Duplicity

Harsh emergence.
Timed.
Engineered.
Painful and Cold.
Just routine!

New world, first hunger
Imperative bleat.
Pious protection, brought from Peru,
Alpacca guards, Reynard, Adieu!
Snow covered fields break free, flowers burgeon,
The grass is sweet, life’s promise emerging.
With rewards and joy in untold measure,
Youth demands indomitable pleasure.

Daisys and Buttercups, rabbits and cows.
Mice in the fields and birds on the boughs.
Enjoy April showers, and meadows and streams
Remember them carefully, soon they’ll be dreams.
Frolick and frisk, little lamb, while you may,
King of the Castle you cannot stay.

For Paradise abruptly, with

no warning, transmutes.

No music in birdsong, or Pan’s lilting flutes.
Mammon is gleefully counting his lucre,
Salivating, savouring, ringing the bell.
The sacrificial lamb is now destined to dwell
on a bar-be-que stick dipped in something from hell.

Scientifically fed, artificial growth quotas.
Everything governed by impossible rotas.
Creep feeding, unheeding.
To prepare for the table.
What would she say, if nature were able?
Her gift exploited, and brutally ravaged,
Innocence abused, plundered and savaged.

 

 

 

Spring is tantamount to a void expectation

Bitter sweet harbinger, death to creation

The exit is harsh.
Planned and prepared.
Lonely and cold.
Engineered.

 

Just routine.

 

©DF2007

Please note that I am not an animal activist, or even vegetarian. I am simply commenting on the way of the world, and how we take it for granted, and how sometimes it doesn’t seem fair!

Photographs by courtesy of the following:

Top: First lamb of the Season: Paul Sumner

Second: King of the Castle: Andy Wright

Third : Lamb Fight:  Tess

Fourth: Barbecued Lamb: Jennifer 

Fifth: Lamb 97:  David Wilmot

Bottom: Lamb in a butcher shop/Codero: equality

Thank you.

 

Ramblings

 

 

Poppies!

 

Nice bright red against this yellow stuff. What’s it called now? Corn. Ah yes…prickly stuff and mighty uncomfortable on the feet when it’s just been cut. Might make a nice bed when it’s aged a bit.

 

But I think I’ll go back to the shed. Safe and dry in there. Not that I ever need to worry about the rain. I’m well equipped to cope with the vagaries of the weather.

 

Except the cold. I don’t like the cold.

 

‘Hello mouse. Got time to chat? No?’

 

Oh well. Nevermind. Everybody seems to be in such a hurry these days. I prefer to go at a nice leisurely pace. That way I can see things. Notice what changed since yesterday. Think about what might change tomorrow.

 

(sighs) There’s worse things in life than being a tortoise!

©DF2007

Photographs courtesy of :

Tortoise : Jason Mouratides

Wild Flowers in a Norfolk Meadow: webheathcloseup

Chocolate

Luscious, luxurious, mellifluous. Her smooth liquid flows down in seamless swathes. A fountain of velvet wonder, glossy sheen hiding voluptuous piquancy. Bitter sweet, wicked temptation, innocence disguised in beguiling form. Temptress coaxes, cajoles and inveigles her hapless quarry, trapping them in an ecstasy of rapturous sapidity. Melting magic, teasing and pleasing, then dissipating. She bequeaths a tang, a trace of the forbidden sin, to compel her quarry to retrace their steps to a transient heaven. She induces a blissful opiate, brief respite from reality, and entices further dalliance. She is duplicity camouflaged in an innocent and naïve paradise. She …is chocolate.

©DF2007

Photograph: ‘Chocolate’, courtesy of Lin Pernille

Blogged with Flock

The Challenge

A Challenge

Thirty-five years to mourn, or regret.
Push aside memories, bury and forget.
Thirty-five years of a long dying ember.
Should I perhaps, try harder to remember?

Is it better to let go? Free up and release
all the pent-up anger; restore some lost peace?
Would it help to look back, analyse and dissect
every immature deed; it’s reason inspect?

Would it bring comfort to me, or to some of the others,
to examine the past, the emotions it smothers?
Would it help to discuss, channel energies afresh
into breaking past patterns , open up the dark mesh?

I am wary, I know, but I may just be yellow.
Life currently is wondrously calm, sweet and mellow.
Should I risk all to savour a glimpse of the past;
raise up the demons and a black shadow cast?

