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Welcome to the Poetry Page. In it , you will find poems on War, Love, Pain, Religion, Life, and Owls! These are all references to some point in my life, be it good, bad, happy, or unhappy.
You are welcome to use any of them, but I would ask you to mention the source, as these are all personal to myself, and are copyright. And, plagiarism always comes home to roost.
I am hoping to publish the selection on this page under the title 'The Ring-Ousel Tree', which is the opening poem. This is about change. Some years ago, I visited a childhood haunt, called Horse-shoe wood, wherein grew a gnarled old oak I called The Ring-Ousel tree. I loved the tree, and the wood, and spent as much time there as I could. In this tree lived a Ring-Ousel. To me, this was almost a mythical bird, and I would watch it's comings and goings, and when it finally left, I felt something had gone from me too. Maybe an omen of what was to come. I was eight when I first started haunting Horse-shoe wood, and when I went back last, I was fifty. In its place, was a huge estate. Graffiti, broken down cars, and rows and rows of little boxes. Shocked, I stopped to get my bearings. A police car slowed down, and the officers eyed me suspiciously. I never went back again.
Choose a poem by clicking on a link below
The Ring-Ousel Tree Valiant Cause The Bay Tree Moorish Tent
Battery Row Roofs When I Was Young The Rope Gatherer
A Prayer The Owl Tudor Morning 7:42 am
Distant Drum Observations Time Sakkara Road
Night Train To Cairo The Secret Via Dolorosa Gone Fishing
The Fisherman Carnival Erin Manor Ship Of Fools
Blechkoller [Tin Can Frenzy] Pilgrim The East Side Of Town
Another Sunday War Bride La Haie Sainte When
Softly waits the Ring-Ousel tree
Deep in Horse-shoe wood
Amid a springly light ray afternoon
Down in hollow dell
Where rusty leaf drinks deep of floating water
As wood nymph sprite and water boatmen ply
And dance to tune of Cuckoo and of Bee
That wear a new path every day
Of prickly hedgerow dunnocks nest
The knee high waving grass
Kissed lightly by the morning dew
On route to Horse-shoe wood
The sound of fat contented pigeon
Gorged his soul at farmer Jones' expense
Or wise old owl that roosts
Within Ring-Ousel tree
Guardian of lesser mortals
Mother moorhen clucking cross
The dead tree watery hole
Nowhere going so quickly
Past blackened bough of oak
That breaks the water surface
As if to catch Excalibur
Field mouse that runs from danger
For him that has no name
Save only that he hears his beating heart
And father willow sweeps the water edge
Oh! How he weeps for what has yet to come
He knows his time is up
His grace consigned to kinder days
And still the nursery rookery high
In trembled windy leafless bough
Orchestra of rook and crow
Proclaiming ancient rites
And oft the ripple flat top oceanic corn
Will hide the young of Skylark Meadow Pippet
Whom rise to pipe the sun across the blue
Not far from Horse-shoe wood
And so to winter hoary frost
On scattered tussock watery sun
With wind so cold
To bleach the bone
Of all that tarry long
Except for father time
His scythe stone sharp
Will wend his way to Horse-shoe wood
And wreak his special havoc
Pon my sanctuary
Father willow
Wise old Owl
Ring-Ousel tree
[click to enlarge]
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
And up on Battery Row
Where now silent, heavy duty death slumbers
Breach and muzzle cold
But not for long
And as if to compensate
Great coat private
Balaclava, mitten, hasty rolled cigarette
Coughs with collar up
And curses the living God that made him
Shell shock, snow blind
Crazy from the mustard gas formation
Stamping foot
And trying to remember
What the Rose and Crown smells like
On a roast beef Sunday afternoon
Ha! the bitter taste of soul sickness
Is the soul sickness for the taste of bitter
The tar macadam smell of summer
Gives way to churning smell of cordite
Living Hell, and nowhere to bury the horses
That boy, that lucky boy
David was his name
That bled to death this morning in my arms
As we spoke of Gospel Oak
Dale road, and Queens Crescent market
Shiny cod laid out upon the marble mongers slab
By the number twenty four bus stop
Their beady eyes indifferent to all
And he went before I could tell him
Where I went to school
But not before he told me of the measles
Ragged doll kept by his bed
His mum, his mum, she's come at last
"She's there look !"
