Music

Rock anthems make me punch the sky,
A ballad makes me swoon,
Absorbed in Pink Floyd passing by
The dark side of the moon.

The anger of the Pistols when
They left the Queen repulsed,
The sound of Blondie luring men,
The Martian war of Holst.

I capsize in the yellow of
The Beatles' submarine,
I linger in the mellow of
Pastoral Fairport green.

From Elvis to Manchester pain,
From Sparks to XTC,
It's no good, I just can't explain
What music does to me.


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Same here Scottie, I never throw away jottings on old scraps of paper. Looking at them weeks later, they can spark new material or fit something they didn't at the time. The examples you gave are all intruiging and full of strong imagery. I like the single teardrop poems and the Hebrides and clown ones are fascinating too

Thanks John, I never got a chance to answer your post last time

Cheers Frank Limited edit time meant mistakes stayed in Janet & prudence, worst of all in the repetition of 'town'. I can't stand repeating words close together

Thanks for your kind words my friend. I hope Biz is alright, this her longest absence from the thread

(prompted by Musty's latest)
music makers

music makers
silence breakers
where would we be
without them?
I for one would be left with
way too many thoughts
on this and that
and reasons I should doubt them

By the way Musty I'm doing a USA National Poetry Month sub elsewhere daily, will try to keep in touch Frank.

Wishing you abundant skills for the poetry month Frank, and I enjoyed your and Musty's music tributes. All seconded of course. Usual subject matter from me. Inspired by discussions:

Home Baking.

Ain't no knowledge without learning.
Ain't no truth without discerning.
Can't have infinity.
No perfection I can see.

Draw a circle in your mind.
At the centre you find
a lovely piece of cake,
but the baker's on the make
and he wants your very soul
for an infinite roll.

There's other kinds of food
and it isn't being rude
to argue that the deal
isn't even real.

Faith in the hereafter
may lead to disaster
in my humble view.
So tell me something new.

Faithful soldier to the end,
Marches with no hesitation.
No mercy for my special friend,
It will indeed wreck our foundations.

True. Not an uncommon trend.
We shall soon be unfixed
And this we both did comprehend.

Though in long nights of Winter,
Never did I truly consider
That fateful day we must spliter.

But then he sprung an hour foward,
And though our days are longer,
They are numbered and we are surely conquered.

It's always nice to prompt a poetic ricochet Where would we be without music makers indeed Frank? For me, certain songs bring back the past, what I was immersed in at the time. They are psychological signposts and nothing else conjures up old emotions better

Good luck with the American Poetry thing by the way Frank


A fascinating recipe of thought again John I do have faith but I keep it to myself - a lot of problems come when believers trumpet their ideals. I go my own way without a flock or Book of rules. Enjoyed the poem


An intriguing poem of unrest Daznov It seems to be about two soldiers who are split up by duty or possibly death. I may be wrong but either way I enjoyed the tale

Mavis's Third Leg

Hello Jean, heard the latest?
Sit down, this is no ruse,
It really is the greatest,
You won't believe the news!

I said to Mrs Davis
Who couldn't quite take stock,
When I bumped into Mavis,
I nearly dropped with shock.

While living as a hermit,
Believe me Jean, I beg -
I really must confirm it,
She grew another leg!

She made the point it's handy,
Old Mavis told me how
She's still extremely bandy
But no one sees that now.

Oh God it's such a riddle,
It's on the right-hand side,
Her right one's in the middle,
The left one sticks out wide.

And Ted is discontented,
In bed it stops their play,
Each time she has consented
Three thighs gets in the way.

The bike's for sale, though Teddie
Said peddling's kept her slim,
It's hard to cycle steady
When you've an extra limb.

She tends to contemplate now
The song called Jake the Peg;
Well Jean, you're up to date now
On Mavis's third leg.


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Smilodon

The Smilodon let's study,
Red sabre-toothed, paws muddy,
A cat who guzzled bloody.

Ten inches, fangs were hanging
And roars would start drums banging,
Alarm bells on and clanging.

Noise stopped, abrupt suspension
Until fear's intervention
And silent creeping tension.

Men gripped the spears that never
Could muzzle once or tether
The fiercesome fangs that sever.

The cat pounced only when you
Felt safe in some green venue;
A mammal on the menu.

The wild ones made a bee-line,
This sabre-toothed and free line,
Hail Smilodon, the feline.


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O Rossetti

O Rossetti
No confetti
Lights your touching art,
O Rossetti
Heal my petty
Unrequited heart.

Lizzie Siddal
Was a riddle
And a femme fatale,
Anyone tries
Laudanum sighs
Softly and turns pale.

She you painted
Chose a tainted
Suicidal way,
Crosses varnished
When love's tarnished
Each man rues the day.

O Rossetti
Sorrow's jetty
Moors us to the dead,
But you'd shun that
With the one that
William Morris wed.

Jane you'd follow,
Drown and wallow
In her eerie grace,
Gorgeous, broody
Deep and moody
Jane's intensive face.

O Rossetti
Women glow in
Portraits left by you,
When I partake
In a heartache
Only they will do.


