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Poetry Magnum Opus

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  1. Snowdrops

    Winter's ghost raises it's head, eyes are red from reminiscing about bloody hands below a drooping head on a cross. Snowdrops-angel's fingers, slouching, beckoning clouds that are like blank pages waiting for words of a prayer for winter's godspeed. Who will take the lead as snowdrops haunt the stage in hoods of white. Lamps are muted as the moon lights up the woods creaking eyes. I lost my faith here, former selves cover the flower's skeleton,walking seeking nature's blood and communion. The wind makes flowers sway, as a priest I listened to confessions, I told the moon about a flower that grew arms with crimson wrists that wanted liberating but could not reach the roots.
  2. Feathered blood

    A red kite rests on it's watchtower,a bare tree as it faces winter's dourstare. The woods yearn for springto restore rapture, branches movemiming to the wind's music.December rests on winter's branches.The tawny owl has a ticket to hide, it'sprimal call cannot match the wind'sdialect discovering it has not tongue.The frost is like the woods haunting itself.trees can only surmise which images arecollected by rain enraptured eyes of birdssitting on branches. Winter's ghost joins it'scolleagues testing them for answers aboutsprings arrival and the survival of life here.Clouds are the ghosts of leaves coursing withthe trees feathered blood. Rain falls like wordsof instruction for life in the woods. A crow is aneye patch for winters last light. Blades of grassare an audience with a seasonal pass as theycry for light.
  3. hi there Tony-i don't seem to be receiving much feedback-could you have a look at my story for chidren-Eric and the owl-thanks-Barry

  4. Moonshadows

    i did enjoy this musical peice
  5. The Race

    an excellent piece-well done
  6. Eric and the owl

    Six year old Oscar lived in a cottage nearthe woods with his blind grandfather, he wasnot like other boys his age, Oscar had troublemaking people understand him, he loved to drawthe birds he saw in the woods,his favorite wasan owl he called Eric.It was a week before Christmas, Father Christmashad forgotten to visit Oscar's cottage the year before,this made his grandfather cry. Oscar put logs on thefire before going to sleep in a rocking chair, he hada dream about an angel trapped in a wrist watch beingworn by a tree and the angels wings were trapped in icewith the key to heaven's door, the ice would not melt eventhough it was surrounded by a wall of fire, angels abovewore clouds as slippers.Oscar was woken by the sound of his grandfather's walkingstick which had the sun and moon carved into it's head.Grandfather asked Oscar to show him the moon and helphim guide the end of his stick around the edge of the moonto make music. That night Oscar heard a noise outside ofhis bedroom window, it was Eric the owl wearing a cloak ofsnow, with the same number of flakes as the number of dayssince his grandfather had gone blind. Oscar could talk to theowl much more than he could to people, Eric pointed his wingtowards the woods and Oscar followed him, the owl landedon what would become the cottage Christmas tree then guidedOscar deep into the woods, there was the watch from his dreamand the wall of fire which he could just about see through. Oscar'sblack eyes became clear, Eric could see his grandfather beingblinded in the great war, the wind held it's hands against it's ears.The owl collected feathers falling from clouds and gave them to Oscar.That night Oscar had a dream about driving the sleigh of father Christmas,when he woke there were more feathers outside of his window, he wrappedthem in a blanket, their was also a pocket-watch which he could not open.Oscar managed to cut down the Christmas tree and take it into the cottage,his grandfather sat in the rocking chair as Oscar decorated the tree with tinseland hung the watch from a branch, the wind warmed it's fingers against the fire.Oscar thought about the children who did not have anything, even food, he wanted theirhunger to end and the return of his grandfather's eyesight, these were the twopresents he wanted more than anything. That night the wind wore the uniformof war as it searched for heaven's door.It was the morning of Christmas eve, a hungry reindeer appeared outside ofthe cottage with Eric on it's back, Oscar knew the reindeer belonged to fatherChristmas and fed the poor animal this freed the angel trapped in the watchwho went and stood near the wall of fire. Oscar know had enough feathersfor a pair of wings, he flew with Eric and returned the reindeer to father Christmasthen told the sun stories about hungry children, the sun's tears put out the flamesof the wall of fire and the angel got her wings back along with the key to heaven'sdoor and flew Oscar's grandfather through the door where a brilliant light gave himback his sight.It was Christmas morning and father Christmas left a painting of Oscar's grandfathergoing through heaven's door, he also left a note telling Oscar about parcels of foodhe had left for hungry children, it was hard to tell who was happier, Oscar or hisgrandfather who now made walking sticks carved with the head of an owl for peoplewho had trouble walking.
  7. The cat and moon

