Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in January 2013.
When bleak roses die, a thorny blight
Their petals falling in the soft afternoon light
From faded flowers turning brown
To make a sad carpet on the hardening ground
Then Summer is gone and Fall is soon to follow ...
The leaves and flowers have all died away
Resting deeper down on a darker day,
Turning to ashes beneath the snow;
Arctic winds that icy blow
Scatter us with snow, a fine mist of luminous white
In the midst of this snow mist, a girl is there;
I picture her with snowflakes in her dark brown hair
In the soft glow of a street-lamp's beam,
Tiny snow crystals in her long eyelashes gleam
As together, we drift with the snow, fading ...
Andrew Barham
Showing posts with label Andrew Barham. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Andrew Barham. Show all posts
Sonnet For Newtown - Andrew Barham
Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in December 2012.
Suffer little children come unto me
But not so young for their Maker to see;
Cut down when their lives are just beginning –
What evil hour here is Evil winning?
Madness speaks, and Death untimely answers –
Get thee hence, Death! Cast elsewhere thy grim lures.
Children so young, so fragile filled with hope
For a bright future they will never see;
Through these dull days of endless night we grope;
Our pleas beseech whatever gods there be
Demanding answers from this tragedy:
From meaningless horror, we seek meaning,
Plunged as we are in Grief's bottomless sea –
Instead we hear only children screaming.
Andrew Barham
Suffer little children come unto me
But not so young for their Maker to see;
Cut down when their lives are just beginning –
What evil hour here is Evil winning?
Madness speaks, and Death untimely answers –
Get thee hence, Death! Cast elsewhere thy grim lures.
Children so young, so fragile filled with hope
For a bright future they will never see;
Through these dull days of endless night we grope;
Our pleas beseech whatever gods there be
Demanding answers from this tragedy:
From meaningless horror, we seek meaning,
Plunged as we are in Grief's bottomless sea –
Instead we hear only children screaming.
Andrew Barham
Grizzlies In Town - Andrew Barham
Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in December 2012.
Where have all the Black Bears gone?
Eaten by Grizzlies every one!
So many Grizzlies in town –
One night last Summer
There were nine strolling around;
In The Village, a young male built his den
And all the little children to school in cars went then;
Mothers with cubs on the edge of the school grounds
Raiding gardens and dumpsters
And annoying the wife of the new parson –
It reminds me of a cartoon by Gary Larsen:
Bears on a fishing dock flossing their teeth
With fishing line to clean out bits of meat –
Yet! I've never actually seen a Grizzly
Though I've been within ten feet of a mother and cubs
Hidden from view by the thick brush along the trail –
She let me know I wasn't welcome.
Andrew Barham
Where have all the Black Bears gone?
Eaten by Grizzlies every one!
So many Grizzlies in town –
One night last Summer
There were nine strolling around;
In The Village, a young male built his den
And all the little children to school in cars went then;
Mothers with cubs on the edge of the school grounds
Raiding gardens and dumpsters
And annoying the wife of the new parson –
It reminds me of a cartoon by Gary Larsen:
Bears on a fishing dock flossing their teeth
With fishing line to clean out bits of meat –
Yet! I've never actually seen a Grizzly
Though I've been within ten feet of a mother and cubs
Hidden from view by the thick brush along the trail –
She let me know I wasn't welcome.
Andrew Barham
The Fairy Ring - Andrew Barham
Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in November 2012
There's a ring around the sun
After the rains have come and gone;
Later, I see it reflected on the ground
On a knoll within a circle of stones.
Where are those Elven Folk
Who once peopled these ancient hills?
The stones around the ring are soaked
With the light which spills
From the sun dying across the sky
Just above the World Edge it lies on
Where Sky and Earth meet to try
To form a new horizon.
This forsaken place is empty now,
Forgotten – a remnant of a past time,
Not even the abode of a stray sheep or cow:
Man has moved on – and that's fine –
Science has brought us greater wonders.
The Moon is a goddess no more
And Apollo's chariot no longer blunders
From skyline to skyline on the new day's shores,
For we have set foot on Diana's soil
And probed the heart of the Sun;
Through creative blood, sweat and toil
We have met the gods and won.