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Waving

High on a mountain
low on a tree
sits a talkative birdy
waving at me

Brilliant Sandy I love your nature poems

Waterfall

A waterfall with waves like milk
Foamed till my mind transcended,
The water looked as soft as silk,
How lovely it descended.

Surrounded by a forest sheen,
Its secret home was hooded,
An overlooked and pleasant scene
In regions thickly wooded.

Tides fell like colonnades onto
A stream where they perfected
Delightful stars of splashing blue
And sunlight was reflected.

I still think of the waterfall,
What harmony was seen there,
I felt as if I'd heard the call
Of god within his green lair.


©

Thanks Musty

Nature speaks, in the only way it can.

Your poems speak of variations and directions.

Inspired by the painting 'Windows in the West' by Avril Paton

http://www.glasgowwestend.co.uk/people/avrilpaton.php



Windows in The West

Red slabs of sandstone,
slow weathered in time and lives,
a neighbourhood stacked.

Set, close upon close,
dwellings carved in ancient stone,
step to step apart.

Windows in the west
draw the spreading scarlet glow
of waking street lamps.

Lives spread, front to rear,
humdrum domesticity
played out day on day.

Night falls, glow-worm lit
window-casts mottle the street
while voyeurs steal past.

Windows set in stone,
impressed patchwork of lime-light,
each framing its show.

Nightly lit-to-view
stacked proscenium windows
play supporting acts.

Shapes shift in each space,
each out of time, out of pace,
white noise to the eye.

A dull, nightly glow,
a show slowly unfolding
in generations.

A hopscotch of light
shuttered at each curtain-fall,
lives now unobserved.

Drawn curtains close in
unspeakable acts, snatched from
the voyeur’s hard gaze.

The night’s performance
drawn down to a shadowplay
of banality.

^^ Real poetry that is scottie. Wonderful to watch.

Eternal Doubt.

I heard it from a blackbird.
All words are absurd.
All concepts best before
their reasons to implore.

Later on the same day
life took my breath away
and everything I ever knew
turned the sky a shade of blue.

Fun is in the finding out.
I drink to eternal doubt.

Masters View

I am addicted to sport
Masters golf for four
of its red letter days
is a pre Easter feast
an annual fest l fete
with zeal and zest
and await with much
bated anticipation.
It matches feats of
great achievement
with visual treats
a pleasure to comport
this couchpotato
self before, that’s me
and my widescreen
TV for hour on hour
gripped by the fatal
power of vicarious
pleasure a literal
treasure: Augusta’s
georgeous green
Georgian vistas to
gratefully gorge on.

T. Rex on the TV

Top of the Pops, a dream came true
When teenage prison walls fell through,
A singer bopped and haunted too.

As Telegram Sam's presence showed
A metal guru's figure glowed,
Three minutes making life explode.

The dead of school he would anull,
He took me from its wasted skull
To Beltane, where suns never dull.

Guitar and bongos filled the air,
Marc posed and gave an elfin stare
For people who were young and fair.

If our front room was ever lit
By golden runes of love that hit,
T. Rex on the TV were it.


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Another well-constructed and absorbing write Scottie I'm unfamiliar with the artist, but you certainly brought her work to life


Who knows what a blackbird's thinking John? William Blake made the same point about a sparrow. I like the sudden burst of joy in this poem, some of the best moments in life are unexpected


Nice golfing ode Frank I caught a bit of Bubba's tearful reaction on the news - well done to him

It looks like Biz has left the DS building What a shame, I do miss her and hope she's alright

Titanic's Sinking

15th April Nineteen Twelve a date in history's pages
in which to delve, how many folk died that day, like
any other, as harsh mortality went on its morbid way
no stats can say. Most mundane fatality is not news.
But this was the hot story for the papers of a disaster;
multiple deaths in a frozen cold hell of icebound sea.
frantic people fighting for life in dire plight. Mad panic
in the North Atlantic on the steamship RMS "Titanic."

(also am aware of a sad synchronisity today because of the Hillsborough tragedy). Frank , 15 April.

A thoughtful tribute to a tragedy that eternally catches the public imagination. Well written as ever Frank. I see a menu from the Titanic is about to be auctioned for some incredible amount

Elegy

I walk among faded flowers,
toppled grey headstones,
binding weeds.
A deep faint odour stains my senses.

Each stone marks the final deposit of melting tissue and bones.
Each stone marks a life summed up in a few letters and numbers.
A lost place of pilgrimage,
a source of guilty neglect.

Why put me in a strange place laying with strange people?

The Cloud

The vale looked so light and verdant
As I trekked across the way,
Till a cloud appeared in the distance,
A juggernaut vast and grey.

No shower or bolts of lightning,
No storm-driven gusts were planned,
Just a battleship slowly sailing
Over surrendered land.

The countryside lost importance
As the cloud enlarged on high,
A dark uninvited vision
Filling the canvas of sky.

That all-enveloping giant
Conquered from west to east;
While horizons were drained of colour,
Regions of shadow increased.

Despite the looming oppression
And lack of anything blue
I never sensed total foreboding
And smiled when the sun broke through.

I noticed that beams were now shining,
A reprieve had been allowed
And angels arrived in the darkness
Of a suddenly changing cloud.


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