Poems From a Life
A Book of Poetry by
Des Greene
Copyright 2010 Des Greene
Discover other titles by Des Greene
at www.desgreene.com
Novels previously published are:
About Time
Couples
The Island
The Old Mill
Down by the river it stood,
The old mill.
The water wheel now retired.
Grey walls of stone at war
With the onslaught of green ivy.
A lonely specter,
Battle worn by the years,
Unable to tell the world of its mysteries.
Why not raze it to the ground?
Its function well served.
Why not let it die?
But all who saw it
Were struck with respect and wonder
And left well-enough alone.
So now it still stands there,
A definite part of the landscape,
A part of the whole.
Some day it will be gone
And none will appreciate its being
But will look at grey spires
Or whatever, and think –
Why not let them die?
As did the old mill.
9/11
9/11 - almost past the hour
Towers are due to fall
Crumbling like caked flour
Awakening a new day
Glorious to behold and dwell
On life’s glories
Nature’s hidden stories
Of death and rebirth
Of light transformed
To earth, sky and the new norm
Fifteen billion years or so
To get thus far
A falling mass of steel and rubble
Forming a morbid mound
That will take the same long ages
To sculpt - into a new beginning
In uncertain faltering stages
A bright future from tawdry wreckage
Somewhere, someplace, someone
Stares at a dark wall
The gloom will envelop him
While outside many of his brothers will fall.
The Wanderer
Whistling a lonely tune
Towards the valley below
All steeped in mist.
How the rain excites the melancholy!
Grass verges sparkle with water drops
And the stony road descends.
A siren calls and somewhere a fire blazes.
Cobble stone streets with many eyes,
The rectangular windows of cottages,
Draped with creamy aged lace,
That belie the life within.
Wandering mongrels and the odd cat
In dirt pools sip of life’s liquid.
Rap on a wooden door.
Paint in flakes falls with rain
And noise startles dogs and cat
And recedes to leave a void.
Again and again.
No reply but the creak of wood.
Dreary is the coming of evening
With no nest to lay in
And rain falling.
Out on the hills again.
Soothed by the greyness,
Happy to hear the sound of rainfall
And make way to the next village.
Night will soon fall
And darkness envelop.
The Gentle Rain
The gentle rain is soothing
Washing away our outdoor needs.
Camping indoors, conscience clear –
No need to water gardens,
No need to hide that sad tear.
The only need is to sit, not forlorn,
Looking at the shining droplets on green leaves,
At the grey sky and the light sway of hawthorn.
Somewhere in the branches a pigeon coos,
Snug in her nest amidst thorn and wet leaf.
Her sound is my companion in silence.
Empty nothingness of the lonely deaf.
In lives, busy is the accepted code
To the fulfillment of desires, as should.
Good to put a stop to the world.
The mind looks from inside to out.
The body, the holy shrine of soul,
Receding to physical being, about.
No thought, becomes that of all man,
No movement, shakes each life atom.
Living is defined by doing,
So I must do, and do, and do.
There is no time to stop moving,
So on, and on, and on I must go.
Song and a Life
Every little movement
of the bough of a tree,
as it descends and rises,
catches the eye and makes big,
that which was small.
Once in a while it comes,
That which is beautiful.
Ever after one pines.
And the branch cascades
In the whirl of a breeze.
Driving along at 60 miles per hour,
In the dark of night
And headlights blaring,
I think of a song and a life.
Slowly rocks the branch.
Doolin
Sounds of laughter and music
And the clamour of crowds
Reveling outside license hours,
Left behind us this summer’s day,
As the road from Doolin we take
At our ease down to the sea.
On the stone wall with a pipe
Is perched an old man.
Grey hair and legs crossed – a sage.
‘Take good care of that lass,’ says he.
‘For her likes is not easy come by.’
On down to the sea we went,
And walked on sand,
Quizzing at rusted spheres
Abandoned by the tide.
Climbed a high sand bank,
Laughed at the mess behind,
Reaching the top, turning and a smile,
A smile to be cherished forever.
