tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74047602549424913962024-03-05T01:15:54.852-08:00Pete's Seriouser PoemsOccasionally I try my hand at serious poems though somehow I don't think this is my forte...Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-53397661845379966032009-07-30T08:12:00.001-07:002009-07-30T08:14:09.099-07:00The pyracantha<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1ebvcOlJrBTF4cqGB6FX9hyQuuEAeaRhKa3lDdPKcmavjFN6sfVNAPRxQmnPIXeJOB6pFcpWKvbKcNsOWwXi45OwbdCkselZCK3xxPr7GeTe52rRpmEfNTVyc3dDNQxGl3laHPxdiU0/s1600-h/pyracantha_coccinea_3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364271670062267730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 268px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1ebvcOlJrBTF4cqGB6FX9hyQuuEAeaRhKa3lDdPKcmavjFN6sfVNAPRxQmnPIXeJOB6pFcpWKvbKcNsOWwXi45OwbdCkselZCK3xxPr7GeTe52rRpmEfNTVyc3dDNQxGl3laHPxdiU0/s400/pyracantha_coccinea_3.jpg" border="0" /></a> As we had planned,<br />the pyracantha grew and, sprawling,<br />blocked out the breeze block back wall<br />of our square suburban home.<br />So high it stretched,<br />that it threatened to blot out<br />the early morning sun itself,<br />and I suggested, one evening, from the sink,<br />that it needed its wings clipping.<br />He disagreed,<br />child of the blackened chimney,<br />surveying his new leafdom<br />like a benevolent dictator.<br />He loved the wild entanglement of thorn and leaf<br />that would have made a great nesting place,<br />had the blue tits only thought harder.<br />And, he decreed, it stopped the early morning cats<br />using our back wall as a short cut,<br />as they swaggered jauntily home<br />after a night of wild carousing.<br />Left to its own devices, I argued,<br />it has lost all shape and purpose.<br />fine in the Amazon rain forest,<br />or an abandoned city centre parking lot,<br />but not here, among the sculpted lawns<br />and dead-headed roses, that we can see<br />stretching uniformly from our bedroom window.<br /><br />One day, after he roared off to work<br />following another breakfast argument,<br />I took the shears from the rusting nail<br />in his shed<br />and clacked and snapped at the tangled maelstrom,<br />the thorns raising ugly red wealds on my bare arms,<br />as I drove the fierce metal<br />between the resisting briars.<br />In ten minutes it was all over<br />and I stood back, panting triumphantly,<br />as the thorny twigs lay around my feet<br />like the remnants of my marriage.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-39560086775113193232009-07-30T08:08:00.000-07:002009-07-30T08:12:12.723-07:00The Old English Sheepdog<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7as5nl9vrlI-Pta2BdMuIW8CATxz9CbgaDPYdTB89kTYZMilgtHSH8f4_fQstVeR4fXfGjAtVnMOoNhuvlQZFZrUw-UWUKd0eMYiANMfyDw4kDZnkhMlSt1j5SsL5_1ks73eMwVCUc5o/s1600-h/old_english_sheepdog_h03.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364271182571875106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 389px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7as5nl9vrlI-Pta2BdMuIW8CATxz9CbgaDPYdTB89kTYZMilgtHSH8f4_fQstVeR4fXfGjAtVnMOoNhuvlQZFZrUw-UWUKd0eMYiANMfyDw4kDZnkhMlSt1j5SsL5_1ks73eMwVCUc5o/s400/old_english_sheepdog_h03.jpg" border="0" /></a> Lolloping over the old English cobbles,<br />In bright July sunshine that licks at your face,<br />The old English sheepdog peers out of his fringe-hair<br />And smiles a mild greeting of ‘God be with you.’<br />Past the squat church with the rooks standing sentry<br />And past the young mums with their children in tow.<br />Past the red post box and past the newsagents,<br />Past the o’er-grandiose building society,<br />The old English sheepdog trots by with contentment<br />As children excitedly squeal in delight.<br /><br />Other dogs pass in a light-footed patter,<br />Smaller, more wizened and fearful of tread.<br />The old English sheepdog looks down on them properly,<br />Grunting away through his stiff upper lip.<br />But here comes a mongrel who will not pull over,<br />Who will not acknowledge the well-defined law.<br />The street is a maelstrom of teeth and fur flying,<br />A belly ripped open ‘twixt resolute fangs.<br />The sheepdog trots on with an air of self-righteousness.<br />The mongrel limps off as the cobbles run red.<br /><br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-2679238761110293712009-05-05T14:29:00.001-07:002009-05-05T14:30:55.475-07:00Tarmonbarry May 2009<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgotpNXAUf5S-dTMQtPNBgFQfGbUWsz6maWv_mxyNqBm3fq2GK1V0uRze9h_kP7EFItGrGRLpFVWqGqQoaV8MaB5IzybTgqhchEU_impNLG-QALfoVFXj8Fxi96mkKELo76jXIWzOf98ng/s1600-h/Strokestown+08+001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332455423249975842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgotpNXAUf5S-dTMQtPNBgFQfGbUWsz6maWv_mxyNqBm3fq2GK1V0uRze9h_kP7EFItGrGRLpFVWqGqQoaV8MaB5IzybTgqhchEU_impNLG-QALfoVFXj8Fxi96mkKELo76jXIWzOf98ng/s320/Strokestown+08+001.jpg" border="0" /></a> With Cubist strokes, the whistling sun had leant<br />Into the room and daubed the waking walls<br />With colour. Lost in delicious content,<br /><br />My eyes switched open. Somewhere a lusty<br />Robin announced his news with strident calls<br />That swiftly unravelled sad night’s dusty<br /><br />Blanket. Outside the stretching Shannon purred,<br />Tickled by the fronds of reflected trees<br />That lined the far shore. Beside me you stirred<br /><br />Softly beneath the careless cotton sheet,<br />Like a butterfly inching by degrees<br />From winter’s cocoon towards summer’s heat.<br /><br />A moment so true I almost cried in pain,<br />Knowing that the night would fall again.