Andrew Barham
There's a ring around the sun
After the rains have come and gone;
Later, I see it reflected on the ground
On a knoll within a circle of stones.
Where are those Elven Folk
Who once peopled these ancient hills?
The stones around the ring are soaked
With the light which spills
From the sun dying across the sky
Just above the World Edge it lies on
Where Sky and Earth meet to try
To form a new horizon.
This forsaken place is empty now,
Forgotten – a remnant of a past time,
Not even the abode of a stray sheep or cow:
Man has moved on – and that's fine –
Science has brought us greater wonders.
The Moon is a goddess no more
And Apollo's chariot no longer blunders
From skyline to skyline on the new day's shores,
For we have set foot on Diana's soil
And probed the heart of the Sun;
Through creative blood, sweat and toil
We have met the gods and won.
Andrew Barham
Sitting In A Bar At the Airport - Andrew Barham
Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in October 2012
Sitting in a bar at the airport –
Moody, melancholic day-dreaming bar
Taking me away from everything
As it draws it all into perspective
Waiting to see if I shall board the next flight
Out.
Been a while since I've sat in a bar
Contemplating the meaning of life over a pint of beer
While ogling a favoured waitress,
But nowadays they're all sports bars –
That ubiquitous telly staring down at one
From every possible point of vantage
Advertising sports, endlessly …
I hate sports – thugs in gaudy uniforms
Paid ridiculous sums of money
To knock a bit of rubber
Or an inflated bladder
About with their hands or their feet
Or batter it with sticks and bats
For the entertainment
Of beer-swilling couch potatoes.
It puts one off by focussing one's attention
On something utterly ephemeral and worthless;
Been too long since I had a drink at the airport,
Yet, I remember a time when we would never dream
Of going to the airport
To board a flight or see someone off
And not have a drink while we were there …
Andrew Barham
Raven Rules - Andrew Barham
Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in October 2012
Canny old crow
I hear his wings
Beating against the sky
I can't see –
Otherwise,
The Forest is silent;
Ancient trees
Shrouded in moss
Which falls in tatters
From moss thickened limbs
Murmuring ancient wisdom to themselves:
I look up
Into the distant canopy
Hearing the Raven calling –
My camera
Set at 28, as wide an angle as it will go
Can't take it all in:
Tree trunks as wide
As a Silver Ghost is long;
Trees …
Moss …
Raven
Rules …
Andrew Barham
The Children's Forest of Cortes - Andrew Barham
Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in August 2012
Mushrooms emerging from thick moss
Or pushing through the darkened duff,
Sunlight slanting through the coniferous canopy
Until the hoary moss coating the cedar's branches
Glows golden through the massy filaments;
Spiders silk, fine filaments of light
Strung between the trees, or,
Orbs suspended between their branches,
Cobwebs running their length –
To see Sitka Spruce sidling up to Douglas Fir
In a forest where Arbutus pokes out
Above the waters of lagoons
And sheltered bays …
Artists amongst the trees transfigured
As they in turn are transformed by the forest
Alive with the light and the voices of children
Emerging like the fungi from the humic soil –
Indian Pipe – but whiter than I've ever seen it before,
And each sepal and petal tipped
With intense carmine, like no other Monotropa;
I was fooled by this unusual display
Of unaccustomed colour: Could it be
An Allotropa instead? But no:
This unlikely plant emerging everywhere
Bears its flowers singly atop its thickened stems;
Yet candy-striped it appears to be;
A flower of Christmas colour coming up
In the blazing August sunshine of High Summer …
Candy-coloured flowers and stems –
What more could one ask
Of a Children's Forest?