Awakening
Grey sand exposed by the ebbing tide,
Thunder of waves and cry of gulls,
Awaken in me a dormant desire.
Breathing the sea-weedy air
With head turned towards the gusty breeze,
I mourn my wasted time –
Whence forth to seek perfection.
A tortuous path is set before me,
At every twist an illusion,
A disappointment, a mystery.
No corner can be by-passed
Without unravelling the mystery,
Overcoming the disappointment,
Or dispelling the illusion,
And an eternity passes.
Whilst round each corner is visible
The next illusion, disappointment, mystery.
The path’s end so remote,
Down by the sea
Where all is peace and natural,
Where the crash of wave excites
And the backwash calms,
And the cry of the gulls forlorn.
Happy am I with an awakened desire,
No longer to perish indifferently.
The Paste of War
The paste of war, scrawled viciously,
(Meandering on bare canvas),
Never dries, even in hell’s fire.
The evil hand, delightedly,
(Of human flesh and bone softness),
Squeezes through a mince of pain, dire.
We opt always to fight,
In bravery to delight,
Where it is our will,
<
br /> To just shoot and kill.
Same awaits all living things,
Yet few would want such a wreath,
But for some, a bad luck brings,
Terror of war, sudden death.
They, that see, the utter shock,
In eyes of killer and killed alike,
Can never from vision strike,
The haunting image of fear, unlocked.
They await the day,
That awaits us all,
Yet silently pray,
For a quiet, soft call.
The White Butterflies
This morning the white butterflies appear.
A lone jet passes on high overhead,
Its thunderous roar filling the atmosphere.
As it receded the butterflies fled.
I try to grab a hold of time,
But it mocks me and moves on,
I long to stay put, recline,
But time says, now move along.
A single white butterfly came back again.
Another thunderous plane took off.
A bee enters a purple penstamon
And chaos is turned into chaos.
I sit here solemnly observing
From present to future and past,
The beauty of the world evolving,
Knowing all the while it can’t last.
From Big Bangs and galaxy formation,
To crafting the run of the Milky way,
Down to our blue planet’s condensation,
I have long-waited for this single day.
The arrival of the white butterflies,
Their darting, spontaneous, dancing flight,
Enough to exchange all our histories,
To blur the delicate story of light.
Poets and Golfers
There are very few poets who are golfers.
Does this mean that they are incompatible?
The one who strives to hit the point,
to circumscribe and then further describe,
is none different to those who strive
to create an arc so perfect and stark,
that amidst all rigours, bunkers and rough,
in scutch grass that harbours the lark,
will hit with such precision,
straight through and through,
and amazingly land in centre park,
ready to face the green, seeking par,
keeping all the time rhythm, four beats to the bar.
Pain
Nothing is lost in this life.
The cries of pain of the beaten boy
are still on the airwaves of the cosmos,
expanded and changed but still
tearing at the heart of cruel humanity.
They are in that limbo that does exist,
not of unbaptised souls but
the house of all the injustices of mankind.
Here, the wailing is never over.
The powerful god stands back
and admires the freedom he has bestowed
on those animals in human form
who have abused the truly godlike children.
Maybe it’s the real presence of a devil
that allows the defenceless to be trodden upon,
the weak to be bullied,
the hungry to die.
Even the devil must have compassion
for the eternal suffering at his command.
He must dispense the succouring taste of water
to the throats parched in his furnace of pain.
We have created the devil,
for he is more unbelievable than a god,
who all powerful lets him exist.
The cries of the poor and weak,
songs in the vast ether of the universe,
remind us that we have the power.
We listen on still starry nights
and hear the cries of Belsen and Hiroshima
Vietnam and Cambodia, Baghdad -
of innocent children in pain and fear,
of mothers wailing, fathers pining,
Young men dying.
The Blank Digital Page
The blank digital page
has not stared at my parents.
They knew not of the byte
or the hexadecimal point.
