Igor the Ignorable

Igor the Ignorable

Igor the Ignorable was a lost, forgotten king.
He is never mentioned in the annals,
of him the minstrels do not sing.
He did live once, however,
and ruled his kingdom well,
but no one knew where it was.
I do, but do not ask,
for I will never tell.


Precarious Piano Player

Precarious Piano Player

Precarious piano player,
playing her piano
on the edge of a cliff,
her spine straight and stiff.
Wonder how she got there.
She does not seem to care,
with her head in the clouds,
ocean wind in her hair.
Alarmed enough to laugh,
I saw her in a photograph.
Perhaps the scene was staged,
I thought, as water
sluiced through the plug hole
in the bath.

Song For Luthien Tinuviel

                                 Song For Luthien Tinuviel

( Lines inspired by the tale of Beren and Luthien in The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien.  Poem published in Mallorn, the Journal of the Tolkien Society, Issue 55, Winter 2014.)

Feanor he made the Silmarils,
revealed his power and his skills,
precious jewels of the Elven kind,
majesty moulded from his mind.

Elf maid, Luthien Tinuviel,
danced, held aloft a Silmaril.
I saw her laughing through the trees,
her white dress blowing in the breeze.

Entranced, I was lying on the grass,
saw Elven folk through a shining glass.
I saw Elves the lays of old had sung,
tall Elves from when the world was young.

Feanor, his blue stone tower tall,
faraway, saw behind a wall.
Felt I was poor in my heart and soul,
I was a fish, left by the shoal.

Felt I was young, knowing I was old,
I was a sheep, strayed far from fold.
On my quest over wild moor and fen,
I was lost and was lost again.

Unlooked for beauty came to my eye,
elf maid dancing beneath the sky,
fair elf the lays of old had sung,
fair elf from when the world was young.

Luthien Tinuviel held aloft a Silmaril.

The Long Return

The Long Return

All the lines are drawn,
all the stones are raised.
In the tones of dawn,
all the gods are praised.

All that we have known,
all the things we made,
all that we have shown,
we shared in fair trade.

Now we journey home
on our long return.

All the signs are clear,
all the lights are bright,
over stars we steer,
attain lanes for flight.

Farewell to your land,
farewell to your shore,
farewell to your sand,
now forevermore.

Now we journey home
on our long return.

All our path is pruned,
all our craft prepared,
all our tones are tuned,
follow our star bird.

Thought it would be good,
thought it could be fine,
things were as they should
when the stars were mine.

Now we journey home
on our long return.

More yet still to find,
more yet will we learn.
Meetings kind to kind
on the long return.

Farewell to this isle
on the ocean bed.
Let us wait awhile,
think of things we said.

Now we journey home
on our long return.

The Guardian Angel of New York Harbour

The Guardian Angel of New York Harbour

I never sailed to America,
I never learned of her democracy,
but I’ve seen the guardian angel
of New York harbour,
the Statue of Liberty.
They should have looked to her more.
She would have guided them
safely home to shore,
but now peace flows in on the ocean tides,
and there’ll be no more war, America.

I’ve seen Manhattan on the silver screen,
all the way from the silent movie comedies.
Buster Keaton hanging from the truck
of a railway train,
escaping from his sad calamities.
Thank you for making us smile
with your Hollywood fantasies.

I am a child of the English shore.
Our history has her own aristocracy,
but I know your sky scraper skyline
from the films I’ve seen,
and the songs that comfort me.
Stereo sound panoramas
took me close to you.
I sat beside you in a taxi
before my aeroplane flew,
flew away from America.

The seeds that flow in on the tides, America,
plant them and see them flower.
Follow the light of the Statue of Liberty,
the guardian angel of New York harbour.

The Continuous and Further Wanderings of Willy Wart

The Continuous and Further Wanderings of Willy Wart

( Author’s Note: This could be considered to be a sequel to my previous work, The Earlier and Later Adventures of Willy Wart, which was, as has been previously mentioned, a sequel to Willy Wart Wandered W Way, so this could be called the third in a trilogy or it could be the average weight of a Siberian mammoth, not that such creatures still exist, but they once did, as they have bones in glass cages in museums, to prove it. Anyway, you do not need to read the other two works to understand this one. Indeed, you can skip all three, if you like. Time is of the essence, and all the doors are open. )