Andrew Barham
Mushrooms emerging from thick moss
Or pushing through the darkened duff,
Sunlight slanting through the coniferous canopy
Until the hoary moss coating the cedar's branches
Glows golden through the massy filaments;
Spiders silk, fine filaments of light
Strung between the trees, or,
Orbs suspended between their branches,
Cobwebs running their length –
To see Sitka Spruce sidling up to Douglas Fir
In a forest where Arbutus pokes out
Above the waters of lagoons
And sheltered bays …
Artists amongst the trees transfigured
As they in turn are transformed by the forest
Alive with the light and the voices of children
Emerging like the fungi from the humic soil –
Indian Pipe – but whiter than I've ever seen it before,
And each sepal and petal tipped
With intense carmine, like no other Monotropa;
I was fooled by this unusual display
Of unaccustomed colour: Could it be
An Allotropa instead? But no:
This unlikely plant emerging everywhere
Bears its flowers singly atop its thickened stems;
Yet candy-striped it appears to be;
A flower of Christmas colour coming up
In the blazing August sunshine of High Summer …
Candy-coloured flowers and stems –
What more could one ask
Of a Children's Forest?
Andrew Barham
Acrostic Sonnet: The Opening of a New Real Ale Pub - Andrew Barham
Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in July 2012
Take us down to a grand and ancient pub
Hidden away on a lost avenue
Every soul consigned to Beelzebub
Bartered away for a drink grand and true
Each quaffer on his foaming pint intent
Sups mightily at perfectly hopped brew
These lads know from whence springs their deep content
Revealed only to the lord’s chosen few.
Eager drinkers of the world’s finest beer,
Alone or with friends, hie they hither here;
“Let’s drink up!” the lord of the land bellows!
All things end for the best of fellows!
Last orders all round while the night is young;
Egad! It’s all over! Last bell’s been rung!
Andrew Barham
Heavy Metal Night In Suburbia - Andrew Barham
Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in May 2012
Guitars gleam, plastic screams
Long hair flowing in the spotlight's beam
Heavy Metal addicts in glittering chrome
Screaming obscene anthems from petrified stones,
Timbered symbols clashing vibrant tones,
The drummer slashing and crashing
To keep it going
Pictures of swords and sorcery,
And where would they be
Without His Satanic Majesty?
The sum total of your soul
Is the rainbow at the end of the gold-
Mine, empty and complete
Like every coked-out bimbo shakin' down the street:
A silent silver streak,
The aftermath's reek
From the King of the Mountain Hall,
Rockin' and boppin' to the ball
Turning above the dance floor
The singer cleaves a shelter for a comely wench
Amid the stage's sulfurous stench,
For they're brewing a devil's broth
These followers of David Lee Roth;
Before swallowing a variety of pills,
He sends a chill wind to blow away your ills:
Gag! Brag; the green queen's in drag!
Boredom and blown speakers as Rock n Roll steals another child
The air-guitarists are swaying wild;
Singer's long hair streaming down –
A perfectly permed mullet to reveal his mighty frown –
Another rebel without a reason;
They throw up a different group for every season.
Andrew Barham
Guitars gleam, plastic screams
Long hair flowing in the spotlight's beam
Heavy Metal addicts in glittering chrome
Screaming obscene anthems from petrified stones,
Timbered symbols clashing vibrant tones,
The drummer slashing and crashing
To keep it going
Pictures of swords and sorcery,
And where would they be
Without His Satanic Majesty?
The sum total of your soul
Is the rainbow at the end of the gold-
Mine, empty and complete
Like every coked-out bimbo shakin' down the street:
A silent silver streak,
The aftermath's reek
From the King of the Mountain Hall,
Rockin' and boppin' to the ball
Turning above the dance floor
The singer cleaves a shelter for a comely wench
Amid the stage's sulfurous stench,
For they're brewing a devil's broth
These followers of David Lee Roth;
Before swallowing a variety of pills,
He sends a chill wind to blow away your ills:
Gag! Brag; the green queen's in drag!
Boredom and blown speakers as Rock n Roll steals another child
The air-guitarists are swaying wild;
Singer's long hair streaming down –
A perfectly permed mullet to reveal his mighty frown –
Another rebel without a reason;
They throw up a different group for every season.
Andrew Barham
Impressions On The Ferry - Dead Mountains - Andrew Barham
Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in May 2012
Raindrops on the window,
Mist on the mountains ...