Come to take him home
To tuck him into bed
An early night
Because they are going
To the bucket and spade sand castle seaside
Tomorrow
And up on Battery Row
Where silence never waits
The great coat balaclava private
Spits in the wind
And thinks of Elsie
Not for long though
To painful for a broken man
And not that far away
Not even two hundred God dammed miles
Piccadilly looms
With buses, lights, good old Eros
Barrer boys
Their cheeky caps askew
Cockles, eels, and fings like that
Christ! How wish I was there now
'Arf a mo' tho'
Some bastard's thought to start this up again
For Christ sakes, where's the lads ?
Those flares'll do for al of us!
I clutch deep within my pocket
The last glow of reality
Mum's letter
Tells me young Frankie's come of his bike
And gone an' broke his arm
The flares so bright
I no longer care
Like bonfire night
On Hampstead Heath
Warm and wet
I clutch my chest
And slowly
So slowly, as not to notice
Fall
Thankful that the lads
All went first
Up on Battery Row
---------------------------
The above poem is dedicated to my grandfather. His name was
Charles Richard Sharpe, and he was awarded the VC for his part
in the action at Rouge Banc, on the 9th.May.1915. If you would
like to know more about his award, click on the thumbnails below.
The book extracts are from 'VCs of the First World War - The
Western Front 1915' by Peter F. Batchelor& Christopher Matson.
If you would like to know more about the VC, the site is at
http://www.chapter-one.com/vc/
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
Oh Heavenly door
One that opens to the eastern sun
Take these frozen fingers
Lead them to the light that shines
Oh Fallen stars
You that hide behind the sun
Take these heavy limbs
And carry them a while
Oh Desperate room
One that is hidden from all light
Take this outcast eye
And shine it
Oh fortunate cross
You that stand staring at the sky
Take this soul broken and bleeding
And wear it
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
The beating of a distant drum
A call of instinct unremembered
Through misty time shadow
That walks as though he be my guide
Or Saint that points to where Heaven might be
Midst flaking paint forgotten message
Who will now be the keeper
Of this gay bordello
Dismissive of all pleas for hope
What grain of truth could shed small light
Upon this blackened exit of Utopia
That seeks to sojourn
Over mountain tree and stream
Ever vigilant in it's honour
And still the beating of a distant drum
Will strike it's measure pon the chill east wind
That augers neither good nor bad
It's Herculean task performed
The seed implanted deep and dark
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
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I dreamed I stood and fought
For valiant cause
The truth to seek
Amongst the wind swept hordes
And wish upon the well of life
To take up sword
And drum and fife
All caution trodden
To the dust
To don the armour
That can never rust
The snow capped mountains
Of my youth
Left far behind
This speeding hoof
Or wiser still to stop
At yonder swinging sign
To seek good company
Warm fire and wine
And in my heart
The truth to tell
I have lived and died
In the wishing well
I dreamed I saw
The ancient light
Among the shadow
Of the night
But all too soon
The light is gone
So drain my glass
And wander on
And as I leave
The door ajar
Fleeting dream
As shooting star
At desert crossroad
Which to take?
Or to the stony pathway
Of reality awake
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
Beneath roof and chimney smoke
What talk of work and play
What drama to unfold
Within these walls
What human error, frailty
Wishing that it were cast aside
And new things, nice things
Were wont to happen
What story left unfinished
What page
Ink empty for the telling
What ringing pledge
Or tin bath fireplace
Could foretell our simple future
What law unto itself
Left waiting in the wings
White shirted dreams of boyhood
Could e'er carry all hope
Toward a promised end
Neath roof and chimney smoke
Dispersed as it were daydream
Unto the dusk of reality
What ringing hands
And parlour full of what has passed
The hallway threadbare carpet
Has all emotion felt
The supernatural armour
Of this brick and mortar
Earthly home
Beneath a starlit cape
To herald forward onto life's stage
The all eternal players
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
I look out the window
And what do I see?
A whopping great owl
On a telegraph tree
I run for binoculars
And focus him close
What the heck is he doing
Atop of that post?
It sure is not dark
The suns shining bright
In blue sky suburbia
Does he feel alright?
He's grey and white stripped
With huge pointy ears
I bet there's not much
That old fellow fears
Should I phone the R.S.P.B.