Willy Wart walked in quick sand, slow sand,
sand hard to tread, sand bony dead,
saw sea shell, sea swell,
heard bell bong, gong song,
multi-iambic ting tong,
watched mermaid wade where dolphins played,
went in rough rout with enough doubt,
to play a game of ping pong.
What a menace, worse than tennis,
bat and ball, he hit wrong,
had a fish wish, thought of steamy stew on hot dish,
strolled with the shoal, spied a vole hole,
entered rhyme time, spoke without mime,
sung dune tune, carved a spoon rune,
ate a black prune, blinked at night noon,
acknowledged sand man, had a sleep plan,
time for bed fellow, bull bellow in corn yellow,
drank coffee, ate toffee,
went mind numb, act dumb,
to relax tax, feed fax,
bed stead, book read,
day fled, sunset bled red,
dream scheme, watched his trapped thoughts teem,
switched light out to sight flout.
Midnight gone, ate a cold scone,
deep sleep, owls weep.
Morn wake, take break.
Willy Wart always chased,
always traced through his day, never caught.
His brain in a bubble meant double trouble,
mind in a muddle wanted a mammoth
to stamp in a puddle.
Willy Wart wondered if his life would be awful grim,
if sabre toothed tigers lept and roared at him,
if he was born a leprechaun and wore a coat ragged torn,
green as a yellow stalk of corn,
would he have the breath to blow his horn,
to wake the wise wood folk in the early dawn.

The Earlier and Later Adventures of Willy Wart


The Earlier and Later Adventures of Willy Wart

( Author’s Note: This is a sequel to my earlier work, Willy Wart Wandered W Way, which I posted beforehand for the perusal of fellow blog folk. It is not necessary, however, to read the first work to understand this one. Indeed, you do not need to understand or read either of them.  The reader, as always, has his or her own requirements and options, which are as essential to them as a hump to a camel or a beak to a pelican. )

Willy Wart wandered Wrinkle Wood,
cold, raw as a rook’s caw.
Wind tangled hair without a hood,
wondered why was there for.

The farmer down in Donkey Dale,
red faced as an autumn gale,
said Willy Wart belonged in jail,
boiled up, like a kettle on a stove,
made a right rural fuss,
chased him with a big black blunderbuss.

Signs saying: No Trespassers Allowed,
Willy Wart never understood,
when he walked in Wrinkle Wood.
If trees and berries could grow free,
then, he reasoned, why not he?
When Gregory Lunk, gammy gamekeeper,
threw a black sack, like a thunder cloud,
to make him fall and scuff his knee,
as he legged it home to have his tea,
back in Windflower Cottage, like a crow,
he flapped in the door,
too hastily to be slow,
felt like a manky mariner,
glad to tread the sea’s shelly shore.

Willy Wart walked into the kitchen,
cold as the caw of a rook,
unwanted as a hole in a sock.
“Why are you late and so pale?”
asked Wendy Wart, his mother.
“And why do you look so shivery,
so shaken, as if you had had a shock?”
“I nearly got run over by a steamroller,”
answered Willy Wart,
with a face too sad to mock.
“A steamroller, no,
a steamroller rolls too slow.
No one ever got run over
by a steamroller, no,”
said his mother,
looking at her steamy apple pie.
“Don’t believe me then,” said Willy Wart,
with his black damson eye.
“I believe the lad,” said Wilfred Wart,
his father, when he came home from work.
“I have always said that Willy Wart
is truthful, like a Turk,
though that to me sounds awful queer,
especially as there are no roads round here.”
“Thanks, dad, ” said Willy Wart,
weary now of his downcast way,
and as he climbed the wooden stairs,
he heard his mother say:
“What is it, Willy Wart,
what is it you want to know?
Will it all come to naught,
what you planted, will it grow?
O, what is it, what is it, Willy Wart?”

Now Willy Wart had read in a book,
so he knew he was not mistook,
that of all the vehicles on the go,
the steamroller was first at moving slow.
And in his dream in his bed,
he left the way of W,
and entered the way of Y instead,
and became Yann Ying Yung,
yet young yearling yoked youngster,
yodelled yonder yore, yelled yeasty yearly,
until he entered the way of Z,
and became Zed Zero Zebra,
zenith zeolite, zapped zany Zanzibar,
zed zealot, zedoary zebu,
zinc Zodiac, zoo zone,
zipp zigzagged back into bed,
happy to be back in way of W,
as he wondered where the way of X fled.



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