There's a storm coming
Dark clouds hang
Pendulous in the sky
Somewhere near,
A baby cries
Outside, a tugboat pulls a raft of dead trees
Stripped from once green mountains
Now bare and littered with the skeletons
Of ancient Firs, Spruces, and Cedars,
A cemetery of the wild;
What creatures lived here
In this place of nebulous mists
And green trees?
Dead mountains.
(On the ferry between Gibsons & Horseshoe Bay, July 1987)
Andrew Barham
Raindrops on the window,
Mist on the mountains ...
There's a storm coming
Dark clouds hang
Pendulous in the sky
Somewhere near,
A baby cries
Outside, a tugboat pulls a raft of dead trees
Stripped from once green mountains
Now bare and littered with the skeletons
Of ancient Firs, Spruces, and Cedars,
A cemetery of the wild;
What creatures lived here
In this place of nebulous mists
And green trees?
Dead mountains.
(On the ferry between Gibsons & Horseshoe Bay, July 1987)
Andrew Barham
I'd Rather Be Your Nightmare Than Your Daydream - Andrew Barham
Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in February 2012
Let me take you into the shadows
We'll watch the strangelings stream
Through the looming changes neatly stacked in rows –
Where we're going, I no longer know,
For I can see only dimly into the distant landscapes
Where those waiting shadows grow,
Their twining vines bestowing sour grapes;
We can pluck them, eating them as we stroll
Down these empty corridors, our resounding footfalls
Keeping time with the ever vanishing rock and roll:
Strange waveforms answering the silent call
Of shifting patterns in the swirling sands
On an empty beach, the vacant horizon staring …
Staring into the distant starlight shining on dark islands –
A midnight sea, luminous! Phosphorescence glaring!
I am lost in this haze of ancient memories,
So lost, I no longer know where to begin
Or where to find this meeting point for all my journeys,
For there is no way now to let the endgame in.
Andrew Barham
Let me take you into the shadows
We'll watch the strangelings stream
Through the looming changes neatly stacked in rows –
Where we're going, I no longer know,
For I can see only dimly into the distant landscapes
Where those waiting shadows grow,
Their twining vines bestowing sour grapes;
We can pluck them, eating them as we stroll
Down these empty corridors, our resounding footfalls
Keeping time with the ever vanishing rock and roll:
Strange waveforms answering the silent call
Of shifting patterns in the swirling sands
On an empty beach, the vacant horizon staring …
Staring into the distant starlight shining on dark islands –
A midnight sea, luminous! Phosphorescence glaring!
I am lost in this haze of ancient memories,
So lost, I no longer know where to begin
Or where to find this meeting point for all my journeys,
For there is no way now to let the endgame in.
Andrew Barham
Inscrutable Death - Andrew Barham
Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in January 2012
Just sits there
In the corner
By the ceiling
In the antiseptic isolation
Of the Neurological Ward,
Dark
Inscrutable
Death
Silently
Waiting
For that final moment
To spring
Propel itself from its perch up there
And grasp its prey
Death
Cold
Hostile
Inhuman
Utterly lacking compassion
As alien
And incomprehensible
As any predator
Dreamed up by Science Fiction …
Andrew Barham
Just sits there
In the corner
By the ceiling
In the antiseptic isolation
Of the Neurological Ward,
Dark
Inscrutable
Death
Silently
Waiting
For that final moment
To spring
Propel itself from its perch up there
And grasp its prey
Death
Cold
Hostile
Inhuman
Utterly lacking compassion
As alien
And incomprehensible
As any predator
Dreamed up by Science Fiction …
Andrew Barham
Sardines in Portugal - Andrew Barham
Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in January 2012
Sardines in Portugal,
Sardines in the Sea
Sardines on the beach
Going straight into my tummy!
Sardines massing
Sardines in a school
Sardines chased by dolphins
Because Sardines really rule!
Sardines in Cornwall?
Sardines in a boat
Sardines are pilchards
Sliding down my throat!
Andrew Barham
Sardines in Portugal,
Sardines in the Sea
Sardines on the beach
Going straight into my tummy!
