Poems from a Life

by Des Greene

  But the trust and understanding developed.

  And sheepishly say,

  I tried to be a good father.

  You

  That you were a pearl upon a tree

  That sank to the ocean depths

  And I found you.

  That you were a bee sting

  In barren deserts

  And I received you.

  That you were an ocean whale

  Aloft on Alpen peaks

  And I saw you.

  The news would spread afar

  And exultant with joy

  I’d cry

  I love you.

  And all I’d see anew

  Would be compared –

  With you.

  Pussy Footin’ About

  Pussy footin’ about,

  Gaping at views

  Of seas and mountains,

  Tripping on countryside

  And drinking pints.

  Terrible the thought

  Of such a deed

  When compared with these.

  Oh bitter fruit

  To upset all.

  Mature into the wine of reason.

  The sad aspect of a fencepost,

  Lost on the sand, tossed up by the sea,

  Barbed wire clinging,

  Tearing at sea bed,

  Now exhausted on the beach.

  How I dream of cherries.

  Conflict

  Something inside wants to escape

  Take to the road and run.

  Sweat drops on eyelids

  And muscle aches.

  This is the time to begin.

  To end all that upsets.

  The thought of you upsets.

  Extra urgency and quickening of pace.

  Breathing now so hard.

  Pain strikes through the body

  And brain dulls.

  This is near the end.

  To begin to think anew.

  Fresh thoughts on others.

  Slowing down realization comes.

  Hope and hopelessness return in conflict.

  Mind once more meanders

  And yearns for

  That is not to be had.

  To loose all that love

  Would be sad.

  Memory of a Moment in Childhood 1

  So much for a bottle of rum

  And casting your spirits away.

  It deadens the mind

  But not the soul.

  There dwells the glistening diamond,

  Prized personally more than all,

  all being what is desired.

  Set out in splendour is

  The ultimate prize and goal

  Which is forever indefinable.

  Yo ho and a bottle of rum

  And the wind shakes the leaves

  And the trees are in motion

  And birds fly hither

  And around the house.

  All is quiet.

  Hear the silence and dream.

  Memories of a moment in childhood 2

  Crows nests as black spots

  In autumnal trees

  In the dying orchard

  Where the small stream passes by.

  Over the stile there is a well

  Where we sipped of cool clear water

  And thought it did us good.

  In the nearby fields grew potatoes

  And yonder in rocky fields grazed sheep.

  Down by the main river land was water logged,

  Yet joyous and good.

  Clearly flowed the water

  But cold

  To paddle within and hurt

  Our feet on the stones.

  What days were spent there

  Dreaming of being like rabbits

  That scuttled about from

  Burrow to burrow.

  This was a small burrow in our life.

  The sheep cropped the grass thin

  And few daisies survived

  And the tired workhorse

  Trampled on them amid sheep droppings

  And the corncrake sang

  And all wondered where she was.

  Days I spent chasing the corncrake

  The mysterious sound from the meadow

  Haunted me and delighted.

  The hawthorns along the boreen,

  The rusty iron gate,

  The wild daisies by the cart track,

  All are as a vision

  Once beautiful, now gone.

  Memory of a Moment in Childhood 3

  Searching under cropped hedges

  The discovery of rusted tins

  Of outdated peas – brand unknown.

  The precise way the hedge is cut,

  The narrow lawn,

  The gate leading to nowhere.

  Onto the meadow,

  Two pillars at the entrance.

  Days of rapture not work

  Where the sun seems to shine

  And the day is golden

  And bees reveal their honey

  Under the blade of the scythe.

  Sweat rewarded by sweetness

  Sweetness repaid for by pain

  Of the occasional sting of a dying bee.

  Summer in its prime.

  The haycocks at random

  And starlings in their midst

  Search for their food.

  In the orchard the apples, the hard pears

  And the delicacy, the plums.

  Whilst the small stream still flows

  Its clear water pure.

  And nettles overgrown

  And thatch cottage decay.

  New house with hedges and lawn,

  Dampens with overburden of trees

  Backyard covers with pine needles

  And crows caw.

  The eternal lonely sound of crows,

  Their nests to abandon.

  Out on the main road the sound

  Of passing traffic

  To destroy

  What once was beautiful.

  To Think

  To think sometimes is to stand on the grassy bank and survey the valley

  To look into the deep greying clouds embalming the lone seagull

  To microscopically examine the raindrops clinging to the grass

  To look inside and pull up the heart on its strings

  The dead weight of the clouds is as a feather

  While I toil to ratchet up the burden in my breast

  Powered by the turmoil in my mind

  Strain on my neck.

  Breathless.