean king, Oannes,
from his pearly palace floor,
once brought wisdom unto Sumer,
legged up and spoke on the shore.

He gave them his instructions,
he taught them all he knew,
from his holy laws and pattern,
a civilization grew.

Chadwick the Courageous Carp

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                             Chadwick the Courageous Carp

Now hear me as I hymn and harp
of Chadwick the courageous carp.
By my newspaper, I was told,
he is two foot long, ten years old.
A chagoi koi carp, his full name,
so from Japan his kind first came.
In an aquatic centre lived he,
in Hampshire, happy as a bee.
Then came the floods, after the rain,
caused by global warming, some explain,
and he was swept from his still lake
with whatever else the floods would take.
His friend, Steve the sturgeon by his side,
he was taken on a tumbling ride,
over roads, industrial estates,
he was hurried with twigs and crates,
till driven in the River Test,
longing for the lake he loved best.
Now seven miles away it lay,
a dog walker saw him at play.
So from the river, he was saved,
his gills and fins he gladly waved.
His keeper came and took him home,
now no more will he need to roam.

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