<br /><br />But, determined, I lay back and succumbed<br />And drew imaginary pictures on<br />The blank expanse of ceiling and hummed<br />A jaunty tune as hidden heaven shone.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-81992732684099687242009-05-05T14:19:00.001-07:002009-05-05T14:20:03.992-07:00Eulogy<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhAJqIp_tQAYDt4DBGzQl7RhfxGrfqmjd8h4IcJ6Fb1lVQTWlU-wW4uJ_3JN5FYjsRprWi_ZOaayCe4jY6TEYuCtdk2gfLRVwuwWk7y_I03O_KtsU99MGF6PxgnyVlIxFXOBV7B0HHC4/s1600-h/dead_plants.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332452619994801986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 256px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 307px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhAJqIp_tQAYDt4DBGzQl7RhfxGrfqmjd8h4IcJ6Fb1lVQTWlU-wW4uJ_3JN5FYjsRprWi_ZOaayCe4jY6TEYuCtdk2gfLRVwuwWk7y_I03O_KtsU99MGF6PxgnyVlIxFXOBV7B0HHC4/s320/dead_plants.jpg" border="0" /></a> How sharp are now the cleaves upon your face.<br />The downy hairs upon your softened jaw<br />Show clear that claims of golden age are base.<br /><br />Your feeble joints grow weary of the race.<br />Your back is bent, your slippered feet are sore<br />And can’t maintain the unrelenting pace.<br /><br />Ornaments stand proud on crocheted lace<br />A life displayed in china – nothing more<br />Is needed to exhume each holy place.<br /><br />Arms that cradled children in good grace<br />Now drip with skinny skin and bruise till raw<br />When lightly held in sorrowful embrace.<br /><br />Justice flees and leaves no mortal trace.<br />The runner will not make it to fourth base,<br />The struggle more important than the score,<br />The wish to sleep more potent than the chase. <div align="center"></div></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-78003260027269623152009-05-05T14:10:00.001-07:002009-05-05T14:10:58.306-07:00Weed<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0CiDMyRwKvIO7MUMNG-5vdrFoHzzsOV8VCum3_h4ybqUPok3Jv60396OeFPpg_t9HGUuPzf2SLuPOmzVPXDIS6zSk9iksI3_CUHkLMr9WxAlz8HhZlWobGhE079EG9NUWk-F6Xyf6uA/s1600-h/hand-weeding.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332450322579583138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 276px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 276px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0CiDMyRwKvIO7MUMNG-5vdrFoHzzsOV8VCum3_h4ybqUPok3Jv60396OeFPpg_t9HGUuPzf2SLuPOmzVPXDIS6zSk9iksI3_CUHkLMr9WxAlz8HhZlWobGhE079EG9NUWk-F6Xyf6uA/s320/hand-weeding.jpg" border="0" /></a> Is this a plant or is’t a weed?<br />My tender fingers feel the stalk,<br />Caress the leaf. Should I just walk<br />Away and not commit the deed?<br />My trembling hands begin to baulk.<br />Did I once plant this living seed?<br />Is’t better to pull out a plant<br />Or give a weed its murd’rous head<br />To strangle others in their bed?<br />Once done, ‘tis too late to recant.<br />No wonder God shrinks back with dread<br />And shirks the role of commandant.<br />The greater good? I give a scowl<br />And weakly reach out for the trowel.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-85458719464887383862009-05-05T14:07:00.001-07:002009-05-05T14:08:15.255-07:00This morning shone the sun again<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNtx1tgx7xWq_1RmZZ9o8SDCFShyqvxVTdDIeHLOIjw7-Ac8ngj0OEso4lygEAxPMOAUrCyqn4MDCqIMJSi8trSRX-P8PIQagI9-bM8UGehg18KZY58ZiBPcJwSdKRoxri8EENhxndKNg/s1600-h/wasp-0071.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332449614612146482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNtx1tgx7xWq_1RmZZ9o8SDCFShyqvxVTdDIeHLOIjw7-Ac8ngj0OEso4lygEAxPMOAUrCyqn4MDCqIMJSi8trSRX-P8PIQagI9-bM8UGehg18KZY58ZiBPcJwSdKRoxri8EENhxndKNg/s320/wasp-0071.jpg" border="0" /></a> This morning shone the sun again.<br />For three days we had plodded round<br />The dreary house and peered outside,<br />Tut-tutting at the teeming rain.<br />For three days we had fought and frowned<br />And I had yelled and she had cried.<br />This morning life began afresh.<br />I padded to the cherry tree,<br />Once thick with bulbous pregnant fruit,<br />But lo! the stalks hung destitute,<br />As hov’ring wasps buzzed round with glee<br />And gorged upon the juicy flesh.<br />Now nothing grows in Babylon.<br />I called to her but she was gone.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-50730428111732205942009-05-05T14:03:00.001-07:002009-05-05T14:04:07.229-07:00The vicious tempest<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWRllvrZQry0qwOSOE6wO8S3gRWFH8impdlKeHi11pfOcMzbdEGSB6_mhJf1t-ao8qdMb3wDljtgFy8FP343cO-adWdCDp0v0KqwnD8Vm6mKmGmiLRWBRDLr8qljdYREZqC73mPBE2fMQ/s1600-h/old+woman.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332448544587184242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 267px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWRllvrZQry0qwOSOE6wO8S3gRWFH8impdlKeHi11pfOcMzbdEGSB6_mhJf1t-ao8qdMb3wDljtgFy8FP343cO-adWdCDp0v0KqwnD8Vm6mKmGmiLRWBRDLr8qljdYREZqC73mPBE2fMQ/s320/old+woman.jpg" border="0" /></a> The vicious tempest flared up very late,<br />Too late for her to get her washing in,<br />Life pulls her like a river in full spate.<br /><br />The rampant gale unlocks another slate.<br />She starts and draws the beads up to her chin<br />And prays aloud the storm will soon abate.<br /><br />She tries to hide the banging of the gate<br />That crashes ‘gainst the jamb with fearful din.<br />The vicious tempest flared up very late.<br /><br />Longevity does not deserve such fate.<br />Where is the balm to soothe her careworn skin?<br />Life pulls her like a river in full spate.<br /><br />Must God destroy whate’er he may create?