Christmas Snow Poem by John Calvert

SNOW CLEARING

All day we met the snow, on every curve
Each locked white cutting, as we heaved the weight
Three coupled engines, plough at either end
We sliced the edge of air with loco breath
Rasping as pistons kicked compacted white
And stuttering drive wheels spun on skidding rail
As snow lobbed handfuls past our tarpulined dark
We crept back, til we charged blankness, again
We rammed, we thudded , winter nudged aside
There on the footplate steam and steel rejoiced
And in that emptied landscape, nothing moved
Along the tick of telegraph and fence
A struggling afternoon drew evening down
Already freezing on our driven line

John Calvert 2015

 

10003121_682386881800698_2089193791_n

Advertisements

CHESTER WALLS, a poem by Maureen Weldon

 

 CHESTER WALLS

 

Warm evening

tranquil greens (freshly mown)

beneath King Charles Tower.

 

Midges dance through a bangle of sun

now dipping gold on distant Welsh hills.

Beneath me pink blossom and new-leafed trees.

 

I stand on the old Roman Walls

alone and not alone

sucked in a bliss of ages past.

 

As the last birds sing in the twilight air,

the Evening Star winks her knowing eye.

 

Maureen Weldon 

 

Copyright © Maureen Weldon 2002

[Included in the author’s pamphlet EARTH TIDES, Poetry Monthly Press, 2002.  Most recently published in Reflections, Issue 94.]

Shag Tobacco

In my wee poem below I try to convey a certain feeling that comes over me sometimes, wandering the banks of the River Weaver.

Best Wishes to you all for 2015.

 

SHAG TOBACCO

 

A wisp of shag tobacco, perhaps?

A balloon adrift in the valley,

self-esteem a snapped mooring.

 

So the willowed water’s edge I wander,

sun glaring from plankton depths,

brain percolating,

florescent fungus twitching with broom.

 

Humble I connect.

Proud and the poetry eludes me.

A wisp of shag tobacco, perhaps?

 

Paul Beech

 

Copyright © Paul Beech 2015

[First published on the author’s blog, Grandy’s Landing.]

 

Box Brownie

 

One day last spring I opened the brown canvas case that had lain gathering dust in a corner of my study.  From it I took the camera I had as a Lancashire lad in the late-50s, my Kodak Brownie Flash II.  I was a keen young photographer back then, proud of my “Box Brownie”, the first camera I’d ever owned.  The funny thing was how familiar it still felt as I ran my fingertips over its black leatherette skin.  Looking through the viewfinder for the first time in over half a century brought a lump to my throat and sent me in search of old albums…

 

BOX BROWNIE

 

My old Box Brownie, parents young I clicked.

Tenderly still, in black-and-white, they cling;

Penmaenmawr sunsets for my album picked.

My old Box Brownie, parents young I clicked,

Barely out of short trousers, my quiff slicked.

Viewfinder clear, I feel you near and sing.

 

My old Box Brownie, parents young I clicked;

Tenderly still, in black-and-white, they cling.

 

Paul Beech

 

Copyright © Paul Beech 2014

(Previously published on Linkedin and the author’s own blog, Grandy’s Landing.)

Hexed

 

Here’s a Halloween triolet in which I eschew the usual trappings…

 

HEXED

 

Temptress, witch, you live atop the valley;

I know of you not one thing but evil.

Helpless, hexed, I too am drawn to dally.

Temptress, witch, you live atop the valley;

My soiled heart you add to your tally.

Head clasped, I deny the grubbing weevil.

Temptress, witch, you live atop the valley;

I know of you not one thing but evil…

 

Paul Beech

 

Copyright © Paul Beech 2013

[Previously published on Linkedin and the author’s own blog, Grandy’s Landing.]

Poems for National Poetry Day 2014

 

Today is National Poetry Day 2014 and the theme for this year is REMEMBER.

Below are contributions from myself and Maureen Weldon.

In the following poem I remember a certain someone from long, long ago. I wrote ‘Rainy Dates’ wandering Talacre beach in North Wales and inscribed the first stanza in the sand with a razor shell as a pair of cormorants headed west beyond the lighthouse, low over waves burnished gold in the sunset…

 

RAINY DATES

 

Cats sprawl in the sun,

Kids throw snowballs in winter,

Your eyes haunt me still.

 

Rainy dates long ago,

Dry white and mandolin,

Steamy breath mingling.

 

Echoes of the anvil,

Victorian lamplight,

Hand in hand, alone.

