Peter’s Latest Poems
To Bach and Bark
Would Bach use wooden words just to construct
Instruments for this double concerto?
Would not such sentences merely disrupt
Notes flowing through violin strings and bow?
Fine counterpoint may be destroyed by them,
Interjecting shallow imperfections:
Flaw his precious melodic sonic gem,
In spite of the best poetic intentions.
Do these images need extra texture?
Will words improve the composition?
Are trees leaved with verbal diarrhoea?
Does rhyme and rhythm improve the vision?
As sounds vibrate in perfect harmony,
Unspoken words complete integrity.
Gone
Gone
but not
forgotten
The era
is now past
These images of me were
never meant to last.
Of course the vehicles were
the latest of their year.
But we always knew
that their design would be
superceded
too.
All things are evolving.
We change with time’s passing.
Gone!
Quicker than a minute,
to be replaced
by fashions of tomorrow’s
latest good intentions:
today’s inventions.
And yet
our creations do remain
within
what we call memory;
for etched in my mind
I find this
fond remininscence
frequently recurrs
reminding my mind
of these precious former years.
Gone!
Yes! Gone!
Gone, but not forgotten;
I find, now,
within
my own eliminating mind, I’m
enhanced somehow
by passing time.
Peter Coles 12.30 am 18 11 09
Halloween
At Halloween,
At Halloween,
Some things seem real
And some unreal;
But some seem
Somewhere in between.
As “in between”
Becomes more real,
With some surprise
We realise
That what we feel,
Rather than just what we
Seem to sense and see;
That “somewhere in between”
Becomes more real
Than mere reality;
At Halloween,
At Halloween.
At Halloween,
At Halloween,
We realise that what we really feel
Is actually just what we are:
Our
Feelings are reality.
Bosch
Hieronymous Bosch was born in Aachen
But spent all his life with other artists
In The Netherlands till 1516,
Then idolised predicting surrealists.
Centuries before Salvador Dali
Became the more famous Spanish painter
Bosch paved the way for most artists to see
Visions beyond mere reality here.
He painted all of his nightmares and dreams
From heaven and hell’s imagination;
Becoming really obsesessed, so it seems,
Predicting eventual destination.
All images on one canvas highlights
His genious: “Garden of Earthly Delights”
This canvas, “Garden of Earthly Delights”
Shows one scene, but with a thousand insights.
St. James
St. James, it seems, is John’s older brother;
Mark describes them as sons of Zebedee.
Peter and Andrew are the two other
Brothers, who meet Jesus in Galilee.
Much later on they know him as God’s son,
Through signs and wonders shown by him to them.
Salome, James mom, sees them getting on,
So asks for privilege for them in Heaven.
James drinks equally – life and martyrdom,
And, it seems, took God’s Good News to Spain;
But then back, to be seized in Jerusalem,
By Herod Agrippa The First, then slain.
James witnesses Christ’s transfiguration,
Then sees this trinity’s resurrection.
Vicky’s Peace
We used to get the cup from Vicky Lush
But now the “Swine Flue” tells God what to do.
For Vicky doesn’t Pass the Peace to us,
As now we can’t shake hands along each pew!
Yet we sometimes share coffee afterwards
Or the occasional birthday glass of wine.
It’s a better way to pass virusses,
And thus avoids the Bishop’s pantomime.
AsVicky snuffs the alter candles out,
She recalls the lesson read earlier:
Not taking too much anxious thought, about
Tomorrow’s problems, which could bother her.
Communion is sharing things with Church friends;
Bishops regulations may have other ends.
Our Vera
She is just down the road from where I live
Along the six-four-six, nearer St James;
And Harvey often drops us off to give
Us both lifts home after the services.
What do I recall about our Vera
Apart from her tuneful soprano voice?
I know that she and her cricketer are
In a different Parish from us by choice.
We live in Blackshaw; they in Errinden
Where residents are outnumbered by sheep;
So she’s often Parish Council Chair when
Her turn returns each year for her to keep.
Some verse found in Book of Wisdom says
Good things often come in small packages
Peter’s Lines
If this is an autobiography,
Seventy-five into fourteen won’t go.
This surely can’t be enough space for me
To describe my life to folk I don’t know.
