Todmorden

Sonnets

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So they stride out jauntily and bravely.

 

One could probably say purposefully.

 

The three young adults, then the Dad sagely.

 

The grey-haired dog, treated respectfully.

 

 

 

This being the last walk around his field,

 

as age’s toll, from frailty and decline,

 

leads to the final cost being revealed.

 

Sadly, for the grey-haired one, end of time.

 

 

 

What a fine servant to the family.

 

His, a presence of great worth, over years.

 

Tribute walk, saying you’ve been part of me.

 

And, of course, goodbye; disguising the tears.

 

 

 

Accepting fate, but sort of defiant.

 

In solidarity, this last time spent.

 

 

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A Spirited End.

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But Shag One Sheep…..

Dog Day.

My brother described a situation.

 

The joke of the Mayor of the hill village.

 

In a speech, by way of explanation,

 

told of his achievements whilst centre stage.

 

 

 

Clean running water for ev’ry household.

 

Electricity connected up, too.

 

Pensions and healthcare for the very old.

 

New school built and best teachers brought in too.

 

 

 

Then the punchline, after these years of gain.

 

Public service bringing such benefits.

 

Not remembered; given lasting acclaim.

 

But shag one sheep…. And all the good dismissed.

 

 

 

This, a sort of metaphoric shearing

 

of reputation. It disappearing.

End of the day. What am I doing here?

 

Late showing. Late finish. Long way to go.

 

When I get home, to bed, not very clear.

 

Dog night after a dog day, going slow.

 

 

 

Man’s death reported to me. Known for years.

 

Difficult character at times. So what!

 

Good man overall. Got through tears and fears.

 

A strong case to say, he put in a lot.

 

 

 

Gone far too young. Daughter’s generation.

 

Where does that put me, with time running out?

 

Maybe somewhere find the inspiration

 

to partake in the precious that’s about.

 

 

 

On my bed now to finish off the night.

 

Explain to myself, can turn off the light.

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Comparison.

The Rose.

Should I compare you to an English rose?

 

Delicate flower with a dew teardrop.

 

Sweet scent that’s divine; heaven for the nose.

 

Colour, form; where perfection has to stop.

 

 

 

Compare you to the sweetness of honey.

 

The bees know what to produce for their queen.

 

Nat’ral sugar, whether set or runny,

 

explodes on the lips and tastebuds, extreme.

 

 

 

Compare you instead to a summer’s day

 

Generous with warmth to heat the body.

 

Sunshine’s light, abundance, come out to play.

 

Vision of loveliness. Life’s so jolly.

 

 

 

Could claim that you’re without comparisons.

 

But have sought to express the nearest ones.

 

Unbelievably beautiful, the rose.

 

How to describe that delicate orange.

 

As if diluted, yet whole colour shows.

 

In perfect leaf, as nature can arrange.

 

 

 

Could be, of course, a yellow or a red.

 

The scent, the sweetest, freshest known to man.

 

Think of the dewdrop resting on its head.

 

Evoking the joy, that perfection can.

 

 

 

But its moment is relatively short.

 

Begins to wilt and be blemished quite soon.

 

Just left to recall its wonder, in thought.

 

It gone at this time but, my, what a bloom.

 

 

 

Return in summer. Much like, but diff’rent.

 

Orig’nal disappeared, past rotting, sent.

 

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Dis  repute.

Tidal Wave.

Okay. You’re done. You’re dusted. Your demise.

 

You’re history. You’ve had it. You’re hated.

 

You want to carry on, wear a disguise.

 

Never ever again, you be feted.

 

 

 

My tongue. My tone. My taste. All will be trashed.

 

What a bloody cheek to be unabashed.

 

My repute. My respect. My rights. Just crashed.

 

My reliance now just on what’s been stashed.

 

 

 

Well hopeless, heading for the hanging noose.

 

Well sick I’ll be, at what’s to be let loose.

 

Well, I don’t want to hear any excuse.

 

Make no difference telling it, in truth.

 

 

 

Personal kiss from Madam Guillotine.

 

Accept my fate if it’s to be extreme.

After the tidal wave has done its worst.

 

Soaked, buffeted, swept along and immersed.

 

Frightened of course. Put staying alive first.

 

But beyond control. In this wrong place. Cursed.

 

 

 

Who knows if they’ll be an after-torrent,

 

making the exper’ence more abhorrent.

 

Still could be washed away by a current.

 

Keep body and soul intact, the intent.

 

 

 

Seems now just the rain, the spray and the squall.

 

Exhausted by the drama of it all.

 

Knees in wet sand. From self, the water falls.

 

Drenched, but breathing. Gasp. Alive after all.

 

 

 

Caught up, against wish, in the sudden flood.

 

Will to survive now, to go through the mud.

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Song.

My Poems.

If I described you as a near perfect

 

young lady, you’d have just cause to feel wronged.

 

Your beauty is a fabulous asset,

 

meriting eulogizing in a song.

 

 

 

If I called you pretty darn good looking,

 

you could say you were misrepresented

 

by understatement.  Obv’o’sly shocking.

 

And if sued, to pay I’d be contented.

 

 

 

Remark’ble, exceptional, breathtaking,

 

to cast sight on what is apparently

 

flawless. Inspiring poetry making.

 

Acknowledge you as goddess entity.

 

 

 

It is judged on your perfect form alone.

 

But a song this bad, sure to make you groan.

 

She said she really liked my poetry.

 

Well, that then is a turn up for the book.

 

Thought my style would not be her cup of tea.

 

To my surprise, she took a second look.

 

 

 

Could she explain what she liked about it.

 

Did she discern the meanings in the lines.

 

Confessed not qualified in English Lit.

 

Just seem to get on alright with the rhymes.

 

 

 

It’s the ones where you show your true feelings.

 

When you’re a sensitive human being.

 

Thought, what is it that have been revealing?

 

Are they my secrets she must be seeing?

 

 

 

Pleased to have touched her, if that’s what they did.

 

Personal poems. Not ev’rything hid.

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I shall complete my work right to the end.

 

Bitter fruit, but remnants of succulence.

 

Although did not finish as did intend.

 

Coming out with self-respect, recompense.

 

 

 

Maintain my dignity in these last times.

 

The vigilantes do not run my show.

 

To quieter thoughts, let my mind align.

 

Give the chance for something painfree to grow.

 

 

 

Recall that lesson I like from Jesus.

 

When with Pilot conversed on diff’rent plain.

 

Power can exert a violent thrust.

 

But can’t kill what the personal explains.

 

 

 

At least, not whilst still alive and function.

 

Not stay forever with closed dysfunction.

 

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What ‘the Personal’ Explains.

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