Or shall I ignore the stealth challenge to submit?
and rally forward, proving refusal to quit?
Shall I fight, give it all that I have left in my soul
Reach out and take back; once more gain control?

How can I judge what is prudent and right?
Reopening old lesions might impel further flight.
Perhaps it’s a question of right time and place;
instinctively knowing when it’s right to embrace.

I do know, however, that I cannot ignore
the emotions and feelings, which surface so raw.
They must be acknowledged, worked through once again
It’s not so much, ’should I’? but more about ‘when’.

©Copyright DF 2007

The Ribbon of Truth

The River Dee at Linn of Dee, Braemar. Taken just as the light was fading. (The poem is about a mythical river)

The river flows on ’til it reaches the sea.
Through mountains and valleys, collecting debris;
feeding the plains, where it’s succour is spilt,
creating a verdant kaleidoscope quilt.
If obstacles bar the river’s old path,
it gouges another with obstinate wrath.
Nothing is impossible, and given some time,
the water’s passage is re-sculptured sublime.
Eventually the meandering journey will end.
Fresh water meets salt, a difficult blend.
Two become one. Each with the other exalts,
in the beginning of new, inspirational gestalts

The Ribbon of Truth flows freely from birth.
Each experience, each choice, assessed for it’s worth,
as a tweak in the ribbon, reflecting the soul.
It’s honesty, or otherwise; it’s virtues extol;
the mistakes, or the decisions so rashly made
are exhibited as parts of the ribbon, so frayed,
like the failings of life, thwarted expectations,
spent motivations and quiet lamentations.
Most ribbons are frayed, but the damage is slight,
but some are set free, blight-ridden, stringy white.
For every new life is given freedom to choose
honesty and truth, and to ardently refuse
the lesser path of greed, avarice and deceit,
aspiring to a life that is rich and complete.

At the end of the journey, when river meets sea,
At the end of a life, when the ribbon is set free,
both are consumed by a force and a power
that generates new life; a hunger to devour
all that passed previously, that failed in the truth;
to regain and extend the innocence of youth.
The river must flow without hindrance or fault.
The ribbon should love and honesty exalt.
©DF2007

Photograph is my own.

Disquietude

Disquietude

Legs swinging freely, not a care in the world,
I sit perched on a gate, observing the view.
Leaves rustle behind me, newly unfurled
and the grass at my feet is still sprinkled with dew.
Somewhere in the field, a cow softly calls
to it’s offspring, warning of dangers unseen.
The tune of the skylark as it soars and then falls,
captures the morning’s ambience, peaceful, serene.
In the distance I notice a movement so slight
that it could be the shadows of the clouds as they pass
But looking again I am blessed with the sight
of a hare zig zagging in a field of fresh grass.
The hedgerow and ditch are smothered with blooms,
some already praising the light of the sun.
The others will follow as the midday looms,
with colourful displays that are second to none.
On the horizon the faint outline of blue distant hills
mingles with the dark of a forest or wood.
With beauty such as this, my soul rapidly fills
with joy and humility, as surely it should.

Each continent, country, no matter how small,
has it’s own kind of beauty, special and pure.
An abundance of beauty, so much to enthral.
Precious legacy, its future you’d want to ensure.

So why all the greed, pollution and war?
Designed deliberately, destined to destroy
every good thing on earth; plunder, down to the core
all this planet can offer; all there is to enjoy.
We have no rights over skylarks and hares.
We have no rights over forests and grass.
Nor over the legacy left to our heirs.
There is no going back if you’ve shattered the glass.
As usual it’s left to a minority to decide.
Guaranteed apathy, indifference, oppression.
But how can man risk so much, and nature deride
for his own selfish exploits, his lust for possession?

I jump down from the gate, my sadness weighs heavy.
Everything in this world has a price or a levy.

© DF 2007

Photograph coutesy of Richard Cocks

 

Cat

Cat was written about my cat Millie, who often just silently gazes at me. I wonder what she is thinking, but it is difficult to tell …cat’s give little away!

CAT

She stares at me , through amber bright;
Steady, still, composed.
Hypnotic, trance-like pools of light,
display a mind reposed.
What thoughts have you, and do they
penetrate the corners of your mind?
Your eyes, so little help betray,
and nothing is defined.

Enigmatic, dignified,
No secrets will she tell.
Her thoughts remain unspecified,
But tacitly compel
the exploration of her soul .
What mysteries lie beyond?
I wonder if it is my role…
Should I, to her respond?

