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Index of poems:
- A late Knight
- A Morven Flitting
- A Trying Time
- Forever Yours
- Hallowe'en Midnight
- Landfall
- Late Summer Sale
- Reflections In Autumn
- Sanctuary?
- Stella Polaris
Down by the lake the dusty road Passes a lady's sweet abode, And on that way, in stately mode Accoutred palfreys take their load To many towered Camelot. In lakeside house this girl did dwell, Sat spinning spells, but truth to tell The bonny lass was bored to hell, The Lady of Shallot. And time and oft, with languorous sigh She'd put her magic shuttle by, And through her window cast an eye On mounted beef-cake passing by: Knight errant bound for Camelot. She watched the passing show, and then From all that knightly stream of men, For Launcelot she nursed a yen, The Lady of Shallot. It chanced that on a certain day, Dressed up in knightly tin array, Loud carolling a roundelay, Sir Launcelot was on his way A-clanking down to Camelot. The lakeside lady called him in, And over drinks of lime and gin His manly favours sought to win; The Lady of Shallot Said Lance I really cannot stay Let's meet upon another day, If I am late they'll dock my pay, I cannot loiter on my way To Arthur's fabled Camelot. On Tuesday week then let us dine, The lady said that suits me fine, Lance thought, the girlie looked divine. The Lady of Shallot. But back at good King Arthur's court He found his plans would come to nought. A wedding present must be bought, For Arthur meant to take consort On Tuesday week in Camelot. That would fix his longed for date, But never mind he would be late His bit of stuff would have to wait; The Lady of Shallot On Tuesday week the king was wed, And table round, with booze was spread, And many jousting Knights were dead Before the pair went off to bed In whoopee making Camelot. Brave Launcelot tripped with the best, Fair maidens pressed his manly chest, He clean forgot in party zest The Lady of Shallot. But all good things must have an end, And Arthur now with time to spend, Did frowsty Knights on errant send Save Launcelot his special friend. Our lover boy in Camelot, Recovering from Brahms and Liszt, Remembered the lakeside tryst And burning promise, when he'd kissed The Lady of Shallot. With steely helmet plumed fine, And breastplate brasso'ed to a shine, And Tasset clinking marching time, And knocking back a horn of wine Our lad rode out of Camelot. Arriving at the lakeside door, He thought his welcome rather poor. His paramour looked rather sore, The Lady of Shallot. Kick not your greaves behind the bed, Take not your helm from curly head, Do not unclip your gorget red. The irritated lady said To burning knight from Camelot. Oh Knightly Sir, please do not flip - Your codpiece you must not unzip - She only offered quiet kip The Lady of Shallot. But now, the puzzled knightly Lance Told of the Royal happenstance. Still hopeful with a heated glance. Said Lady, you have missed your chance Knight lately come from Camelot. The Lady wishing she were dead, Blushed pink and hung her pretty head, The Curse has come upon me, said The Lady of Shallot.
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The rain came at even, with the Baillies; The officers stinking of beer and beef. Armed with cudgels and the scrip of the law, To smash my homestead, and drown me in grief While the black ships wait offshore. The Laird's men trampled my tatties and neeps And smashed their way through my cottage's door, Syneing my homefire to reeking black ash; Herding my kin to the desolate moor. While the black ships wait offshore. The great Laird had a mind to enclosure, And we had nae wool on our backs. They denied us a night under our eaves, We must go; with our home in our packs. And the black ships wait offshore. Long through the wet night we carried our traps. Loath from our Drimnin homestead to depart, And the leaping flame from my poor croft's roof Lit a flame of rage, carried in my heart To the black ships now offshore. Now, fat sheep, droppings, pile in my ingle. The lean fox slinks over my cold hearth stones. Capercaillie strut, where Jean and I loved; While we seek rest for our weary old bones In the black ships far offshore. For the grim forests of Nova Scotia Wait, for the feel of our strong Scottish arms. We'll carve a new land from this wilderness; We leave to build our New World farms From the black ships, moored offshore. Two hundred years have sent their suns to bed. Sturdy feet tread the windswept Morven shore. A New World twang, hunts it's ancestral plaid. The Laird and Lowland shepherds are no more. As a cruise ship waits offshore.