<br />Is justice only consequence of sin?<br />The rampant gale unlocks another slate.<br /><br />A crackling spark vaults o’er the soot-thick grate<br />And smoulders on the carpet with a grin.<br />She prays aloud the storm will soon abate.<br /><br />Jesus on the wall does not hang straight.<br />She reaches for another mug of gin.<br />The vicious tempest flared up very late.<br />Life pulls her like a river in full spate.<br /><br />The furies scream their bitter songs of hate.<br />The picture on the wall begins to spin.<br />The rampant gale unlocks another slate.<br />She prays aloud the storm will soon abate.<br /><br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-28091655839378145102009-05-05T14:00:00.001-07:002009-05-05T14:01:13.844-07:00When I am dead<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDNypSekxC0D49O1hPoUwy-UA0t344LSc9mTgm-oxYJGwP2Cy14_bEcVVjZdeIuoQTOnTBHaZhZ-R4dNaCTVksfzZvlRNAyOlLUU-tea2lm3IbwrKAffDoJ2xK2recY45CZSJUIGcKl2I/s1600-h/radnor_street_cemetery_1_470x353.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332447778112954898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDNypSekxC0D49O1hPoUwy-UA0t344LSc9mTgm-oxYJGwP2Cy14_bEcVVjZdeIuoQTOnTBHaZhZ-R4dNaCTVksfzZvlRNAyOlLUU-tea2lm3IbwrKAffDoJ2xK2recY45CZSJUIGcKl2I/s320/radnor_street_cemetery_1_470x353.jpg" border="0" /></a> When I am dead, erect no marble stone<br />With random clichés writ in gilded font,<br />But let sweet earth devour my flesh and bone.<br /><br />My testament is this: I do not want<br />My lovely life and death to be proclaimed<br />With random clichés writ in gilded font.<br /><br />What purpose serves a stone thus cheaply named,<br />To summarise in bland and hollow words<br />My lovely life and death? To be proclaimed<br /><br />A loving husband / father? Do the birds<br />Attempt, when some poor wretchéd soul keels o’er,<br />To summarise in bland and hollow words<br /><br />His time? It means the living evermore<br />Are bound by guilt to that one maudlin spot.<br />Attempt, when this poor wretchéd soul keels o’er<br /><br />And heads off to his chill October plot,<br />To countenance the grieving souls that none<br />Are bound by guilt to that one maudlin spot.<br /><br />Enrich the soil! That’s how things should be done.<br />And thus I bid you, do not stand and mourn<br />But countenance the grieving souls that none<br /><br />Should to that dismal place again be drawn<br />When I am dead. Erect no marble stone.<br />And thus I bid you, do not stand and mourn<br />But let sweet earth devour my flesh and bone. <br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-54272387923577790722009-05-05T13:58:00.001-07:002009-05-05T13:59:33.526-07:00One yellow leaf<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixRGEz6Zl_lRd6DcfaNAWppjicb5Xillx-g7pzcGMGX5BOUgZBo5D8w-FfwCFRZBl66dLSq4jVc_guR6ldQ43rHes4Gb_PC8aEP3ZvGDubvHGLQUcnm4Z2SnWLTKb_vgAgi42c8l7xwes/s1600-h/yellow-leaf.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332447335113054610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixRGEz6Zl_lRd6DcfaNAWppjicb5Xillx-g7pzcGMGX5BOUgZBo5D8w-FfwCFRZBl66dLSq4jVc_guR6ldQ43rHes4Gb_PC8aEP3ZvGDubvHGLQUcnm4Z2SnWLTKb_vgAgi42c8l7xwes/s320/yellow-leaf.jpg" border="0" /></a> Clinging tightly to the twig<br />Like a first day child at the school gates,<br />The one yellow leaf<br />Shivers in the stiff November breeze.<br />Inevitability denied<br />With irrational stubbornness,<br />It seeks to reverse the flow of rivers,<br />Travel backwards in time<br />And snip the umbilical cord of the moon.<br /><br />Passing by,<br />Collar upturned and eyes slitted,<br />I admire its pathetic bravado,<br />In the same way that the last survivor<br />Charges the lines of the enemy<br />With spear upturned.<br /><br />There is a need for futility<br />In a world of purpose.<br /><br />When I pass, the following day,<br />It is gone,<br />Shaken loose and scolded on its way,<br />To join the millions mashed into the earth.<br />And I feel that I am nearer<br />My own time of clinging on stubbornly<br />Against the odds. <br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-68642574615292555722009-05-05T13:56:00.001-07:002009-05-05T13:57:01.971-07:00Cherish me<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDsMTGNScF8A41E4Eic9xOZgcI_R89YdzQJIBkKmjFcLpiD-_0erMaZ89zeFl-y3xtedldKlTTMIjA2jMDjmY1bGCLd-VSwrOeTdwiW8NM0ae1iB28nwSF2pj5yMG4eDiI3T1Vc1W8kh4/s1600-h/silhouette-of-me.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332446718066062338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 250px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDsMTGNScF8A41E4Eic9xOZgcI_R89YdzQJIBkKmjFcLpiD-_0erMaZ89zeFl-y3xtedldKlTTMIjA2jMDjmY1bGCLd-VSwrOeTdwiW8NM0ae1iB28nwSF2pj5yMG4eDiI3T1Vc1W8kh4/s320/silhouette-of-me.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center">I’m the man at the front who stays standing<br />When the rest of the church has sat down.<br /><br />I’m the child singled out in the gym hall<br />When she can’t touch her toes with straight legs.<br /><br />I’m the old man who lurches and stumbles<br />When the driver swerves into the bus stop.<br /><br />I’m the woman in town unaware of<br />The red strain on the back of her trousers.<br /><br />I’m the driver who visits a new town<br />And finds himself stuck in the wrong lane,<br />Or stalls at a short-changing traffic light,<br />Or drives in the dark with no lights on.<br /><br />I’m the interviewee with a bogey<br />Stuck to the base of his nostril.<br /><br />I’m the principled parent who finally<br />Buys a toy gun for the young lad.<br /><br />I’m the straight-laced managing director<br />Who is bursting to go to the toilet.