Sardines massing
Sardines in a school
Sardines chased by dolphins
Because Sardines really rule!
Sardines in Cornwall?
Sardines in a boat
Sardines are pilchards
Sliding down my throat!
Andrew Barham
Post Modern and De-Constructed Post Structuralism - Andrew Barham
The killing, crushing, loneliness,
Lost and all alone in the madding crowd –
Everyone wants to belong
So why can't I?
It's time to move on, time to go;
This is not the place to build a dream –
These times we live in …
We live in a Mercantile Age in which
The people who really govern us
Know to the nearest farthing
The price of everything
And the value of nothing,
But we don't even know that
As we stock up on the latest commodities –
Do we even care when the price we see is everything
No matter how high its hidden costs?
The merchants have bought us off with trinkets
Beddazzling us with a glittering array of shiny toys;
In the vast shopping malls
Cluttering up town and country alike
It's Chritsmas Day every day
When it isn't Boxing Day –
Black Friday …
Black Friday, the invention of the biggest box store in America
Is spreading round the world, becoming a pandemic.
In America, Black Friday coincides
With the day Americans give thanks
For the deliverance of their founding pilgrims
By the country's original inhabitants
Who were then ruthlessly exterminated
For the audacious and unforgiveable crime
Of being in the way
Of Progress …
“Gather round all you clowns
And let me hear you say,
'Hey! You've got to hide your love away!”
While they drag us towards our own extinction
In a world governed by Greed and Envy
Where Selfishness is protected by the Rule of Law
And the grasping claws of misers
Are thieving and gathering up every scrap they can glean
From the poor and the dispossessed
While they rob our children of their future
As we bow down our heads and give thanks
To the Seven Deadly Sins presiding over us
That they've spared us one more day
From the looming oblivion devouring our souls,
Is it too much to wish to be delivered
From the trespasses of those
Who trespass against us for the sake of personal gain?
When is enough enough?
When does it become too much?
How much wealth can any man have?
This seems to be the final question
As we pray for one more day
To see us through the endless night of eternal oblivion
Waiting in the shadows just beyond the next moment –
The aching, crushing loneliness
At the root of Existence …
Andrew Barham
Lost and all alone in the madding crowd –
Everyone wants to belong
So why can't I?
It's time to move on, time to go;
This is not the place to build a dream –
These times we live in …
We live in a Mercantile Age in which
The people who really govern us
Know to the nearest farthing
The price of everything
And the value of nothing,
But we don't even know that
As we stock up on the latest commodities –
Do we even care when the price we see is everything
No matter how high its hidden costs?
The merchants have bought us off with trinkets
Beddazzling us with a glittering array of shiny toys;
In the vast shopping malls
Cluttering up town and country alike
It's Chritsmas Day every day
When it isn't Boxing Day –
Black Friday …
Black Friday, the invention of the biggest box store in America
Is spreading round the world, becoming a pandemic.
In America, Black Friday coincides
With the day Americans give thanks
For the deliverance of their founding pilgrims
By the country's original inhabitants
Who were then ruthlessly exterminated
For the audacious and unforgiveable crime
Of being in the way
Of Progress …
“Gather round all you clowns
And let me hear you say,
'Hey! You've got to hide your love away!”
While they drag us towards our own extinction
In a world governed by Greed and Envy
Where Selfishness is protected by the Rule of Law
And the grasping claws of misers
Are thieving and gathering up every scrap they can glean
From the poor and the dispossessed
While they rob our children of their future
As we bow down our heads and give thanks
To the Seven Deadly Sins presiding over us
That they've spared us one more day
From the looming oblivion devouring our souls,
Is it too much to wish to be delivered
From the trespasses of those
Who trespass against us for the sake of personal gain?
When is enough enough?
When does it become too much?
How much wealth can any man have?