    The wind rested on top of the branches of a tree in the park, not blowing below them. Sappho the cat followed the steady flow of spirits leaving the earth, passing the flakes of snow. The night searched for a cradle to lay down it's body of dreams, Sappho rubbed her head on Isaac's feet, as he opened his eyes daylight poured out like light entering a cave, he slept in the park and supplied black and whit Sappho with her first meal of the day. This was the tenth Christmas Isaac had been homeless and spent this time of year living on the park, the cat also appeared to be of no fixed abode, but unusually would not harm any of the birds that resided here, she would often lay on Isaac's with her ear pressed against his stomach, he had a dream that night about being lost in the desert and asking a sphinx for directions. Sappho watched as her friend built a snowman before leaving the park to walk the streets where he would see the fellow homeless sleeping in doorways, the faces in the coffee shops were as blank as that of winter, they did not see snow lit boughs. Isaac had sat on winter's plough and it wouldn't allow despair from the driver. Wine bars and large houses and their hard stares never bothered Isaac, a cat appeared in a window with tinsel in it's mouth, someone had put a crucifix on a snowman in the garden, it had a gold chain and silver cross, this was incongruous to this homeless man-the windows of the house cried tears of silver and gold. this winter two tales had been told of those with and those without. Sappho was sleeping next to the snowman when Isaac arrived back on the park that evening, he started to experience a strange vision of a heart beating next to a crucifix, he the saw a heart thumping through the bark of a tree. The cat had left three lots of prints in the snow, Isaac had three dreams that night in synchronicity. one dream about angels creating a sun thread by thread, black angels breaking up the moon and one about a remote figure flicking his fingers through different Universes. Isaac knew he now contained a duality and the leaves on the trees were like the souls of spirits who walked the earth until they were ready to leave, he was a fruit tree ghosting through history seeking the correct climate to plant his roots. Isaac started a fire, the snowman refused to melt, false prophets had fallen right through history, two sets of green eyes could see them in the flames. Clouds above were like prayers, Isaac took a few floating them on the park, a robin flew through them, a singing wound passing through time. The snowman's features altered imperceptibly to resemble those of it's maker. Sappho followed Isaac through empty streets in the early hours and watched him build snowmen in different gardens, they too would alter gradually to resemble their maker. Isaac started to experience a new emotion, his inner landscape was being transformed. Their was a brief surge in altruism amongst the locals, donations to food banks increased, the health of rough sleepers improved until the snow melted. An echo of a planet falling from a fruit tree in some unknown place and the indifference to closed eyes of a dreaming sphinx stitching links to unleash chaos alarmed Isaac, he imagined the tree next to the snowman growing hands, some wore rings, others held the pages of a book, he had to find fingerprints that matches his own, a candle fell from the tree through loose fingers with an imprint, Isaac realized he was a candle containing the indentation of a distant figure.
  8. Freedom

    The sun's unswerving protocol allows me to utilise tools, my senses. I am free to select fruit in the forest of the moon's heartbeats. I cannot silence echoes of the angel that danced on my mother's womb as it rained days, then nights, my finite allocation. I don't know if I have a choice to return, like the eternally recurring bullet returning to it's gun, but when I die do I have the power to make the universe recede to a hole the size of a fingertip or an eye?,will the seasons cry as they strip away my freedom
  9. Robert Burns dreamscape poem

    This poem was written for a competition-any feedback would be appreciated-thank-Barry
  10. Robert Burns dreamscape poem

    Williams Burns would plough soil,his son practiced vowels alludingto embryonic verse, he had a dreamabout staring into a loch near fourtrees that were shedding leaves.The moon made an imprint Roberts' deathmask,then a poet made the mask crythrough spoken verse shedding tears over four countries.Agnes Burns passed away, the faintimprint of a mask laid on waters,RobertBurns muttered a verse, the windsmingled with the death visages sinuousbreath as it followed a poets words.Robert Burns collected two roses that passed each other on a riverand caught two tears that crossedeach other on opposite faces towarn in a distinctive accent of thornapproaching thorn, the scent ofrevolution was carried from France-the faces of it's dead appeared on ariver next to a burning forest. The sun and moon offer veins,can a poet discern the patterns in the flames to find an incantationand mix fire with blood and turnaround the flood of French indignationto create a balanced synergy borne out ofScottish resentment.Hands of dissent pull at tree roots, formerselves pour through Burns like the grains ofsand in an hour-glass, he is a sailing emberspawned in time's fire hovering outside ofan hour-glass that drifts towards Scottish rose whose head has been replaced with that of the English monarch singing Celtic songs tempting native traitors to prick their thumbs and drop blood on English soil, hands of consent in the ground wait ready to hammer the rain like nails an astute poet weighs fire on scales making them tip subtly as he rips up pages of history.
  11. Quills