<br /><br />I’m the self-proclaimed saviour of mankind<br />Who is nailed to a cross at Golgotha.</div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-49258099132853522932009-05-05T09:29:00.001-07:002009-05-05T09:31:11.009-07:00The lie<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHWs_RFU2TxPxItN4moEOMxcVeK7m9awL1WnQI8Eq0ZzwQBJiPdHj-LV5Xj6_79SGeOuTv9chjMu44So-OWxuiroWPO5pQLr5DqBtDH5UfzgaAfLXstMqFHF-9gz0Um7kNaXrGURinJwc/s1600-h/meteor.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332378220376933010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 282px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHWs_RFU2TxPxItN4moEOMxcVeK7m9awL1WnQI8Eq0ZzwQBJiPdHj-LV5Xj6_79SGeOuTv9chjMu44So-OWxuiroWPO5pQLr5DqBtDH5UfzgaAfLXstMqFHF-9gz0Um7kNaXrGURinJwc/s320/meteor.gif" border="0" /></a> One night, the stars came floating down<br />Like paratroopers, bathed in light.<br />They fell on countryside and town<br />And fields and roofs were clothed in white,<br />Cold starflakes silent as the night.<br /><br />They say the moon came down as well<br />And landed near Trincomalee<br />And natives set off through the swell<br />To where they thought that it should be,<br />But it had sunk beneath the sea.<br /><br />Three days the starfall cloaked the earth<br />And then it slowly turned to slush<br />Till soon there wasn’t tuppenceworth<br />Between Portrush and Hindu Kush.<br />And then there fell a deathly hush<br /><br />As all the world looked up and saw<br />The inside of a jet-black dome.<br />No pinpricks twinkling as before –<br />Just us, squashed in our dismal home,<br />Our squalid, lonely hippodrome.<br /><br />And then, when realisation hit,<br />We marched upon the college gate<br />With oil-swabbed torches brightly lit<br />And flung them on mendacious slates<br />And blocked the doors with burning crates.<br /><br />And to the media too, for they<br />Had propagated all those lies.<br />No mercy. By the light of day<br />Those bastards were cut down to size,<br />No more to gloat and moralise.<br /><br />And then the churches and the banks<br />And Government buildings and the shops.<br />We razed the world in armoured tanks<br />And burnt out forests, deserts, crops,<br />Then set ablaze the mountain tops.<br /><br />And soon the whole world was on fire<br />And night time was no longer black<br />And raucous voices formed a choir,<br />As choking ash rained down like flak.<br />Alone. There could be no way back.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMBMZLP-oMkQVNgDBh5MQNRzAl-_8yYgN1T2_36eUvWhf5hxF6MGuvunLtMh9sQ6_7CypZLKiXf0-9F2aPRoy1upSMoiaFHm4FU_LK1VponIwE3zxi_cEraGQFRIccVh8tvB1zYG_CrOg/s1600-h/radnor_street_cemetery_1_470x353.jpg"></a><br /><br /><div></div><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-39760594993598993562009-05-05T09:27:00.001-07:002009-05-05T09:28:00.619-07:00Duel<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhktsD6V0TUz_Z86mxtA6RVp40eYJP_BlyBCnAZFueevz55nxYjPLu27F9LNB0L1NZQKOKS9csFFS3rEPm8s-w4lHzMNbdL7J1ATzcUt0SQ2-EEaeX5E1zR_-ihCTd-QFCtaOeuOMibzYg/s1600-h/argument.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332377381109137378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhktsD6V0TUz_Z86mxtA6RVp40eYJP_BlyBCnAZFueevz55nxYjPLu27F9LNB0L1NZQKOKS9csFFS3rEPm8s-w4lHzMNbdL7J1ATzcUt0SQ2-EEaeX5E1zR_-ihCTd-QFCtaOeuOMibzYg/s320/argument.bmp" border="0" /></a> From room to room, our flashing swords<br />Grapple, the air sliced by each thrust.<br />To land that fatal blow we must<br />Show no mercy. We move towards<br />The stairs. Backwards my love ascends<br />Furiously fending off my<br />Unsubtle lunge. My mouth is dry.<br />I thrust again. Again she fends<br />Me off and strikes my full-flushed cheek<br />And turns and runs. Slams the wood door<br />Like gunshot. I hear the bed creak.<br />Panting, sweating, I come for more,<br />But she has thrown away her blade<br />And taken up her tear-filled shield.<br />My rash and vengeful fury played<br />Into her nimble hands. I yield.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-16251623991411928682009-05-05T09:25:00.000-07:002009-05-05T09:26:49.094-07:00The Hayman Doyle<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6TH2ZwrLqY_acqB_PNH2j2OuqdW7fyqCrR_uZESIDpq19gyM6YDIGJCPXCWu8CirjmCEUg1odjG7UBNxvMfduNFi47ZCjS0hOnCCwEqe55CQDAeCTiBRxar6WS8_AydkT2ylvAbAhH6M/s1600-h/bucket.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332377052600155026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 234px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6TH2ZwrLqY_acqB_PNH2j2OuqdW7fyqCrR_uZESIDpq19gyM6YDIGJCPXCWu8CirjmCEUg1odjG7UBNxvMfduNFi47ZCjS0hOnCCwEqe55CQDAeCTiBRxar6WS8_AydkT2ylvAbAhH6M/s320/bucket.gif" border="0" /></a> He prowled the house and bastard scrap of land<br />As though he were a wolf trapped in a cage,<br />Black bucket in that great ham-fisted hand.<br /><br />He spat a lot – great balls of pent-up rage<br />At life beyond the stakes and crude barbed wire,<br />As though he were a wolf trapped in a cage.<br /><br />On sweat-soaked summer days, he lit the fire<br />And spat into the flames, a phlegm-filled shot<br />At life beyond the stakes. And crude barbed wire<br /><br />Bound well and gagged the dismal, muddied plot.<br />And then, in crusted boots, he dozed till dawn<br />And spat into the flames, a phlegm-filled shot<br /><br />That fizzled with a sizzling angry scorn.<br />He hummed a snatch of some forgotten tune<br />And then, in crusted boots, he dozed till dawn.<br /><br />With one eye cocked towards the mocking moon,<br />He brooded on the road beyond the gate<br />And hummed a snatch of some forgotten tune.