If I put my arm out
Maybe he'll fly to me
But there is no point in doing anything drastic
Because I've just realised
That owls made of plastic
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
The cool pink blossom
Blowing every way down the dusty lane
A chance to be free
I went to see the Nile, and swam
It's depth
Way over my unwet head
The lemon flowers are out now
Beneath the stony mountain
They captivate the shadows of the afternoon
The roses in the moonlight clouds
Show the form of the wind
Making my heart beat
The gulls hang in the morning air
The sea breeze light and clear
Makes me feel today has arrived
The young birds call to the wind
Darkness falls
The rock pool sparkling in the moonlight
The silence of the cool forest
A leaf falls
And blows along the path
My room in shadows
My books, my pens
All quietly waiting
Where the sky touches desert
In crisp repeating silence
There is still life
I watch the birds upon the roof
In gathering dusk
The telephone wires like a spiders web
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
I sit beneath the Bay tree
Shadows like a floating pool
And think of my deep loneliness
The creak of the Laurel
White butterfly
This way then that
I can almost hear the scarlet fuchsia bells
Tinkling in the wind
I see lavender
I think of old ladies
Their black straw hats
Adorned with cherries crimson
And wonder who I am
The distant jet plane
Telling where it is bound
Exotic city
The name of which
I do not quite catch
I see sun light on eternal Nile
Wishing I was there
The sky so blue
It makes me want to cry
Passing clouds whispering
And wispy
Like an old priests hair
I think of my deep loneliness
The happy children's laughter
From the nursery
Beyond the fence
All innocence
Unwittingly someday to learn the pain
And I think of my deep loneliness
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
When I was young
I sought to look
At books and birds and trees
In my teens
The taste for alcohol
Came knocking on my door
In my twenties
Dreams of fame, like butterflies
Eluded my yearning grasp
Thirty onwards
The yoke of uncertainty
Chained itself to my soul
Forty somehow
I thought I might be happy
But the jagged rock of reality prevailed
Now in my fifties
I am not so sure I care
So, I sit and wait
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
Tudor morning
Red brick, Hollyhock, spiders web
Thirst slaking dew upon the privet maze
Goldfinch, chest puffed proudly
In breakfast overture
The tattered sails of the night drift away
Like actors having stumbled pon the wrong stage
The scene no longer theirs to play
Tudor morning
Oak and parsley wake afresh
As though just painted by unseen lovers
Background to a secret tryst
White roses wreathed about their hair
To pirouette amid the silver mist
Tudor morning
Puffball, wild mushroom, crab apple diet
Elixir of this unborn day
Upon the gilded wing of butterfly
That wakes the flower with Angel kiss
To spur them on to greater feats
Upon this Tudor morning
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
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Under leafy, fallow downstream ripple
Old father water wolf the Pike
Teeth blunted by eternal feasts
Lives pondering
Mayfly hinge on unseen wires
Amid Reed Warblers seasoned concert
Cows foot, marsh print, hollow bulrush sighs
A comfortable welcome
Muddy bank, and on across the living field
To warm church spire clock
That tells it's time for tea
One thousand years the Oak has stood
Been nourished by the bone meal populace
Amongst the cemetorial reverence
Ordered rows of no-one now
Forgotten indifference
But clear Oak knows all by name
Beyond and beckons military line
Of tall cool poplar
Fluttering
Even when no breeze is there
To ancient wheezing tractor
Ploughing furrows for the Herring gull
Her driver, pipe gripped tight on gritty teeth
Set grim determined resolute
Ever onward
Ploughman's lunch left far behind
And lo! The bovine hint of curiosity
That cared but naught for you, nor I
The only need is stood kneedeep
In hollow mud
To gaze upon it's very countenance
Never knowing
And millstream
Gurgles of it's merry jollity
And pleasant secret that it carries
To it's own conclusion
The race toward
The greater spirit of the sea
And just
Just in the hazy distance
Excitement of the school bell's ring
Into the rustic sunlight pour
The raggedy knee grazed
Lazy sock brigade
With head held high
The peel of laughter
Brighter than the school bell's ring
To skip across the living field
Neath warm church spire clock
That tells
It's time for tea
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
Come set up your Moorish tent
Parade your wares
And let us speak of shoes and finery
For we take no heed of devilish tongue
As we are here for the feast
The merry company of friends
Infidels that we all be
