Poems from a Life



  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.