This seems to be the final question
As we pray for one more day
To see us through the endless night of eternal oblivion
Waiting in the shadows just beyond the next moment –
The aching, crushing loneliness
At the root of Existence …
Andrew Barham
History Lesson - Andrew Barham
That bright moment in Our shared History
When young people everywhere
Caught fire with an ideal sometime in the 60s,
Letting go, as they let down their hair
Of all the tired old rules and conventions,
Dancing in the street to a rock n roll beat:
New poetry, art and music – the invention
Of mixed media, back then, a novel treat
And all while promoting a philosophy
Of Peace, Love and Harmony,
"For we are all one," they said, "Join us in unity."
Since that long ago golden moment
Hatred and intolerance have returned
And when I look around I can only lament,
Wondering if, after all, we have ever learned
How to live together with each other.
When will we begin to see each other as we are?
Under the disguises we wear, we are all brothers
Sharing in the same universal despair.
I can feel your sadness reflected in your eyes
As you labour under your burden of care
Down deep where I can hear your hidden cries.
Yet, I can't forebear to confess
That I too have begun to feed off the growing hate
Whene'er I contemplate the sorry mess
We've made – the lamentable state
Of our shared world and our common affairs:
The people who lead us and should set an example
For us all to follow, have only led us to despair
As upon every good thing we've built they trample
Grinding us down, stamping our faces into the dirt –
For they have brought us to a new world without care
For the lost ones fallen by the wayside they've hurt.
Greed, selfishness and the forlorn pursuit of money
Have replaced the harmony of peace love and understanding;
Their promised land is not the land of milk and honey:
It is the empty state of endless demanding.
'Where will it go? Where does their ranked equation trend?'
I wonder as I gaze ahead into the murky distance,
'Is this a new beginning or have we finally reached the end?'
For I see only unending desolation wherever I glance.
Can we return to that bright promise of an era vanquished?
For if we don't get back to that blissful state of human unity
The equation's solution is that we will languish
In the Hell we've made for all Eternity.
Andrew Barham
When young people everywhere
Caught fire with an ideal sometime in the 60s,
Letting go, as they let down their hair
Of all the tired old rules and conventions,
Dancing in the street to a rock n roll beat:
New poetry, art and music – the invention
Of mixed media, back then, a novel treat
And all while promoting a philosophy
Of Peace, Love and Harmony,
"For we are all one," they said, "Join us in unity."
Since that long ago golden moment
Hatred and intolerance have returned
And when I look around I can only lament,
Wondering if, after all, we have ever learned
How to live together with each other.
When will we begin to see each other as we are?
Under the disguises we wear, we are all brothers
Sharing in the same universal despair.
I can feel your sadness reflected in your eyes
As you labour under your burden of care
Down deep where I can hear your hidden cries.
Yet, I can't forebear to confess
That I too have begun to feed off the growing hate
Whene'er I contemplate the sorry mess
We've made – the lamentable state
Of our shared world and our common affairs:
The people who lead us and should set an example
For us all to follow, have only led us to despair
As upon every good thing we've built they trample
Grinding us down, stamping our faces into the dirt –
For they have brought us to a new world without care
For the lost ones fallen by the wayside they've hurt.
Greed, selfishness and the forlorn pursuit of money
Have replaced the harmony of peace love and understanding;
Their promised land is not the land of milk and honey:
It is the empty state of endless demanding.
'Where will it go? Where does their ranked equation trend?'
I wonder as I gaze ahead into the murky distance,
'Is this a new beginning or have we finally reached the end?'
For I see only unending desolation wherever I glance.
Can we return to that bright promise of an era vanquished?
For if we don't get back to that blissful state of human unity
The equation's solution is that we will languish
In the Hell we've made for all Eternity.
Andrew Barham
Romantic Nihilist - Andrew Barham
Highlights golden in brilliant sunlight
Glow softly in your chestnut hair, a memory
As I wait outside these grey-stone walls ...
Acting on an impulse,
I grasp a handful of fallen leaves
Scattered on the cracked paving at my feet;
Gently, I toss them to the wind
And they are gone,
These wisps of amber and crimson.
Crystals of frozen water,
Glittering like tiny diamonds,
Gust up from the wall,
Swirling motes of light
That billow and eddy about my face
As they drift ground-wards
To settle at my feet.