Strike up the drum and lute
The jester for to wend his way
Through this roguish story
By camp fire
Cliff top immortality
The beings of mere inconsequence
Come set up your Moorish tent
And spread thy magic carpet
To sit and dream
Of greater fascinations
Gilded by the glowing ember
Of a warm and welcome heart
So with strong hand
Arrow straight and true
To reach the shore
A signal for the race to start
To ride the wind
Into the setting sun
And thence repair to caravanserai
And Moorish tent
Friends now
Friends then
Friends forever
Come set up your Moorish tent
Beneath the tattered remnant
Of life's banner
The songs of love and tears
Will echo round
The dreaming desert night
Telling all
And meaning naught
To all whom know the truth
Friends now
Friends then
Friends forever
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
The rope gatherer stares out
Along the spindrift melancholy strand
Searching for the strand
That may be
The golden thread
That rings the changes
On his forgotten life
Pebble deep in loneliness
Amid the flotsam of his past
His cares are but for rope of import
But all that washes up toward him
Are his memories
Now deep encrusted
By the seaweed laden driftwood of time
A mere severed strand
That was once a part
Of some other thinkers universe
The rope gatherer stares out to sea
Searching for his future
For he knows
The tear stained rain
And unforgiving mist
That mirror his haunted reality
Have come especially
To taunt and mock
His daily sojourn
Along the spindrift melancholy strand
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
I awake with a yawn
And look for the post
Looks like it's late
I make Marmite on toast
What will drop on the mat today?
A free trip to Kenya
Yes, a free holiday !
Could be a letter from Littlewoods Pools
Or a gardening catalogue
Advertising cheap sturdy tools
Maybe a discount on new hearing aids
For just two hundred pounds
I can trace your family back decades
An incredible offer on carpets
Straight from the loom
Or a Feng-Shui expert
Who wants to unblock my room
Is it a leaflet for rare new porcelain
Or a bloke with long brushes
Who will unblock my drain
Oh! come along postie
Please don't pass me by
The chance of cheap car insurance
Puts a glint in my eye
Is it an invite to a party or rave ?
Or a long lost brother
Back home from the grave
Maybe a legacy from a distant cousin
You can have these books cheaper
If you buy by the dozen
Possibly a timeshare somewhere in Spain
The last time I went there
I lost my watch down a drain
Could be free samples of soap or shampoo
I don't wash and I'm bald
No that's not really true
Or a three month postal course
To improve memory
I forgot that I did one
In nineteen ninety three
There he is now I can tell his foot fall
I bet I've won thousands
On 'Spot The Ball'
I rush to the door with a trembling thrill
Oh! Bugger it's only
The electricity bill !
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
Sugar cane breeze
Beneath the blue haze pensive mountains
The morning crows
Within the date palm
The yellow dog
Hard at work
Barking at the flies
But out along the Sakkara road
I feel unseen eyes
Timeless devilment
Concealed within my dreams
Crowded with the people of a different time
That flow from ancient desert spring
To make my soul uneasy
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
Dreaming aboard the night train to Cairo
Cigarette shared with old men
Five stone dice
Midst shiny blue seat average comfort
The click-clack melancholy
Ashtray full existence
Of a nearly life
The nair-do-well
Of nothing that I really understand
Sways back and fourth
Beneath Quixotic foothills
Where I mislaid the Holy Grail
Diesel breath upon the dawn
Kisses house where children dream
Or pass lake that has the moon caught within
To whispering desert
Starlit beyond it's own control
The spice packed camel train
Has secret rendezvous in Kasbah caravanserai
My longing to know for where they are bound
Gnaws at my lonely sense of romance
Only to be gone
As secret policemen sit with hooded minds
Discussing all who come and go
I dream aboard
The night train to Cairo
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
The misspent longing for the not quite nearly
That fires a signal flare from some dark recess
The back aching stream of knowledge
Dampened by all other reason
A chart that tells of penitent belief
That like a flower just out of reach
In some barren fold
Unfolds a dream too late
And yet to sit with rose and thorn
Encompassed in it's own mortality
Will never better epitaph make
For scholars of an unfound world
Ever burning bright within
The adolescence of this divine populace
Praying to remember
How it all transpires
The gloomy phantom of reality
Sloughs and slopes his way about
The cobbled night time streets of languid import
Only to be welcomed all too soon