    Fingers of light wear the gloves of an unknown river on new years as the ghost of Robert Burns delivers a recitation, fingers offer different dialects in sign language. The river's dreaming God summons in shivering lunar silhouette the dead lovers of Mr Burns, they are give life by the light's acoustic bones, they stagger the moon in their net, an owl passes and they attach the wings of it's future ghost. The moon sheds three hundred and sixty five feathers as it hovers on gloves over water. An old poet drafts verses, a river releases hands to deliver the newly born on this new years day as camping eyes wait. Falling rain is like the echoes of the blades of grass, clouds the echo of a poets foot-steps from his night time walks. The feathered moon lands on Robert's hand and demands his disparate memories, then commands an ancient sleeping wind to release the quill from it's pocket, old lovers raise a fire, the wind floats the quill above the flames, Burns articulates verse about the preservation of Scotland's independence.
  12. Cloud walking

    I can hear in the wind's onomatopoeia the year I swore I would cross the tees. Angels walk above cliffs of Falcon clints wearing clouds as slippers, the crack of thunder the sound of them knocking on the rivers door. The river Tees is like an untied shoelace. I can trace the residue from angels treading on grapes, the waters here where the moon bathes it's spear throwing it down challenging me to sing and make a river cry then find a tear placing it on the spear. Could I make the river straight placing the moon's reflection at it's tip to, then walk straight line with angels where I would watch them dip there wings. The river's ghost is fragmented in the rain falling- it brings details of a dual crossing, when I finally pass over the tees and leave the earth where I will be reconstructed somewhere with the lost parts of egglestone abbey. I crossed the footbridge over London's beck before I lost my eyesight, I can hear the echo of pipistrelle bats that live in the guam viaduct, they are like the visions of the Tees that hang in the viaducts of my mind, I used to drink at the bluebell inn at eaglescliffe, do bats drink in the dark?. I painted eyes on the wings of a kingfisher, it dives into the reflected moon and the tear stained spear is collected by the moon, briefly we have the same coloured eyes, did the river catch it's own reflection? I make a covenant with the darkness, fingers of light wear the river's gloves, they caress my eyelids hoping to return my sight then take my hand to bathe under the waters of the high force waterfall.
  13. Beeston 2

    The night offers me a bouquet of moons, my night time walks along the canal. Clouds above are like tourists, will the reach the Maltings?-canal waters sing of journeys they have missed. Evening shadows offer a selection of poses as the sun rises over the Wednesday market with its collection of muses ready to inspire browsers. I left a tear on the train track, an empty glass on the hotel bar, eventually the light will reach haughty eyes from the Beeston star. I placed a flower on the Crimean memorial, a bee landed, ghosts of soldiers left after being fed by paradise, relatives will track their ancient ties and pray in Saint John the Baptists' church-the wind outside is wearing the uniform of war walking across graves, there is at least one soldier the uniform Fits who shaves memories when a prayer passes through him followed by the eternally recurring bullet returning to its gun, fires of war echo in the sun. moon the oars man saves drowning spirits, their heartbeats echo in the final footsteps of the wind. Street signs ask me for directions to visit lost residents. Beeston stories have been told creating gold for a ring ready to make Beeston's hand gleam. I dream about a hand guiding clouds that rain silver on gardens and hives full of silver. Van Der Valk finds his own shining fingerprints on a gold band. Memories are like rain as it falls onto clouds reflected on the marina, fleeting rapid eye movements keep dreams afloat as visions of the day are replayed. In a dream a train stops before a tear, the moon takes the water with its many reflections and places it in a glass with a flower.
  14. Beeston

    The night offers me a bouquet of moons, my night time walks along the canal. Clouds above are like tourists, will they pass the Maltings?-canal waters sing of journeys they have missed. Evening shadows offer a selection of poses as the sun rises over the Wednesday market with it's collection of muses ready to inspire browsers. I left a tear on the train track, an empty glass on the hotel bar, eventually the light will reach haughty eyes from the Beeston star. I placed a flower on the Crimean memorial, a bee landed, ghosts of soldiers left after being fed by paradise, relatives will track their ancient ties and pray in Saint John the Baptists' church-the wind outside is wearing the uniform of war walking across graves, there is at least one soldier the uniform Fits who shaves memories when a prayer passes through him as his heatbeat is echoes in the wind's footsteps. Street signs ask me for directions to visit lost residents. Beeston stories have been told creating gold for a ring ready to make Beeston's hand gleam. I dream about a hand guiding clouds that rain silver on gardens and hives full of silver. Van Der Valk finds his own shining fingerprints on a gold band.
  15. Painted dreams

    thanks everyone
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