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Gatwick 'Arrivals'; and I wait to greet my love, A patient vigil when she's working, done it before. The Mombassa plane descends from the skies above, Bringing her from holiday on Africa's shore. An hour through Customs; frowns and impatient pacing, At last the auto doors debouch the human tide And now, she comes: Hell! why are my heart-beats racing And snake-like, fears, uncoiling in my inside. For what came through the door was certainly her shape, Short boyish hair, dark skin, dress, high fashion indeed, But the unsmiling face, blank eyes and lips agape, Told of the guilty pregnancy with foreign seed. Usual greeting, banalities to cover The broken life ends, as by car homeward we went. Later, she told of her jolly German lover And my coming; necessary; abandonment. Fear to disbelief: it couldn't happen to me, I'd cooked and cleaned, and cared for her as a mother So's she could fly the Airways, smart and fancy free, At least it was involvement; one with another. Later years, and maturity's glaring hindsight, Led me with painful logic to discover, My lack of tenderness; my pessimistic light, Made inevitable, the fat, jolly, lover. But for now, disbelief turned to green-eyed rage As through the night, beside the jade I tossed and turned, Pulsing blood hammered in my skull, brains fragile cage, And red demons stoked the fires that inside me burned. I would fly to Sweden; where the cuckoo lingered; I would plead with him; though respite would seem remote. Or, to Sweden: where the draft dodger malingered And, with fiendish pleasure cut the fat bastard's throat Day long the knife twisted, sapping vitality. Night after night, the hammers battered at my brain. No easement, no hint, of that unstrained quality That droppeth from heaven's height, as the gentle rain. I wondered how a human being could stand it, Rocketing from jealous rage to dark despairing, Fourteen days, contemplating the marriage bandit. Two stone weight loss, mind dead, and past all caring. Sore trial exposes the metal of which we are made, Resource of spirit was found, cold reason arrived. I sought no help, prayed to no gods for selfish aid; Burnt out; but world indiff'r'nt I had survived. Indifferent? Yes; lacking any human feeling I wandered among London's motorised quick death. Careless of harm, I'd set the motor horns squealing, To return the insult I didn't waste the breath. Civilised yet, I saw her off to her lover, Then started dis-entanglement the legal way. With gruesome blanket of self pity for cover, Set to fill the awful void of the working day. Workmates looked askance at the marital reject, A leprous man would have been better understood. Many days lost as I fled, a broken deject, At home to hide, the bitter and unmanly flood. But it's an ill wind they say that's nobody's friend, At least I was free of the inane party round, Where open thighs and priapic sport seemed the only end To any human connection one might have found. Time; the great healer, anointed the gaping wound. The world, at last, now started to offer it's charms. Two wonderful people, scorned not what they had found But gathered me to their bosom with loving arms. One day they took me to visit a foundling place, There stood a beautiful angel wearing a frown And what-the-hell-d' you-mean-by-calling-at-this-hour face And slippers, and blue slightly felted, dressing gown. That long neglected coal had started to glimmer, Wary of soon burnt-out passion; seeking rapport, A gentle love grew, kept quietly, to, 'simmer' Book-ends together, giving each other support. Looking back from the climacteric's dizzy height, On marriage's three decades and three year span From the ashes I must have learned some lessons right, No phoenix; but, an older and much wiser man.
And in our time we will walk hand in hand, And taste the ecstasy of twined limbs. Our minds linked in imaginations flights, Until our term has run its fleeting course. Melting, our limbs return to Mother Earth In wooden time machine's dissolving wall. And you'll be there, And I'll be there, Waiting our resurrection trumpet call. Our slowing earth will run its sling-shot flight. Incendiary Sun grown dim and old, And soon, in terror, busy sapient child In fiery death its ageing arms enfold. And one by one the circling planets will Be gathered in the astronautic ash. And you'll be there, And I'll be there Circling in the shrinking cosmic trash. In clockless time, our brilliant galaxy, Extinguishing its myriad twinkling stars Will draw together under Gravity, And then become the icy Inky Way. Then will all matter now be turned to dark, In blackest hole now forced to take its chance. And you'll be there, And I'll be there, Our composites in coriolis dance. In universal time our stygian cell Will waken, in a Supernova flash. Then jewelled stars will occupy the void. The ruling God of gravity will cause Galactic wisps to close and form an Earth, Circling, a new and brilliant infant sun. And you'll be there, And I'll be there. The clock of night and day will start to run. Our seeds maturing in millennia days Slowly will transform to human shape. And when the dinosaurs have had their day And a thousand Christ's are born and slain, When new white houses climb the greening hills A tiny life will blossom as a rose And you'll be there. And I'll be there, Naked in my resurrection clothes. And we will grow, and prosper as before, Together drawn by love's bejewelled chain. Tasting again the ecstasies of love, Walking companionship's green shaded lanes. And hand in hand, we will begin again Our wondrous journey through eternity And you'll be there - And I'll be there Forever - yours in perpetuity
Hallowe'en Midnight
© Tom Riley
Nature's call pre-empts the distant church annunciation of the black traffic hour. Frowning I lumber towards relief, through the thinking house. Feet plough the furrow of the years with their own mind, but at the chimes, The blanket of warm darkness rests uneasily on the psychic sense. I gaze at the sightless window, as needles of childhood prick the edge of knowing - Do they walk to-night: the bridge of October and November? Three score and ten, smile at remembered terrors of the flowering years And long to hear the rustle of the grave clothes. Racing clouds shred the faint luminescence of the now virtual world As I return, to the rhythmic music she makes: at peace for the moment. No God, fawning Saints, chanting Angels, or eternal roast, signposts me. My Heaven, my Earth, my Cosmos lies there and gives me being. I am content.