By the ruffian that is the present
Embraced as if they were brothers
Kindred souls 'tis only they can bear
The knowledge of the truth
Sing out sing out and pay times dancer
For he is weary and eager for the off
And at the distant sound that bends the eye
The hunters moon
Fair showing on a cloudless night
To mourn the writing on unknown parchment
Forever's secret written
In forgotten tongues
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
From Pilates judgment
To the hill
In which we walk life's sad road
As we do sleep along the way
Among the ashes of angels
Life's brutal soldiers grin and leer
To blunt our faith at every turn
And crucify the sacristy
That is the heart
Now broken pillaged looted
Of it's sacred vessels
Never to bear fruit again
Oh! My God
Why have you forsaken me now
Just when I believe that you are there
For I am a stranger
In this Holy house
Where the curtain of the night
Ever so tightly drawn
About this mortal coil
That is nothing but a veil of tears
Flowing toward the eternal river
My own private Golgotha
The reason I am here
As I can never walk a road
With any other name
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
With tie askew
Duffel bag full with
Already forgotten homework
The bike shed beckons
I run to mount my trusty steed
That has waited patiently this day
Beneath corrugated rusty roof
I launch myself through iron gates
Across the road
With lollipop lady's screams of danger
Ringing in my ears
Bah! What little she knows of my indestructibility
At breakneck speed down London road
Along the twitten by Martin's house
His highbrow mum who put him
In cotton wool
Looking down upon us lesser beings
Up the cul-de-sac hill
Across the green and into Orchard road
Not far from home now, not far
My head bent low for greater speed
Hoping no-one will break my journey
Up the path
Deposit trusty steed beneath
A shiny, front room, stripy curtain window
And through the open door
That magic smell of cakes
Cakes that have just been born
Assails my senses
My Mother, angel faced
Rosy cheeked, and flour stained
Kisses my forehead
Enquiring of my haste
"Fishin" I mumble
Through mouthfuls of 57 spaghetti
And I hear distantly through my thoughts
Of Roach and Rudd and things
Something 'bout ' intergestion'
Whatever that is
But, it is only ever mentioned when I eat
So, prob'ly not too dangerous
To the shed
My eight weeks pocket money
Paper round, and butcher's boy, fishing rod
Gas mask bag stuffed tight
With Granddad's reels and floats
And keep net
Off up the garden path again
On trusty steed
"Your homework, what about your......."
Fingers crossed I shout
"Avent got knee"
"Ricky, don't be late, you know that dad......"
I wave and nod as her voice trails off
Into the sunny distance
Along the twitten now
Past upset tummy, crab apple tree
Straight into Mr. Macintosh
Carrying his mackintosh over his shoulder
As he always did
I tangle in his dog's lead
Nearly depositing me in thorns, and nettles
He curses me, as does his dog
He'll tell my father, so he says
As he told me when I broke the windows
At Erin Manor
Long forgotten dream home
I have no time, time for this, I have not
I escape to his "Dew ear?"
Close call indeed
Down the stony lane to my pond
My pond by Elizabethan palace
It floats 'pon the sunlight
And takes my breath away
I sit with baited line
And baited breath
The dappled, half past four afternoon
On dragonfly wing
By moorhen nest
The basking Carp and skimming Swallows
Bulrush haven
Bobbing float, and view across the gilded meadow
That is why
I was born
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
Black Rock strand where raging storm had lashed and cursed
Not many hours before the howling Banshee wind
Enough to take my thoughts away for good
Cold cold rain that gripped my eyes and throat
With spiny fingers deep
Reassuring crunch of shingle
Oil drum Bamboo treed bedecked with rope aplenty
Graveyard for a million plastic bottle
Disposed disposable lighter that could have been there always
Cuttlefish rusty tin foreign name detergent box
Like ornaments in a trinket shop
Waiting for a buyer
Amid the driving haze I catch a breath
Laying so still white white socked
Too bright it seems not normal
Yellow oilskin polo neck
I wonder where his sea boots are
His hair so neat as if just combed to meet his maker
It is as though he will rise and tell me not to worry
All is well
And I can see his young girl's eyes
Auburn tresses in the morning light
Waiting for their daddy to come
Not yet knowing that he could not
And his lady hollow shiny faced
Sobbing as she knows one day this would happen
Her intuition plucking at her very soul
As seagulls scream their harsh lament
Above the whitewash cottage chimney smoke
And all that knew him would soon come
To gather with respect
And tell each other
'What a waste!'
