Tag Archives: freedom

Time To Lift My Chin

Time To Lift My Chin

May sunshine tells me I am ready now,
let the bright games begin.
Golden lions on my dark green tea tin
gleam to make me smile within.
A glint on a silver sequin
tells me it’s time to lift my chin.

I bent my head down in winter,
my chin almost at rest on my chest,
but now I look up to see May blossom,
the gardens of England at their best.

Civil Cyril works in the Civic Centre,
that is how he got his name.
If you think those lines are worse than lame,
I confess I am the one to blame.

If I were a Victorian acrobat,
I would be dead by now,
to survive in a sepia photograph,
taken before my final bow.

If I were an Edwardian gamekeeper,
I would have a moustache,
and I would like to recite old parlour songs,
and say things like “I must dash.”

If I were an Elizabethan playwright,
stood in Shakespeare’s shadow,
I would watch his plays on the stage of the Globe,
and pipe my tunes in a meadow.

Here I am, a twentieth century child,
born 1952.
To my wonder it is a pleasure to share
the same universe as you.

May sunshine tells me all is ready now,
give the blue ball a spin.
I have an ocean path to furrow,
I follow a dolphin’s fin.
Whatever will come tomorrow,
I have ample time to lift my chin.

Time to lift my chin.


Law of the Lion

Law of the Lion

Life can be a burdensome thing
with so much you can’t control.
Nothing you can do about the news,
time will always take its toll.

Some preach it as a pilgrimage,
warn of perils on the way.
Others concentrate on escape,
do not care how far they stray.

The old towers are tumbled down,
the first empires lost in weeds.
The sower went to the desert
but died with his bag of seeds.

Wind lifts the branches of the trees,
moves the waves across the sea.
The winter sun shines but falsely
for cold holds the frozen key.

The golden lion on his throne,
no one knows from where he came,
rules his jungle kingdom wisely,
his one law is be not tame.

Life can be a liberating thing
once you’re aware of your chains,
to contort your way out of them,
to find what your freedom gains.

We Know Who We Were

We Know Who We Were

We know who we were,
as for now, do we know who we are?
We ask the right questions,
the few answers we find,
we mull over, debate.
Wish I could waken from sleep,
find words to crust a tune.
Sail out in a boat on the ocean
to slay the kraken with my light rod,
my radiant harpoon.
Away from the civilized confusion,
the traffic hoot and hum.
Attend to the silence only passing winds disturb.
Back to wood, stone and water,
to bird song in the green wood I come.
We know how we were,
as for now, do we know how we are?
I move my hand over the uncultivated land,
the unharvested ocean.
Wish I could breathe in deep like a whale,
pipe out high like a dolphin,
swim free of shackle, no fortune to fail.

A Bewilderment of Doves

A Bewilderment of Dove

by Philip Dodd, written for The Best Six Poets project
inspired by a painting by Alex Alemany

On my closed eye lid screen I see
a bewilderment of doves.
Once caught in cloud cages, wind wires,
from barn lofts, orchard walls,
they flutter free.
To doors on the horizon,
they carry a key.
I can only be a witness,
watch them go,
further and further
away from me.
Human as I am I will never know
the lift through the air
on such white feathered wings.

Broken Barricades

Broken Barricades

What you are forgetting
it is I who hold the key.
The whale swims under ice.
Like him I lift my head,
to break free and scan the sea.

Life can be upsetting
when you really try to live,
not always neat and nice,
through broken barricades,
I race to what I can give.

I am beginning to see what it all could mean,
my vision clear and clean.
In the midst of the muddle,
I turn my wheel,
feel fresh grass beneath my heel.

Never rained so much before,
but perhaps it did.
Never seen so much water,
running down the gutters to the grid.
Wonderful things revealed long hid.

Robin Hood has nowhere to hide now,
said a passing neighbour with a smile,
her comment on the metal box I stacked
with rotten wood and twigs outside my house.
And yes, she is right, I thought, for the oaks have dwindled,
deer herds that remain roam in private parks,
and over what is left of the wild.
And the waves and the rain still lash the ark
I first heard of as a child.

Jungle Vision

Jungle Vision

Panther black jungle night.
Monkeys screech,
parrots squawk in fright.
Muddy brown river,
lethal as a viper bite.
I paddle through in my canoe,
watch white birds lift from a lake,
fly over trees in green tropic light.
I climb a bamboo ladder
in the summer heat,
blink away my vision,
feel my feet in my suburban street.
And the lion yawns,
safely in the shade,
far from the hunter’s guns,
and the cheetah runs
over the grassy plain,
though faraway,
I feel the thud of paws,
the freedom in my brain.
And the sky scrapers rise,
high above my head,
and I look around
to see if I am where
my directions led.
The taxi horns
louder than a trumpet blare.
I am not really there,
I am here.
I am not really here,
I am elsewhere.
I am not really there,
though only partly here,
for I am elsewhere.
Helicopter blades
cut through the air,
and the lines of waves
take me further out,
but I am not there,
I am really here,
yet I am elsewhere.

White Glider

White Glider

There has been a development,
a report of something strange,
and though nothing is certain yet,
it seems there will be a change.
The top circle are excited,
what they seek is now in range.

In the heat of summer time,
they might send me away,
on a mission somewhere,
so you know what I will say,
mine is the face you never knew,
and as for my aeroplane,
must be as if it never flew.

The submarines in the ocean
sometimes surface in my mind,
and I almost have a notion
of what they hope to find.
Many agents wear dark glasses,
but none of them are blind.

I have my own entertainment unit,
it is called my brain.
I don’t need music on an I Pod,
to save me from boredom or keep me sane.
I promise when you turn around,
you will see me again.

They advised to have no ties,
and now I understand why,
but what we have is strong,
your face is in my eye.
When I return we will relearn
to enjoy our freedom from the lie.

I have felt singled out since childhood
when I built a white glider in the shed.
I let the wind take it up on the shore,
watched it spin high above my head.
Already had my secret life,
and no one cared or knew,
I felt pleasure in the strain on the string
as my white glider flew.