The sentinels of the lonely road passing in revue As we turn our little white ship westward. Names, conjured by rough seamen, hardy, practical and true. Guardians of our rugged island seaboard. Gurnard, Salt Mead, Hampstead Ledge, Sconce - then south-west to the Bridge The watch on duty now taking it's turn. Course, southwards, into live sinusoidal valley and ridge. Homely Needles, dimly fading astern. Darkness slowly descends, on our heaving watery world. Swelling sails harness the winds wild horses. Watch below making supper, Nav-lights glowing, Ensign furled, The deck watch swaying to the sea's forces. The steady crunch of our bow wave, measures the passing hours The air pressure drops, a few millibars. Wind rising, waves rising Aeolus now shows his powers. Mast-head light writes love letters in the stars. Quietly, the deck-watch reduce the straining ghostly sails, Our ship steadying again to her work. To welcome refreshments at midnight, the watch never fails The watch below are dug out from where they lurk. Up and down the Channel the slowly passing lights are seen, Configured, to give warning to our crew. Each glowing group, marks a tired but watchful human team; Our thoughts with lonely seamen passing through. The night grows chill, the helm is changed, our eyes strain to the east Hoping for the first faint hint of the dawn. Slowly the blessed light spreads; from the night's vigil released Our gaze turns south, as a new day is born. An empty, ceaselessly moving world greets our tired eyes. The sun awakes and starts his daily loop. Agoraphobic pressure underlines our enterprise, Exposing, the small stature of our group Dead reckoning checked, anticipation, grows with our fears Will the edge of the dry world never come! A sudden shout! and faintly a thin grey line appears And the tiny black speck of C.H.1. Slowly, the grey line takes on a name and horizon hard. We shape course for Cherbourg, entrance, de l'Ouest. Stemming a sluicing tide we crab sideways into the Rade. Thoughts turn to wine, Bistro's - but first a rest. Seven individuals slipped the moorings at the Wight. A team, passed the new French Marina sign. Welded together by shared dependence in the night And, thrilling magic of the thin grey line.
Drifting veils hold back the dawn in morning fields, Swirling to each tiny current of the air. Hiding the Arachnids waiting nets of lace And home-bound Reynard; with greasy smiling face. Pink fingered Wood Mouse, with eyes and ears alert Feasts on the blackberry's rich sweet juicy spurt. Gliding in from the hedges, with watchful care, Rock Doves ferret for what the late stubble yields For, in the still misty air, they hear the cry; Quick! quick! buy now! buy! the biting cold is nigh. Martins, Swifts, Swallows, line the pendant cable, Not now so many as in my youthful days: When tired crowds bent the graceful catenary, Urgent travellers in dusty scenery, Chatting of Yorkshire eaves and African sun, (Now sacrificed to French and Italian gun.) Trees blush for their tattered dress in sunlit haze, Late cob-nuts fall softly, to nature's table, The gorg'd and busy squirrel still heeds the cry; Quick! quick! buy now! buy! the biting cold is nigh. Westering sun and dust motes swirl in the beams. Nature, moodily looks to the Equinox. Sycamore wings spiral slowly to the ground Turning, turning, round and around and around. Finches flash on the umbelliferous weeds, Gorging on Thistle and Angelica seeds. The hammer is raised to chime the earth's clocks. Wise animals know why nature's bounty teems, They scurry, and store, and heed the urgent cry; Quick! quick! buy now! buy! the biting cold is nigh. Late summer, comes to us, with soft slipper'd tread; Stealing upon us dancing through busy life. Leaves of acquaintance fall, and through the spaces The bare branches reveal life's stony faces. But, sometimes a quirky spirit is revealed, A diamond intellect, before, concealed. Ignore the threat of living's terminal strife. File to pending, the memory of the dead. Clasp to your bosom! obey the urgent cry! Quick! quick! buy now! buy! the biting cold is nigh. Back to topReflections In Autumn
© Tom Riley
The frost's white match has set the woods ablaze, Small mammals gorge to temporary death; Sunset's crimson blush ends the short'ning days, The cooling year vapourises the breath. Fletching, the geese appear on tireless wing And I reflect the passing of the year, The once bright, broken promises of spring And, forward to the icy winter's fear. But! I have flown with wild geese, far and wide, Thrilled, to music's voice soaring to the skies, Shared love, and poetic passions tide; Gazed on innocence in an infant's eyes. Careless; I face survival's battle rage As blind Nature reaches to turn the page. Back to topSanctuary?