<br /><br />Sometimes he sat down heavy on the crate<br />That served as doorstep facing down the drive<br />And brooded on the road beyond. The gate<br /><br />Lent height when Joss and I used to contrive<br />To rattle with dull stones that crate upturned,<br />That served as doorstep facing down the drive.<br /><br />And then the door would swing. The game adjourned,<br />We’d run back up the hill, with no desire<br />To further rattle that dull crate upturned.<br /><br />With raucous yells that ripped through thickly briar,<br />He snapped and slavered hard upon our heels.<br />We’d run back up the hill. With no desire<br /><br />To follow or to quell our porcine squeals,<br />Untethered were the snarling, baying howls<br />That snapped and slavered hard upon our heels.<br /><br />Unfettered ran the dark and brooding scowls,<br />Unleashed the pent-up fury in his eye,<br />Untethered were the snarling, baying howls.<br /><br />With head upturned towards the mocking sky,<br />He prowled the house and bastard scrap of land.<br />Unleashed the pent-up fury in his eye,<br />Black bucket in that great ham-fisted hand.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-53266858470016218882009-05-05T09:23:00.000-07:002009-05-05T09:25:09.670-07:00Mick<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcjyecU4Eu6rMFw7QDeVLkttIdkHrxrxhwXPkd2MD068skw-SXML0A6b5vQwH8rW0-xzuJN_63R2b7VSA_eet6o8buhBvCkvvT22w4NIcwexnvo7X4w0B9jiN2K-8VHNEZMCH4iIO4bpo/s1600-h/bucket.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332376539806138946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 234px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcjyecU4Eu6rMFw7QDeVLkttIdkHrxrxhwXPkd2MD068skw-SXML0A6b5vQwH8rW0-xzuJN_63R2b7VSA_eet6o8buhBvCkvvT22w4NIcwexnvo7X4w0B9jiN2K-8VHNEZMCH4iIO4bpo/s320/bucket.gif" border="0" /></a> With milking done<br />And the sweet warm liquid<br />Added to yesterday’s bread and peelings<br />To make swill for the sow,<br />The two cows would be slapped down the drive<br />And out onto the road,<br />Like two lazy sons being urged to find work.<br />Up the road or down, as they wished,<br />They ambled, with a calm, unhurried air,<br />Discussing the soft weather.<br />On occasions, as I came up from Two Mile Water<br />For a spot of lunch, I’d pass them,<br />Grinning in a ditch or in Delahunty’s yard<br />Or, worse case scenario, Jackie Hagen’s garden.<br />“Any sign of de cows?” he’d grunt,<br />Spitting on the range and stirring his thick tay,<br />One ear cocked to the shenanigans on Harbour Hotel.<br />In late afternoon, bow-legged and unsteady,<br />He’d cycle out to put a halt to their mischief,<br />With a big, sturdy briar and a gruff “Yar!”<br />And lead them back up for the second milking.<br />The iron gate would clang shut<br />And he’d glance up and down warily,<br />Like a small country fearing unfriendly overtures.<br /><br />One day visited an earnest man<br />With a clipboard and a pen<br />Who talked animatedly about something called<br />Health and Safety.<br />The oul’ lad nodded sagely<br />And spat on the ground amiably<br />And agreed completely<br />And helped him reverse back out the drive.<br />And life went on as before. <br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-18852269032684627602009-05-05T09:21:00.000-07:002009-05-05T09:23:30.369-07:00Words of love<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUHOd_pw6icxGTjeZjZ00DfhAdN87zHVpknBv_-y9xhKbd8HlGLWdL_sRQIQJrIsl6KDjl3QRgPL_LuTn4m_30qvf31N7sXQrYHcoGIf0WTt3i10UHorj8ejRTtjAXjioF3jJhzt0WW5Y/s1600-h/poem.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332376124676141346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUHOd_pw6icxGTjeZjZ00DfhAdN87zHVpknBv_-y9xhKbd8HlGLWdL_sRQIQJrIsl6KDjl3QRgPL_LuTn4m_30qvf31N7sXQrYHcoGIf0WTt3i10UHorj8ejRTtjAXjioF3jJhzt0WW5Y/s320/poem.bmp" border="0" /></a> The words do not flick lightly off my tongue<br />Like balls of spit that in my mouth are rolled<br />And then, with practised ease, succinctly flung<br /><br />Across the yard to land upon the cold<br />Concrete. From throat or gut or rasping lung,<br />They must be hewn by axe where seams of gold<br /><br />Fold beneath the earth amid dullard rock.<br />They must be grappled with in shadowed light<br />Deep, deep beneath the grey-eyed monadnock<br /><br />That bears the brunt. By nature, words are slight<br />And brittle things. Mere glist’ning baubles mock<br />The sweat-brow of the poet in the night.<br /><br />The words do not flick lightly off my tongue.<br />They must be grappled with in shadowed light.<br /><br />For stones upon a necklace loosely strung<br />Are valued for the rock-scarred miner’s plight<br />And in their flaming lustre can be told<br />The aching earth-mother’s huge aftershock.<br /><br />So lock these chiselled words deep in your young<br />And pristine heart. And later, at the height<br />Of pain, when I am gone and you are old<br />And darkness won’t retreat, unpick the lock. <br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-10926525497385680592009-05-05T09:19:00.000-07:002009-05-05T09:21:17.164-07:00Mountains or clouds<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1md2HA2YV_0MmEdFaju9zBi5Rj7BmWs2FA4pATwCVzyKUDn9yYKlr-LdhE8PqhZIzF_SqYdMsSKBCJIGqj39FIVM3r5J4YAhWCmGsJ__0WYRt_7bQCHVNnM78a9z6qflj_rkDJPtLN2U/s1600-h/AW-DistantMountains.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332375596090428018" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 84px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1md2HA2YV_0MmEdFaju9zBi5Rj7BmWs2FA4pATwCVzyKUDn9yYKlr-LdhE8PqhZIzF_SqYdMsSKBCJIGqj39FIVM3r5J4YAhWCmGsJ__0WYRt_7bQCHVNnM78a9z6qflj_rkDJPtLN2U/s320/AW-DistantMountains.