Georgek
George
Hello Dundee,That touches the heart George,
Beautiful by any standard.
IMHO, we tent to get full of nostalgia and place so much..awe, importance? on old literature, its not that it is unfounded, but perhaps some of us fail to notice that which is in front of us today, in deference to supposed historic giants. Beautiful words George, please post more
Many thanks for your kind post.
I thought perhaps the following may be of interest to you? I apologise for not actually being a poet.
Tired Love
Did I not say that I loved her.......as I held her hand so tightly when there was a tempest?
When the sea was calm and the sky was blue.
Her youthful smile most radiant, as our souls entwined
For we had sailed many journeys and spoke of oneness
Then when the sea had unleashed it's rage once more...
Did I not go back to hold her hand?
But the hand had wizened and the soul had tired, as I gently let her go.
The Goldsmith Line
Through labyrinth paths that liaison by
Elusive sites with brick wall heights
I wondered along through dismal skies
All chocked with slime and traffic grime
Until I saw the Goldsmith sign
Across the road where commuters pass
All bagged with blue they formed a queue
To draw a line for the bus and crew
I watched a while as the dead stood by
Then saw my love as she waved goodbye
No laden load had slowed my path
For the bus had come from journeys past
To take them back through hills so vast
Where forests lie that reach the sky
So blue am I from days gone by....to catch the bus from the Goldsmith Line.
Tax on My Soul
He taxes your belt, as well as your pelt
Hold on to your heart, lest he takes it apart
Pay a price for your labour and one for your sabre
Give him his tithe, because that is his right
You labour all day, like man in the hay
He cannot be caged, as he looks at your age
Don't die in the straw, for the devil will call
Two coins on your eyes as you lay on the ice
Leave a penny for heaven and two for the preacher
As the money he takes is for him to be richer
Not to carry your coffin on backs that are cloaked
The tax man won't choke from the crippled and old
Lack of your gold; may render him cold.........
Yet he searches your soul, to seek out your goal
He hides in your 'will' and even your till
Escape him you must, but he catches your dust
Useful were you, to the church and the few
But he taxes your faith despite all the money you gave.
The psalms that he holds are from farms he has sold
Lest they call him to hell from palms that are broke
He seeks all the answers through time and debate
Yet when he is gone, others will come.
Pray to your God, for the ones he forgot
Lest you meet him in Hell with the souls he had got
Drummers
Drummers
The wind blew on this ill sought morn
When cannons glowed red through dead men’s corn
Rap-a-tap-tap the cap and the badge
Twelve drummer boys rapped as the guns went tap
Solemn men’s faces and young boys with braces,
Marched as a band with a rap-a tap-tap
They raced in haste with no time to waste
A bugle blew loud as men hit the ground
To charge up the mound, by a captain's a shout
Then a drum hit the ground with one less sound
Over the hill there was death gore and howlers....
The drums beat no louder as guns filled with powder
Blasted the sky and the tap of the drum
As smoke filled the air and the lungs of the young
On a still Summer’s day some people may say:-
Drummers are heard along a cattle master's herd
With a sound of a chirp, along a woodpeckers mirth,
A bugle is heard from the tap of a birch
Twelve drummer boys tap
As they take off their hats
Then mist comes down from the hill and the pound
Covers the spot where the grasshoppers hop
Silence then falls, on the stones and the hay,
As the wind and the rain beats down on our brains
Like tears of pain; all nurtured and strained
Harmonically sweet from a drummer boy's beat
The Steam of Matilda and Her Builder
The new engine belched,
A hiss and a pop that sounded loud with a resounding pop.
Wheels turned round, as her furnace burnt proud
A the whistle blew loud and people gathered round,
She careered down the track as men plundered back
A thunderous crack, there was no holding back
Matilda was fast and right on track.
Down the rails she roared.
Then beauty astound, there was countryside all around.
She went past a station and picked up some people
Then went down the line all wrought and feeble
Picked up a Lord who was solemn and bored
Then at the next station, ready and patient,
More people had gathered for poor old Matilda
She chugged along, and saw two men of the cloth
Who waved to Matilda along with their oath
Rain clouds had gathered at the girth of Loch Lomond
That drenched poor Matilda all hammered and battered...
More steam did she 'drink', as the faster she spun.
Then tiredness came in one mighty strain
For Matilda had slowed as she gave a loud hiss
To let us all know that it was her last kiss.
Her journey had started with one mighty puff
All welcome was she..............
But to die on a track, there was no turning back
Many journeys she had made in more than a day
Her journey had ended, as it began;
Clap of the hand and a porter's cry.
Like a woman's birth and a baby's cry
To salvage Matilda at her poor demise
Is the same as a man when scavengers pry?
To blow clean as a whistle or die in the thistles
A solemn disgrace is to die in a race, all battered and rattled
Without an embrace, no honour or grace........regardless of race
For a journey we take just like the train.
At times it is late; as we all have to wait,
To keep to our paths as long as we last.
Work too hard and we die on our track,
All clogged and choked with too much smoke
Man or machine, our fates are the same.
The earth claims us all....both cogs and lords.
Poetry by George
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