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- Herausgeber: BookRix
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
One day I decided to write a few poems, simply because I was bored and had nothing better to do. Most of these poems are related in some way to events that have occurred during my life and some are naturally of pure fiction, although they do have a meaning in some way or other to what occurs during our lifetimes.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
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Whatever happened to Baby-Dee
Yarns, poems and quotes.
To the people of whom some of these segments may relate to, and to my dear daughter Kerry Davina for whom the title is dedicated to.BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 MunichA silent friend.
[If money be the route of all evil, then God bring me sin].
Once again, the peacefulness of England’s rural pastures become my friend, albeit, a short time.
As I tread alongside enthusiastic varmint that subsist amongst the clambake hardwood of customary topiary, I wait my passage patiently whilst these harmless critters banquet the morning gifts that exaggerate plentifully in the wide opens of Milnthorpe’s verdurous meadows.
Mountainous precipices remain still and equable, sitting proud amongst neighbouring elevations that have dealt auspiciously with billions of years of annoying tempests, yet are unmoved by natures violent postures that have pampered this arcadia, long before our invention of time.
A divination from eternity predicts this arboretum to be unsullied for centuries furthermore, slapping the hand of modern foe in its determined intervention to mirror this pulchritude with its ugly concreting fixtures.
From millpond to mere, all waters play silent, even rapids trickle down hillsides, reluctant to gush with cacophony, showing centuries of respect to the yokel born.
Leaving this niche is far from easy, but I do return, because that is what I do. As I step over the final hurdle of precision hedgerow, I take one more look upon the hills and beyond. All is silent and all is mine, in this shadowed world of a flawless wilderness. For now, this panorama is mine, and will wait for my eventual return.
[Suicide is easy. Fulfilling it is the hard bit].
The history of life and death.
An obituary.
A lifetime is a long time, or so it was when he was young. The years passed by and young he was still, but the movement of time eventually advanced and his youth had passed to behold decades of responsibility and worry. A Father he became, a Grandfather he became, an old man he became, and forgotten he became. I will be that man, and so will you.
Here rests our beloved.
A Son, a Brother, a Father, a Grandfather.
R.I.P.
[It is easy to gain the trust of a child, and even easier to deceive them].
Whtever happened to Baby-Dee.
What do you dream my sweet one, my little infant girl.
Pink Elephants, candyfloss clouds and animated toys; all in a rendered fantasy world of giggling nonsense which nestle beneath a lonely but content slumber.
We raise our glass to the new baby born.
How pretty she is, and how lovely she be.
She is mine you see.
Her fragile infancy asks for gentle care from those who are strongest, yet we are weak with envy, and proud in the blood kin of which we are.
When she requires our help, it is only in cry,
She receives the love from Mother and I.
Alas the years of cuddles have gone, extinguished love for Papa and Mom.
A Mother herself she is you see, but I will always cherish my wee Baby Dee.
So once again we raise our glass to the new baby born.
How pretty she is, and how lovely she is.
She is Kerry’s you see.
[No matter how long you stare, your reflecting image will get no younger].
The mirrored week.
The alarm is set for 5.00am and its jingle spells out “work again”.
A mug of tea and a slice of toast, then wash & shave to the mirrored ghost.
A daily cycle that’s yours and mine, this repeating conveyor belt of time.
“Good morning mate, looks good today”, as he stares into the sky let’s say.
A confabulation therefore dawns, to bore one and other back into yawns.
A daily cycle that’s yours and mine, this recurring conveyor belt of time.
The same commuters all pile the bus, usual seats without conflicting fuss.
A little work between breakfast and lunch, then watch the clock until the 5.00pm crunch.
A daily cycle that’s yours and mine, this revolving conveyor belt of time.
A cup of tea and a hearty meal, in front of the telly, that’s the deal.
In bed for nine, then sleep away, you’ll do tomorrow as you did today.
The daily cycle that’s yours and mine, a pointless and utter waste of time.
[We are all here for a purpose, but which one].