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center">And when the linnet sings no more,<br />When shadows stretch to grotesque heights,<br />Sometimes I pause at my front door<br />And watch the day’s decaying lights.<br />And over in the blazing west<br />Where hope bows down in blues and greys<br />Reclining ‘pon the earth undressed,<br />The evening sings her hymn of praise.<br />But lo! Those dark and smould’ring shrouds –<br />Be they firm hills or wispy clouds?<br /><br />A mass of limestone looming high<br />Above the long and fruitful plain?<br />Or formless vapour in the sky,<br />The harbinger of big-eyed rain?<br />As evening folds another day<br />And stacks it neatly on the chair,<br />I gaze upon this shapeless grey<br />And wonder if my dreams lie there.<br />Or are my mountains merely strands<br />That slip between excited hands?</div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-20993097814213615122009-05-05T09:15:00.000-07:002009-05-05T09:18:26.197-07:00What is it thou hast seen, oh Father?<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzb6gStUbgJf7E_wAax2KqjfTxrYeQCF2X6MVYNk4VabvMRw40LwMWnOqAf5Ro0jd_jF5ro3ZAq8hd22rsyTYV40McB6s55qmsJAUM1gQlWKy8SqPH-acqUiEHOlMJXo2dD47kMkRpcik/s1600-h/fear-eye.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332374784497487378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzb6gStUbgJf7E_wAax2KqjfTxrYeQCF2X6MVYNk4VabvMRw40LwMWnOqAf5Ro0jd_jF5ro3ZAq8hd22rsyTYV40McB6s55qmsJAUM1gQlWKy8SqPH-acqUiEHOlMJXo2dD47kMkRpcik/s320/fear-eye.jpg" border="0" /></a> What is it thou hast seen? I prithee, tell me.<br />What is it that thy aging ears have heard?<br />Thy terror-racked expression doth compel me<br />To wonder at what horror hath occurred.<br />Alas, feared Father, how thy speech is slurred<br />And how thy twisted face doth now repel me!<br />Oh, canst thou not spit out a single word<br />To tell what thou hast seen? I prithee, tell me.<br /><br />Dost thou know what spectre did o’erpower thee?<br />What future vision did this ghoul impart?<br />Are Satan’s flames now waiting to devour thee,<br />To lick the blackened chambers of thy heart?<br />Oh, is the fiendish news come that thou art<br />Soon destined to have fireballs to shower thee?<br />Oh, transfixed Father, won’t thou even start<br />To tell what fearsome spectre did o’erpower thee?<br /><br />The priest hath fled; he had no words to save thee,<br />To lift thee up to God’s immortal grace.<br />The doctor blanched in terror as he gave thee<br />A potion to relax thy rigid face.<br />The life thou led was scurrilous and base –<br />Small wonder then Beelzebub doth crave thee.<br />There is no power through land or sea or space<br />Will love thy tortured soul enough to save thee.<br /><br />What is it thou hast seen? My Father, tell me.<br />Let loose thy tongue! Relate what thou hast heard!<br />Recount what chilling happenstance befell thee,<br />What terrifying Fate was thus conferred.<br />In life, thou rode thy black horse undeterred<br />Through pleading hands that served but to propel thee.<br />Surely thy dead conscience is not stirred!<br />What is it thou hast seen? Oh Father, tell me.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center"><em>Unsuccessful entry for The Words on the Water competition 2008<br /></em></div><div align="center"></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-46321759055846349272009-05-05T09:14:00.001-07:002009-05-05T09:15:26.837-07:00A lament for Scaldwood<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbPtcLoP-8JODknZhkxojlB4taZ7LT0I89HZyE8ZxdjEKI9GkqSpukd1f5o5ZyuwPLGg0dIfwVu7Tvlz2xgQPXO7deq8gl6WvSC_0AygC6xbzqgLzNACHxkPTo1ib2doTqcqDUK4BLl28/s1600-h/forest.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332374098882646034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 246px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbPtcLoP-8JODknZhkxojlB4taZ7LT0I89HZyE8ZxdjEKI9GkqSpukd1f5o5ZyuwPLGg0dIfwVu7Tvlz2xgQPXO7deq8gl6WvSC_0AygC6xbzqgLzNACHxkPTo1ib2doTqcqDUK4BLl28/s320/forest.jpg" border="0" /></a> You wouldn’t call it good land.<br />‘Tis a small and jumbly copse.<br />A bad hair day of woodland<br />Where the creeping concrete stops,<br />Where the bramble and the briar,<br />Serenaded by the lyre<br />Dance a rumba of desire<br />As the dripping rainfall drops.<br /><br />Great Scaldwood, once your branches<br />Bade the traveller beware,<br />For your russet avalanches<br />Hid the wolverine and bear.<br />A great forest to be skirted,<br />Crow-fly journeys much diverted,<br />Where red, gleaming eyes asserted<br />There would be no thoroughfare.<br /><br />Then with the stealth of taxes<br />And the filibuster’s frown,<br />Came the blows of sharpened axes<br />And the trees came crashing down.<br />Like a roadside puddle shrinking,<br />Your great fortress fell, unblinking,<br />To create a roadway linking<br />County Meath and Dublin town.<br /><br />And now the once-great Scaldwood<br />Where the ringed wood-pigeon crooned<br />Is but a small, be-walled wood,<br />Obedient and cocooned.<br />In this wilderness neglected<br />The soft rain that has collected<br />On the thorny arms projected<br />Falls like blood-drops from a wound.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14170085797274256950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-56818283488322148272009-04-13T12:19:00.000-07:002009-04-13T12:24:39.565-07:00Weathering<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4PyXY0y2ad0oSnwl5TBv63YOL29PQNgfeOoAFpTwsrEIoPDTPnv_VCL1B7N9uwRhE2sXJXEa5eUhQYYAJ88fEEHSR_s9kiTEuzbSOQaoc9YIVRKG9Caft2sVwQ5Wz2PZyFp1hkw4COOY/s1600-h/yew-tree-stanford-bishop-churchyard-115088.