I hold her stare a second more.
I think I know her well;
but even though I won’t ignore
what she is trying to tell;
to fathom what her message means,
to comply with her demand,
would require a change of genes
I fear, or the waving of a wand.

Translucent amber ringed with green;
what ancient myths untold
lie dormant, never heard or seen,
await to be paroled?
But now it’s not with myths you toy,
or anything since past.
Your stare is just a well worn ploy,
to win you some repast

I lower my eyes and break the link,
and gently rub your fur.
This elicits a feline blink,
and encourages you to purr.
Whatever you wanted, and could not tell,
is gone and lost in space.
Your wrath on me you’ll not impel,
in case you then loose face.

Your dignity is still intact,
Wise passiveness retained.
Whatever I in vision lacked,
our friendship has remained.
Oh puss, your mysteries deep within,
can only enhance your charm.
Pray Cherubim and Seraphim,
guard Puss from earthly harm.

© DF 2007

Millie in her tent.

The Greenfinch

The Greenfinch

Tiny delicate greenfinch,
lying inert on muddy ground.
Four inches I’d say, at a pinch;
a thin and fluffy mound.

No blood, or signs of any struggle.
You are perfect little bird.
Did diminishing space force you to juggle
and then your fall occurred?

You were unlucky, young and frail;
perhaps not even fledged.
I’m not sure if you are male or female,
with your wings all yellow edged.

How sad, that such a precious life
has passed away so fast.
Yes, hedges are with finches rife,
their green livery unsurpassed.

But nature is cruel and arbitrary
in her choice; who lives or dies.
It seems unfair, if not contrary
to be destined a premature demise.

©DF2007

Photographs courtesy of :-

Top: Greenfinches, by Memotions

Bottom: The Lost feather, by Paper Life

Observations on a Snowy Night

There is a stillness in the air.
An eerie silence envelopes all
that move or breath out there.

Underneath the lantern glare,
a ring of light reflects the snow
which covers cobbles bare.

Beyond the brightness, free of care,
a cat tiptoes with dainty paws,
and briefly stops to stare.

Within the shadows, mouse beware!
The cat can hear you, and intends
his supper to ensnare.

But cat walks on across the square;
his paw prints mark the route he takes
to try his luck elsewhere.

Meanwhile a change, we become aware
of gently swirling wisps of snow
now falling everywhere.

Look up and see the lantern’s flare.
It’s beams of light accentuate
the flakes which float mid air.

A draught, the air does rip and tear.
This makes the snowflakes whirl around
falling anywhere.

The sky is configured a pattern fair
of polka dot whirls, pirouettes of snow,
such beauty beyond compare.

One cannot help but stand and stare,
This magic spectacle is nature’s gift,
a delight and wonder rare.

The cat returns , nose testing the air.
Her solitary prowl is at an end.
For sleep she will prepare.

All is peaceful in the square.
Silence and stillness have returned;
the snowy mantel, everywhere.

©DF2007

Photograph: Snow Glow; courtesy of Jon Rawlinson

 

Safe Echoes

Memories, dreams of images past.
Etched on my mind and scattered
like red poppies in the corn.
Each flower a gem,transitory, musings, random,
proclaiming the truth in a child’s eyes.
Unblemished chronicle, sweet, unspoiled;
Recalled at will.
A haven.

Musings, random, involuntarily sparked
by the rekindling of
transitory sensations caught in
a wisp of air;
or light reflected, stirring patterns unseen
since childhood. Shimmering,
teasing ghosts from the cobwebs of time.
Another world.

Moments, precious time encapsulated
and locked away; hidden
until the mysteries of my mind
unravel a pathway
leading me, begging me enter
through fragmented windows.
I glimpse a young me, in a pristine world.
Safe harbour.

Marauders, uninvited, try to corrupt,
sabotage and shatter my serenity.
A child’s vision is precious,
untainted, pure and honest.
My adult mind, divested of it’s sweet naivety
is prey to reassessment.
Widen parameters, reframe the picture.
Real world.

Mangled perceptions, raped and confused,
conspire to disappoint me;
leave me anguished and hurt.
I retreat to my haven,
ship waiting in harbour, and sail away
with the breeze of quiet longing.
An escape from reality, childlike and fleeting.
But so precious!

©DF2007