I want to take his hand
He looks so lonely
But as I see far deeper than all flesh
I know that now he is serene
And at last peace as Heaven's mantle
Does close eternally round
The fisherman
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
To watch life standing
On these stone cold steps of time
Looking far into
The gathering pool
No thought for birth
Or death
The melancholy rhythm
Lingers on
Reality suspended
By a golden thread
Take heed
Oh! you fragile
Would be riff-raff
Who would seek to enter here
Upon some concocted errand
You minions of
A lesser creed
For it is the hour
Of absolute confusion
The ever present butterfly
Of knowledge
Keen playing
On a magic flute
Beyond a fingertips reach
Upon some windy bough
About to snap
Beneath the weight
Of curiosity
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
Where Erin Manor stood
Amongst the gravel stony path
By the woolly mammoth pond
Where warm fir tree waved
'Mid summer breeze
Of ban the bomb sign
Lurking in the blackberry shrubbery
And pear tree grass snake pond
With landing craft
Took root unto the bank
To greenhouse wilderness
Outgrown eccentric vine
Rusty pipe and drip drip tap
Where callow youth
Wild eye and tousle hair
Misshapen scrumping jersey
Sways in secret tree camp
Of never to be sure
If some remain within
This manor cold and lonely
A deep and melancholic
Yearning in it's soul
The brambly nettle army
Ever marching on
To greater glories
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
In all its elemental
Dark and weary form
Complete and ordered
On this ship of fools
We see but nought
Save only merest baubles
Playthings used to entertain
The greedy lunatic child
That stands upon the prow
Looking at nothing
Hand firmly planted
On the engine of desolation
Believing once and for all
That he is the master
Of this ungodly vessel
Drooling grinning
Beneath the tattered
Blood soaked sails
That flap within
This soulless mayhem
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
Out far in Mid-Atlantic mayhem
Jumping wire encased in ice
Safety of the concrete pen left many leagues astern
The screaming wind so loud to wake the dead
As if there's not enough of those
Reposed on Davy Jones locker
The crew below on U-107 or U-505
Uncertain whether death is the next step
All wishing to be back home in Bremen
Freiberg or Koblenz
In time for Christmas
Sometime never
A letter home a book to read
The same line over and over again
Kurt tells the old old story
Of the girls back in port
That he has known
Dive dive dive
That sound that I have dreaded
Rig for silent running
Terrifying silence
Louder than any depth charge
Every second one hour long
Knowing whoever is up there
Can hear you breathing
White knuckled in the close confines
Of this iron coffin
And did I see a spot of water
Around the tight tight rivets
Of the battery compartment
My own sweat turns to ice
Upon my crawling skin
Not that Not that
Please God not that
Sea water mixed with battery acid
Makes for the Devil's spawn
I stand knee deep in swirling water
Wondering what in Hell I am doing here
How this has come to such a pass
No longer knowing
What I am fighting for
Or caring
The hunter now the hunted
At one fifty metres and diving
The only men that really know
How deep is safe
Before the hand of God will crush
Will always keep that to themselves
Onward ever onward
Downward ever downward
Breath choked tight upon
My sunken chest
Oh! sunny days
Where are you now?