They lived in the analogue world
where emotions count.
The grey fuzziness of the television
was nearest to technic fright
and all was well under the bare electric light.
Our children will embrace another age
so different from ours
that to them the computer
or whatever transputer
will become as inane
so positively sane
as the blank screened television
at the end of (midnight) transmission.
Eight Minutes
The sun tracks a hidden groove in the sky
I do not think that every time I see it
I am looking into the past life.
Only eight minutes but enough
for a life to be destroyed.
Someday it will not shine
and we will have eight extra minutes.
How will I spend those precious dying moments?
Will I have time to search for loved ones?
To lament the passing of our love?
Will I have time to finish my shaving?
For now there is no need to feel refreshed.
That nagging back pain will disappear.
All physical feeling will be swamped
in the tidal emotions of impending loss.
Those of you who believe will be tested.
Those without will despair.
The mind will toss around the thoughts
that for a lifetime had lain dormant.
Now it will have eight minutes left
to ruminate on the finality of life.
Wailing and weeping are of no avail.
Best to keep one’s head
and savour the here and now.
The eternity of the present
that can never disappear.
No need now to exercise the heart
or worry about the other vital organs.
There are no special parts to a life
that has only eight minutes to live.
There are prayers to bring solace.
Hope that the end is painless and swift.
Beg of cruel nature to be kind
in returning us to the cosmos.
Soon the already dead sun retires
and the broad blanket of dark envelops us.
Searching
Boiled cats and apple tarts
All in a cauldron churn
And let none see
The worms on the run.
For I have seen the cauldron burn
On the heart of an oyster shell
And never more, no never,
Ever want to feel that smell.
You, oh you, who?
Wherever I go and see,
A mask, a forgery, a cover
Is all revealed to me.
But up there, amidst the clouds,
Looking down on green fields
And brown brooding mountains
And lakes grey, awash with foam -
Swept up by winds
That have stirred from afar -
Dwells the you of my mind.
Whilst on ground the perception fades.
And setting off anew into the distance -
Where lonely figures wander in gloom
And the depths of depression meander -
Amongst the seldom sighted pleasures,
I search anew.
Wounds
Internal wounds bleed continually
somewhere beneath the chest.
The healing process fights for entry
to soothe the flow, soften the breast.
Time appears, to doctor the effects
<
br /> of the gnawing heartfelt pain,
but the random word or comment
opens the wound again.
The stream of blood, long held back,
comes flooding forth in a cathartic ache.
And the memories and feelings,
once hidden,
injure and retard ,
deaden and make hard,
a healing humanity -
Life's equanimity.
Free Thought
I found a thought, lithe
on the air of the day,
wafting over the hawthorns leading
down into the valley of the bay.
It fluttered and danced,
playing hide and go seek ,
amongst the billowing clouds sailing
onwards towards a hidden muddy creek.
I sat and wondered
at where it might now be,
searching frantically in the ether
for a languorous thought floating free.
1. Sligo
From among the waves
So small upon the stream,
Came a vision; falling from the leaves
Like raindrops on water,
It struck and came home,
That where I was, was not
The loud streets of Cairo
Or the quiet menacing streets of Dakar
But amongst the splendours of Sligo,
Within the hills of Glencar.
And I saw the dark outlines of
Ben Bulben and Knocknarea
And within myself felt emotion,
Forever, forever to be free.
Here to be happy and sad
And see the grey twilight of life
And die midst the waves of Rosses
And down the very last pint.
2. Wicklow
A sad melancholy dream,
That where we saw the last scene,
Over there in green, by Lough Tay,
As you stood knees together
In gymslip, so young, so gay.
I thought that we could be happy
And felt that life was ahead.
The day it was so endless,
Living life to the full.
The ferns so green
And the water so calm and still.
My mind a reflection of your image
And there to let it be.
And the song in the spirit alive,
Let us go, find a place,
And down we do sit,
Until the morning sings.
Sing oh morning, on beaches empty
With the coolness of water
And the quietness of air.