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324258921198903698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4PyXY0y2ad0oSnwl5TBv63YOL29PQNgfeOoAFpTwsrEIoPDTPnv_VCL1B7N9uwRhE2sXJXEa5eUhQYYAJ88fEEHSR_s9kiTEuzbSOQaoc9YIVRKG9Caft2sVwQ5Wz2PZyFp1hkw4COOY/s400/yew-tree-stanford-bishop-churchyard-115088.jpg" border="0" /></a> He always thought<br />That if the mighty yew ever toppled,<br />It would swat the squat, dumpy tower<br />Like a hand slapping a beetle,<br />Crushing it flat,<br />Obliterating it into the dust<br />Whence it came.<br />He turned the unwieldy iron key,<br />Using two hands to make sure the lock caught,<br />And stood shivering in the stone porch<br />As the wind clawed at terrified slates.<br />A few pitying coppers rattled in his large pocket,<br />The restoration target a few pence nearer.<br /><br />The arms of the yew strained in frustration<br />And the grey church cowered in terror.<br />He buttoned his coat over his collar<br />And, head bent to the wind,<br />Strode off between the gravestones,<br />Like a row of forward slashes<br />In a hieroglyphic frieze.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-70690983377249601762009-02-09T13:42:00.001-08:002009-02-09T13:44:16.117-08:00The ballad of Mabel McCartney<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ93h2_W_IOSxLw3-HOf7v4-FCwZZWL_ouU4FMQ7E8NXnmIdAydqfcowv2T6guzFnEBjTIJqJqMl_BZzity4lqSAt6-TKJt4IeDEr6zQZTUcHg4N-4kcganxzPSYm6ebqoP9HIPA8HwwA/s1600-h/Crocus%2520'E_A_%2520Bowles',.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300916602182752578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 332px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ93h2_W_IOSxLw3-HOf7v4-FCwZZWL_ouU4FMQ7E8NXnmIdAydqfcowv2T6guzFnEBjTIJqJqMl_BZzity4lqSAt6-TKJt4IeDEr6zQZTUcHg4N-4kcganxzPSYm6ebqoP9HIPA8HwwA/s400/Crocus%2520'E_A_%2520Bowles',.jpg" border="0" /></a> As the richly scented crocus<br />Craned its neck towards the sky,<br />It was difficult to focus<br />On the world beyond the gate.<br />Through the window darkly shattered,<br />Mabel trained her watered eye<br />On the garden, brown and battered,<br />Set before her on a plate.<br /><br />They’d not spotted him come running<br />As they fled across the street.<br />He’d approached them with great cunning<br />As the bank’s alarm bells rang.<br />‘Twas an instant gut reaction<br />When she heard his pounding feet.<br />Crashed the gun with satisfaction<br />As the off-beat copper sprang.<br /><br />Eighteen years of dumbly staring<br />At a thinly plastered wall,<br />Institutional, uncaring,<br />Left her vision badly flawed.<br />In her spectacled existence,<br />She could never quite recall<br />What lay in the middle distance<br />Where her memories were stored.<br /><br />Her long tear was not remorseful.<br />No emotion spurred it on,<br />Independent and resourceful,<br />Automatically displaced.<br />Through the window she stared neatly<br />At the yellow head that shone<br />On the crocus gloating sweetly<br />O’er the winter’s ravaged waste.<br /><br />Though her single room was tiny,<br />That was where she spent her days<br />As the cars, so new and shiny,<br />Blurred past on the street outside.<br />On the day that they found Mabel<br />All the street was bathed in haze.<br />There was a crocus on the table<br />And her eyes were open wide.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-17898855025076065062009-01-03T03:45:00.000-08:002009-01-03T04:03:10.852-08:00Review of 2008Well, not a bad year all told on the writing front.<br />The highlight for me was definitely winning the Strokestown International Political Satire Competition with "The Poverty Trap." Honestly it was like the Oscars and the shock when Margaret Hickey announced my name was only too genuine. I had a smile permanently attached to my face for a week after that!<br />This was followed closely by gaining second prize in the Boyne Writers' Swiftian Satire competition with "Global Warming? What Global Warming?" Earlier in the year I had the honour of having two entries in the shortlist of six for the Kilkenny Swift Satire Poetry competition - namely "Tattoos" and "In Defence of Texters."<br />The year was rounded off nicely with another shortlisting when "On Jackson's Bridge Lock" made the final ten in the inaugural Attleborough competition.<br />"Country Lane" was published in "Revival" and "Time's Joke" was published in "Boyne Berries IV" and two lighter pieces "On Knockmaroon Hill" and "The Cotton Man" came out in "Phoenix Ink 2."<br />I also wrote a couple of short stories and set them off but not much luck there, I'm afraid!<br />My Musings column continued in "The Community Voice," for whom I also write the Arts pages and do occasional articles. I also contributed poems and a serialised football love story "A Tolka Romance" to Shelbourne FC's matchday programme throughout the season which ended so cruelly in November.<br />I gave up on www.footballpoets.org during the year. Too time-consuming and one smart-arsed commentator's boorish remarks meant it was giving me no pleasure.<br />During the year I discovered villanelles, terzanelles and science-fiction poetry, which have led to some rather enjoyable experiments.<br />An advert for 5,000 authors wanted to be published for free on YouWriteOn.com led to my Complete Community Voice Musings (2003 - 2008) being published at the end of the year, though they neglected to tell me! Its out there on Amazon if anybody wants to order it, though as I haven't seen it myself yet, I can't recommend it!