This boyhood dream
Heroic feat
The thought that I
Could save the Fatherland
Still ringing in my ears
Onward ever onward
Downward ever downward
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
O Pilgrim
I see you walk world weary
On stony belated highway
All injury forgotten
The sharp and seasoned claw
Of reality
Outstrips the paper dream
That never could be
In truth cold lit
The far seeing eye
Of this stranger in a strange land
Will hold no candle
Upon this wild domain
O how I have listened
For a message that I may heed
And take to be mine own
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
On the east side of town
An old man lies by the market place
He moans and shouts into the wind
And grasps uncorked bottled demon
The seagulls answer back with harsh cold voice
And hang against the wind
Going nowhere
On the east side of town
On the east side of town
Where the lonely weary buildings
Hang their heads
About to cry
And citizens who left this place
So long ago for warmer climes
Their grey and granite faces
Care for nothing
Too late to dream
Or shelter from the soulless rain
On the east side of town
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
I sit by the window
And watch the ever expanding day
The rushing wind
Exciting in it's urgency
The cold grey sharpness of the morning
Echoing the pain of humanity
The angry gulls tossed here and there
The rain relentless in it's search
To cleanse the earth of all men's sin
Dancing trees that point
To hidden message
That lies buried
Four score leagues and more
Distant
The low dull skies
Caress the rooftop chimney
Cloud burst hissing at the window
Like the noise
From a snake charmers basket
The water stained sun
Struggles to appear
But fights the losing battle
And so begins
Another Sunday
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
Isabel Sharpe
The cold afternoon
Cheerless sunlight rays unnoticed
Through chintzy curtain
Jimmy's picture sitting
Lifelike on the old polished sideboard
Calls a welcome to all whom enter
Parrot perched upon his shoulder
The only one to understand
Both now casualties
Oh! God who let loose the dogs of war
Poor Jim never to understand
A spirit much too gentle
For this degradation
Refused to stay to see the final outcome
And yet this house seems empty
Save for the comfort of the gentle ticking
Mantle clock amid ghosts of lighter times
Isabel her heart so pure
Waiting patiently for small news
Of her Leslie
Her Leslie on who's motorbike they rode
To freedom on Box Hill and near
Her Leslie who the telegram conveyed
Was lost this day
On ancient hill
In Greece
The last few unconnected pieces of a life
Wallet blue leather
L.J.C. gold engraved across one corner
Felt so strange to hold
As if so to do
Would make him reappear
Bronze Heroic statues
Two of them
Wrapped in folds of cloth
A present for his Isabel
Now meaning so little
And everything
She sits and stares
From window that has no view
The cold curly smoke London afternoon
Evening creeping over wall and sill
She can hear him laughing
Far far off that laugh
Knowing they will be together
One day
Some day
In the brittle hours that pass
All wonder and amazement cease
Suspended
Like forevermore
Amid some far off time
Unvisited untold
Indifferent now
The mantle clock ticks ever on
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
The road to La Haie Sainte
Where gun carriage cart track stench of death
Will curdle blood
Fly ridden unrecognisable bloody corpse
That should have been a friend of mine
Polished buttons
No longer important
To a mothers son
Who should have formed squares against the lancers
The drummer boy
His eyes no longer shine
Wishing for an Angel
To carry him away
Before the pain set in
One minute more to watch
The blue blue miracle sky
As the black and carrion crow
Alights to feast upon
Another comrades eyes
No spoils of war will matter
All know that Satan breathes upon
A once magic placid place
Now soiled with the terrifying blood of Glory
That is man's greed
And uncertainty
And still
The desperation soaked drummer boy
Can not reach the farmhouse door
Clutching at the heaving throng
His once proud tunic
Soon to be a tombstone
His drum now tossed aside
As just another instrument
Of war
He now knows that all is too late
With tears of realisation
Burning down his unkissed cheeks
Still he tries to gain
The fleeting sanctuary
That is
La Haie Sainte
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
After the dark and murky
Pudgy golden ringed tainted fingers
That are the pickpocket of a mortal soul
And the Vaticanish drooling for your well being
Have been burnt at the stake of reason
After the Buddha has turned to dust
And the Jewish mayhem ritual
Of the fear that might be Hell
Ceases to be of import
After the Jingoistic Taleban
Islamic time bomb
Has been defused forever
And every blessed Christian
Has been thrown to the lion of inconsequence
After every Presbyterian Protestant
Amish Shinto Shaman
Have followed their lemming path
And each and every blood stained priest
Has been consigned to the underworld
Of their own creation
After every church and shrine
Built solidly on the foundations of sacrilege
By the emissaries of fear
Has been stripped of the leech of self righteousness
That is when
I will get on my knees
And thank God
©Copyright.2003.R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
This is the village of Abu sir in Egypt. Being there,
is like being in a different time, and dimension.
When the river of dreams
Touches my soul
And all is of desert night
I feast upon the omnipotence
Of all whom serve thee
And I sit
With unknown fulfilment
Unable to tell
In taking in the midnight air
For I can see
A blue moon over Cairo
So I must pay my just respects
In Abu sir
As I wait
For bright eyed Bedouin
In lingering cigarette alleyway abode
Wrapped tightly by the night
I catch
A blue moon over Cairo
To guide the wandering spirits
to their unknown destination
© MMX1 R.Sharpe
All rights reserved