The wall crumbles into ruin
With the passing of ghosts and time,
And soon, the snow reaches above my knees
To cover me completely
As the seasons revolve;
Until, one day, there is a wisp
Of chestnut hair, streaked with blue,
Scintillating with golden highlights
As the sun bursts through the skeletal ruins
Of the grey-stone wall;
Liquid snow seeps into the gullies and fissures
Formed by cracks in the jagged paving
Where new flowers bud
And spread wide their vivid inflorescence
Redolent of a rainbow,
As a hand, soft, gentle, and warm,
Touches mine, caressing away the wintry chill
Until I'm warmed through,
No longer frozen to this spot,
As we walk away
Into the brilliant sunlight ...
Andrew Barham
Glow softly in your chestnut hair, a memory
As I wait outside these grey-stone walls ...
Acting on an impulse,
I grasp a handful of fallen leaves
Scattered on the cracked paving at my feet;
Gently, I toss them to the wind
And they are gone,
These wisps of amber and crimson.
Crystals of frozen water,
Glittering like tiny diamonds,
Gust up from the wall,
Swirling motes of light
That billow and eddy about my face
As they drift ground-wards
To settle at my feet.
The wall crumbles into ruin
With the passing of ghosts and time,
And soon, the snow reaches above my knees
To cover me completely
As the seasons revolve;
Until, one day, there is a wisp
Of chestnut hair, streaked with blue,
Scintillating with golden highlights
As the sun bursts through the skeletal ruins
Of the grey-stone wall;
Liquid snow seeps into the gullies and fissures
Formed by cracks in the jagged paving
Where new flowers bud
And spread wide their vivid inflorescence
Redolent of a rainbow,
As a hand, soft, gentle, and warm,
Touches mine, caressing away the wintry chill
Until I'm warmed through,
No longer frozen to this spot,
As we walk away
Into the brilliant sunlight ...
Andrew Barham
Will The Revolution Be On Facebook? - Andrew Barham
The Revolution will not be televised
But it will be on Youtube
For our continued entertainment.
We will tweet it widely
Proclaiming its progress daily
Perhaps even hourly as it unfolds.
You'll confront it face on
In our status updates
And you won't need to google it,
Because it will be all over MySpace –
But, you Reddit here first!
And when it's all over
You'll be able to read about it
In Wikipedia.
Andrew Barham
But it will be on Youtube
For our continued entertainment.
We will tweet it widely
Proclaiming its progress daily
Perhaps even hourly as it unfolds.
You'll confront it face on
In our status updates
And you won't need to google it,
Because it will be all over MySpace –
But, you Reddit here first!
And when it's all over
You'll be able to read about it
In Wikipedia.
Andrew Barham
No Idea - Andrew Barham
Have I exhausted my muse,
Worn her out with my rambles
Through the inferno
Of poetic inspiration;
Or has the World of Man
Merely caught up with my poetry?
I ramble through ancient verse
Laid down long long ago
By the Poet of the Greenwood
Standing up for the Understory
Against the sheriffs
Of this mercantile age.
The world has indeed
Caught up with my poetry:
Those mercantile monarchs and lords
Who promised so much
As they accumulated everything
For a handful of bright beads;
I am no Little Sir John,
Though I chronicle our own hundred year war
Against these mercantile imperialists
As we skirmish and turn about
Winning a battle here and there
While we lose the war.
Just as it seems all hope is lost
And the new mighty evil empire
Is about to proclaim itself
Rulers of Earth for all time,
A tiny glimmer of sunlight appears
And steals through those dark massing clouds.
Sir John, patronised by
The kings and lords of his war,
Through access, gained a deeper insight
Into his own troubled times –
I am not Sir John, for I have no access,
But I am the Froissart of our age.
Andrew Barham
Worn her out with my rambles
Through the inferno
Of poetic inspiration;
Or has the World of Man
Merely caught up with my poetry?
I ramble through ancient verse
Laid down long long ago
By the Poet of the Greenwood
Standing up for the Understory
Against the sheriffs
Of this mercantile age.