If I read much more, I might have the right
To scribble vain lines about my image,
And polish it off, well, maybe not quite
Like all the rest, left exposed on this page.
How do poets collect and then select?
They observe the goings-on around them,
Then discard things others may not reject,
Pretending what remains is just the same.
That’s what I am: your facts become my lies;
Yet between these lines, hidden truth survives.
Judith
Judith lived inside her brown envelope,
Concealing her hidden authority.
She preferred it there, with little hope
Beyond her obvious Christianity.
Gone now, beyond angry humility,
Judith’s body may be found underground,
With a dock leaf I picked from under the tree,
Next to the grave, now with flowers on her mound.
Soon this will level with others nearby
Yet she was so different from all the rest
This independent witness would never comply
With compromises avoiding the best.
Her knowledge was wide and her taste was too
But sealed her flap on this wisdom she knew.
Harvey’s Contribution
Resurrected from the grave, she brings him
Into our small, dwindling community.
We get no Seraphim or Cherubim,
Yet Harvey gives more than we ever see.
He searches and researches church hist’ry,
Cleaning and restoring the things he finds.
His ambition is the Brontes myst’ry
Drawn nearer St James as their tale unwinds.
Real motivation promotes devotion,
And this shines through any alternatives.
The former conflict won, the past is gone:
Lost partner, through new partnership, still lives.
Harvey’s contribution is never done;
He gives his sacrifice to everyone.
Eric’s Persistent Courage
Eric is at his best telling fond tales,
Remembered from familiar occasions.
He‘s memorized his lines and never fails
To impress us with these recitations.
My favourites are words of Robbie Burns,
Churned out on t’ 25th of January.
Pipers call these many happy returns,
Of all that everyone would like to be.
He grills the burgers on his barbeques,
Cremating, thus, all sinuous sins he can,
For church lunchtime celebrations refuse
Low pretensions of any higher man
Eric shows us his persistent courage:
When to act our age and when our outrage.
Harvest Festival
They sort of first met at an odd auction
Of fruit and veg’ from the St. James Harvest
New, so no idea what was going on,
Just to be involved seemed his best request.
Soon introduced in mock formality
By a jovial serious church friend of hers;
Subsequently, they give, for charity,
Everything they brought preferred by others.
Twenty-odd years on and still fond friends,
In contempt of familiarity,
The centre owes existence to both ends,
So circles round in search of symmetry.
Souls could be lost avoiding bidding all
At her Eternal Harvest Festival
Anne
“That last poem hadn’t much to do with me”
She said, striding right onto centre page.
“It was just about the way you met me,
Not about my performance on life’s stage.”
So here is her distinctive appearance:
Her hair, her stance and what she does and how.
This could be no one else, by any chance,
Walking straight out of the play or film show.
Many characteristics distinguish
Her from all the rest, but perhaps her love
For everyone around her is her wish
To achieve all her Geoff would be proud of.
His resting place is constantly refreshed
With fond remembrances of all that’s best.
The Birthday Card
My wife’s Birthday is on Christmas Eve
I always try to make a card for her.
In spite of careful plans I often leave
It far too late to make her card proper.
This year it snowed early and so I thought
It would be nice with a winter picture
On the front with all our grandchildren caught
Inside, each as a mini portraiture
Our home is just along on the Pennine Way
Not far from Hebden Bridge, in West Yorkshire
These covered colours let the snow say
Warm words of love to grace the time of year
Both older now, next to this Christmas morn
Our past is gone and purer future born.
The Way
The flame burns from Alpha to Omega
As the Christ child whispers “I am The Way;
Faith, hope and love is all you really are:
But permanence flows on beyond decay.”
His thirty years are ‘like an evening gone’,
Yet images stay in our foreign minds;
Created differently but seen as one,
Within our art forms of various kinds.
These materialistic gifts we bother with
Have no real worth, for they are all the same.
Philosophies question this Christmas myth;
While Darwen plays his evolution game.
Nicolas and Nicodemus both say,
‘Born Water and Spirit, We Are The Way’.
God’s Haiku
Burning Bush? That’s odd!
No! Go cover it with snow!
‘s only Me said God
Posted: September 5th, 2009 under .
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