 

Scents of the earth,

Spirits on the ether,

Our shadows in timeless flight.

 

A kiss beneath dripping boughs,

Your smile and words so simple:

“You’ve come home.”

 

Haiku inscribed in the sand,

Cormorants at sunset,

Dreamy blue eyes.

 

Paul Beech

 

Copyright © Paul Beech 2008

[Originally published on Airings, Autumn 2008]

~~

Over to Maureen…

 

A couple of years ago I went on a workshop to this extraordinary place, a place never to be forgotten.

RHYDYMWYN

 

Yesterday was a walking day,

in a Welsh Valley – whispers

past an ice age.

‘Invited guests only,’ we were told.

Like sharing dreams

we wandered to the wetland

where teasel flowers live;

nesting boxes for sand martins;

big sandy cylinders on poles;

a sort of porch, an extension on the edge.

 

Yesterday was a walking day,

in the Welsh Valley.

‘Hush, hush’ World War Two:

the making of mustard gas,

bombs, and the nearly splitting of the atom.

Hush, hush bats live there now

in the high tower laboratory.

 

Yesterday was a walking day,

in that Welsh Valley.

It was Autumn.

Being so old, yet young,

the sun dipped and dyed

colours on the trees. Wind

made a slight rustle, round a sleeping Ash.

Yes the trees remember, remember.

 

Maureen Weldon

 

Copyright © Maureen Weldon

[First published Crannog Poetry Journal, Eire]

Until I was in my late twenties every Saint Patrick’s Day, we, my parents and close friends made for one of the beautiful strands by the wild Atlantic sea of County Cork.  This was a joyful event.

SAINT PATRICK’S DAY

 

Tonight I should be dancing jigs and reels,

Proudly covering my head in shamrock;

Green, very green from head to foot;

And the deep dark porter carrying the cream.

‘Slainte. Cead Mile Failte.’

 

Far, far away I remember

On Saint Patrick’s day – picnics

In Ross Carbery, Ownahincha, Bantry bay.

Did the ghosts of my friends

Picnic there today?

 

Maureen Weldon

 

Copyright © Maureen Weldon

[First published New Hope International]

The Comet

 

THE COMET

 

Moonlight, daffodils, a weeping willow,

and in the northern sky a comet

with a ghostly tail.  The letter

was my last hope, and time

was running out for a reply.  Soon

the comet would be gone, my heart

with it.

 

Every night the mail tray,

checking and rechecking then stuffing

it all back, the comet a little lower,

a little brighter.  Daffodils and dreams,

your voice and your tender smile.

 

Another full moon,

a spray of white blossom,

my footsteps hollow on the broken path.

 

Paul Beech

 

Copyright © Paul Beech 1997

(Previously published on the author’s own blog, Grandy’s Landing.)

Moondust

 

MOONDUST

 

A silvered bay, calm.

 

The moon shines in his window,

coolly observant:

detritus on desk,

scribbled blotter ivory,

coffee-cup rings brown…

 

The poet lives on,

passion and pain aquiver

in pearly moondust.

 

Paul Beech

 

Copyright © Paul Beech 2013

(Previously published on Linkedin and the author’s own blog, Grandy’s Landing.)

Cruising

CRUISING

 

First night at sea,

Your poetry faint in the wash,

Your prose crystal in the spray.

 

Second night,

A storm in the Bay of Biscay,

Bows plunging, rock music pumping.

 

Guitars flash and you laugh

As I twirl you in a tipsy dance,

Your hair flying.

 

Crazy wind, crazy rain,

We slip and slide the wet deck,

Cling together and kiss.

 

Third night, sunset,

Warm in the golden waves,

Poetry, prose, your shy almond eyes…

 

Paul Beech

 

~~

 

Copyright © Paul Beech 2012

(Previously published on Linkedin and the author’s own blog, Grandy’s Landing.)

Peony Wrongs

PEONY WRONGS 

 

Is it wrong for a peony to bloom,

to bloom with petals red, stamen gold,

is it wrong?

 

Is it wrong for a peony to dream,

to dream of a poet so special, so fair,

is it wrong?

 

Is it wrong for a peony to love,

to love a dainty step, a silken verse,

is it wrong?

 

Is it wrong for a peony to mourn,

to mourn its own perennial passing, unfulfilled,

is it wrong?

 

Paul Beech

 

Copyright © Paul Beech 2013

Previously published on Linkedin and the author’s blog, Grandy’s Landing