© Tom Riley
The light was never very brilliant. Tall narrow windows clouded with colour Made holy gloom, that warmly held the bright Candle-glow invitations, beckoning To the seven year old tyro sinner, Tendrils of holy forgiveness and love. For the vaulted quiet building loved me. In Leyfield School, West Derby, Liverpool. Where lone parent jettisoned his offspring, To be fed clothed and taught the love of God, With catechism, and brutality. My only sanctuary was the church. I was safe in its pin-drop silent arms; No terrors of the everyday intrude. I caressed the warmth of red, waxed pine, And bathed in the smiles of the plaster saints, Breathing the lingering air of incense. The Sanctuary lamp stood sentinel. New bloused and trousered, shining morning faced I knelt the rail, for first Communion. Sensing, for very few blissful moments The warm protection of the Sacrament. Wondering as the little Host dissolved, Did my head radiate an aureole? Grown, I took service in the holy rites. Thrilled to the eternal Tridentine play, Solemnly poured the sacramental wine, Scented the air with swinging thurible. Sing-song ‘Adeum, qui laetificat,’ The flowing Latin phrase I learned to say. I trembled on Good Friday afternoons, Expecting at three, the whole earth to quake. All shining brass covered in purple shroud As I travelled the Stations of the Cross. Bending the knee and murmuring my prayer At every painful busy painted plaque. But oh! Deliverance on Easter morn. Blaze of candle shine and beeswax odours, Tall lilies decorating the Altar, Heady incense clouding the solemn Mass. Youthful choir singing plain-chant triumphant, Heart uplifted with the eternal play. I played my part in holy luxury, Counterpointing my drab secular days With fine linens and exquisite vestments. Crosses of rich embroidery for Feasts; Silken white and purple for Requiem. Sacred utensils in silver and gold. And brilliant flowers on the hallowed days. Iris and Daffodils in early Spring, Roses, cascading from the brassy vase, Taut Gladioli pointing at the beams. Massed Chrysanthemums in white gold and bronze, Soft rounded heads all smelling of the grave. Through many a year I carried with me The memory of that warm silent room. Walking through London’s grime in stubborn search, Seeking in times of stress the antidote Of dedicated silence, only found In quiet holy consecrated Hall. Fifty years had shredded my young beliefs As I returned, to my youth’s prison ground. Now a cheerful Catholic College proud. In holiday time, not a soul around. Wondering, I tread the old corridors Memories of childhood flooding my brain. I ascend to the haven of my youth. Bravely I tread the three flights to the doors, Push wide the same oak that oft bumped my head, Stared, at the sunlit sacrilege I see. The horror of stark pews by Habitat. I wept, for the Altar by IKEA. Here was a field, set for a barbecue. Salvation packaged in a plastic pack. Religion’s sails trimmed to the I.T. wind; Humanity slashed from the searching soul. As the pain of loss ravaged my inside, The last flame of belief guttered and died.Back to top
Though moved by the relentless circling moon, To sometimes thorny answers and debate, And media's hearts and flowers calls the tune, When passion's drive needs more than tete-a-tete; Circled by the world's false-friendly clamour And acts inimical, on every hand, You wear innocence like shining armour, To comfort me and evil countermand; Your beauty, which in magic younger days O'erfilled the mind, and drove the pulsing blood; With soul's maturing, softer, calmer, rays, Now shines in lovely, radiant, womanhood. In love; I give you, all I have to give, Without your guiding light, I cannot live.