The world has indeed
Caught up with my poetry:
Those mercantile monarchs and lords
Who promised so much
As they accumulated everything
For a handful of bright beads;
I am no Little Sir John,
Though I chronicle our own hundred year war
Against these mercantile imperialists
As we skirmish and turn about
Winning a battle here and there
While we lose the war.
Just as it seems all hope is lost
And the new mighty evil empire
Is about to proclaim itself
Rulers of Earth for all time,
A tiny glimmer of sunlight appears
And steals through those dark massing clouds.
Sir John, patronised by
The kings and lords of his war,
Through access, gained a deeper insight
Into his own troubled times –
I am not Sir John, for I have no access,
But I am the Froissart of our age.
Andrew Barham
The Inter-Stellar Medium - Andrew Barham
My heart is as full
As the space between
Stars distant from here
To eternity …
“Oh how I love you!”
I do remember
A young girl's caress
The touch of her hand
As soft as satin –
Have I grown so old
My heart grown so cold
I can love no more?
Such forgotten lore,
The tale whose ending
Far distant trending
Towards happiness
Ever after – No less! –
Breaks instead on shoals
Of those wedded goals
Not equally shared;
Unequally paired,
Two people in love,
A wolf and a dove …
Are we really one
Like the Moon and Sun,
The Yang and the Yin
Cycling out and in
As one becomes two
And I become you
As you become me?
Distant liberty …
Happily we met
Ever after sweet;
We thought we were set,
The world at our feet
An oyster we plucked
Whose sweet juice we sucked:
This story is old,
Has oft-times been told
Round the camp-fire's glow,
How she did bestow
Upon me her sweet grace;
Soft contours, her face
Alive with promise,
The promise of bliss
In her sparkling eyes –
Is it all just lies?
Why – I want to know –
Does it so wrong go?
What do we expect
From this thing called love?
Surely not regret!
But a treasure trove
As two tender hearts
Vow to never part!
Andrew Barham
As the space between
Stars distant from here
To eternity …
“Oh how I love you!”
I do remember
A young girl's caress
The touch of her hand
As soft as satin –
Have I grown so old
My heart grown so cold
I can love no more?
Such forgotten lore,
The tale whose ending
Far distant trending
Towards happiness
Ever after – No less! –
Breaks instead on shoals
Of those wedded goals
Not equally shared;
Unequally paired,
Two people in love,
A wolf and a dove …
Are we really one
Like the Moon and Sun,
The Yang and the Yin
Cycling out and in
As one becomes two
And I become you
As you become me?
Distant liberty …
Happily we met
Ever after sweet;
We thought we were set,
The world at our feet
An oyster we plucked
Whose sweet juice we sucked:
This story is old,
Has oft-times been told
Round the camp-fire's glow,
How she did bestow
Upon me her sweet grace;
Soft contours, her face
Alive with promise,
The promise of bliss
In her sparkling eyes –
Is it all just lies?
Why – I want to know –
Does it so wrong go?
What do we expect
From this thing called love?
Surely not regret!
But a treasure trove
As two tender hearts
Vow to never part!
Andrew Barham
Competition Winner - October 2013
I'm Not Looking For Nemo - Andrew Barham
I'm not looking for Nemo,
Just a safe haven to lay my eggs –
A bit of sand in a warm land
I can scoop out with my legs;
I'm not looking for Nemo
As I follow Ocean currents –
A clear stretch of sea that's free
Of driftnets and plastic debris;
I'm not looking for Nemo –
I've been around too long for that!
My ancestors were strong, my lineage long
Stretching back millions of years ago:
What need have I to look for Nemo?
Andrew Barham
Just a safe haven to lay my eggs –
A bit of sand in a warm land
I can scoop out with my legs;
I'm not looking for Nemo
As I follow Ocean currents –
A clear stretch of sea that's free
Of driftnets and plastic debris;
I'm not looking for Nemo –
I've been around too long for that!
My ancestors were strong, my lineage long
Stretching back millions of years ago:
What need have I to look for Nemo?
Andrew Barham
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