<br />I hope to self-publish my first book of verse shortly - tentatively titled "The Flash of Orange" with a foreword by John Creedon - and then begins the job of flogging it to make money to publish the next one!<br />And so we boldly go forth into 2009....Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-2603629298787072182008-11-04T20:18:00.000-08:002008-11-04T20:19:25.842-08:00Five Paths<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMhZBHDiOWbnBm_9bjIUI9YIWDNEwP1PAt1J2gMJx8ZVNdtYpNiQlsexw7ZVQhhIXYuYQ27_A7TY7CLRTgpZxPDNXmp2NW5v2LBYSn7Hsm6OvLbFnaBw3qglrhc94XaYQRbouuIlkCJmc/s1600-h/Buddha-Posters.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265023087261337666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMhZBHDiOWbnBm_9bjIUI9YIWDNEwP1PAt1J2gMJx8ZVNdtYpNiQlsexw7ZVQhhIXYuYQ27_A7TY7CLRTgpZxPDNXmp2NW5v2LBYSn7Hsm6OvLbFnaBw3qglrhc94XaYQRbouuIlkCJmc/s400/Buddha-Posters.jpg" border="0" /></a> The focus always on the eagle’s nest<br />That lies atop the frost-cracked mountain tree,<br />The pathways to the peak are thus progressed.<br /><br />Acquire the things to lead you to your quest.<br />Plain learning holds that old and rusted key,<br />The focus always on the eagle’s nest.<br /><br />Prepare to see your fur-clad mind undressed.<br />Through nakedness that causes shame to flee,<br />The pathways to the peak are thus progressed.<br /><br />Beyond the door, the void is manifest.<br />Just push it open slightly and you’ll see<br />The focus, always on the eagle’s nest.<br /><br />Your mind erupts with notions long suppressed,<br />Volcano blasts that shudder ‘neath the sea.<br />The pathways to the peak are thus progressed.<br /><br />At last, you have become devoutly blessed,<br />The inner mind allowed to wander free.<br />The focus always on the eagle’s nest,<br />The pathways to the peak are thus progressed.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-82494280132572865742008-10-29T11:21:00.001-07:002008-10-29T11:22:35.707-07:00Slipping into Autumn<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEWoLgZGFjBFmr4tz-y_u2Slx_Znq4fPGd35saD0vbZvHcHLMuw0cYG_XU6D0BHxDqafBtcwQHgBRhD_5zITmzyJ9z-BwA8lrI8dWOTUSklArvA8V1kZi7cHF5N31zq1HtDeDWoftAtGI/s1600-h/Moody-Autumn-Sky.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262642887872124338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 250px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEWoLgZGFjBFmr4tz-y_u2Slx_Znq4fPGd35saD0vbZvHcHLMuw0cYG_XU6D0BHxDqafBtcwQHgBRhD_5zITmzyJ9z-BwA8lrI8dWOTUSklArvA8V1kZi7cHF5N31zq1HtDeDWoftAtGI/s400/Moody-Autumn-Sky.jpg" border="0" /></a> Do not lament but hold your chilled cheeks high.<br />The frozen finger’s crooked but holds no threat.<br />Embrace the fiery promise in the sky.<br /><br />Observe the ochre-tinged confetti fly,<br />Cast down from fingers blacked in silhouette.<br />Do not lament but hold your chilled cheeks high.<br /><br />The spirit’s eye is arched. It wonders why<br />Great Samhain’s robes are stained with dull regret.<br />Embrace the fiery promise in the sky.<br /><br />The greatest book is senseless to the eye<br />When stripped of part of life’s great alphabet.<br />Do not lament but hold your chilled cheeks high.<br /><br />Oh blesséd time – your frozen waters lie<br />To stay the hand that wields both rod and net.<br />Embrace the fiery promise in the sky.<br /><br />The busy wren does not curl up and sigh<br />When frosted earth demands new etiquette.<br />Do not lament but hold your chilled cheeks high.<br />Embrace the fiery promise in the sky.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-67002375143648632382008-10-27T18:30:00.001-07:002008-10-27T18:34:11.672-07:00Entombed in snow the shoot still seeks the sun<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEZDUhVykixKh32L78cuVoj88sg2uTtiCGM4Ejdg3_VrUv0IAcl5NF2YNRLB19AUTXWXrk5MKq4dc9oI-qzIYsekKzl3JGvgmw5z0yoQlClnHdFKaBcZ6arwZiJ8GkqBMs81RjRbYB6Y4/s1600-h/snow+shoot.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262011885396675778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEZDUhVykixKh32L78cuVoj88sg2uTtiCGM4Ejdg3_VrUv0IAcl5NF2YNRLB19AUTXWXrk5MKq4dc9oI-qzIYsekKzl3JGvgmw5z0yoQlClnHdFKaBcZ6arwZiJ8GkqBMs81RjRbYB6Y4/s400/snow+shoot.jpg" border="0" /></a> Entombed in snow the shoot still seeks the sun,<br />Although it never felt its soft caress.<br />And thus the plot of winter is undone.<br /><br />Though dark may be the shadow of the gun<br />And broken bodies quickly acquiesce,<br />Entombed in snow the shoot still seeks the sun.<br /><br />Imprisoned Alpine streams in springtime run<br />With playful bounds not shackles of distress<br />And thus the plot of winter is undone.<br /><br />And still the ropes of tyranny are spun<br />By those whose fingers blister to oppress.<br />Entombed in snow the shoot still seeks the sun.<br /><br />Seek out the light, for even where there’s none,<br />A distant star will somewhere phosphoresce<br />And thus the plot of winter is undone.<br /><br />Each dawning is a battle bravely won.<br />Tradition never guaranteed success.<br />Entombed in snow the shoot still seeks the sun<br />And thus the plot of winter is undone.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404760254942491396.post-39737938432071254202008-10-23T07:07:00.001-07:002008-10-23T07:10:38.774-07:00Tory Island ferry<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTL2LHc19SfOm-XKb6LV2zz0gLja7LUqeLTCgnUcaYRUgECvHcYqySONyXRbxrXGc7gEtAHDEazq0KAFO-iCT1cLA4sQYf9mXzmkScA2pLNlZsAEck3K4dG-VPtO8UVOJRCB-s0Famqw/s1600-h/Donegal+019.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260351223042823714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTL2LHc19SfOm-XKb6LV2zz0gLja7LUqeLTCgnUcaYRUgECvHcYqySONyXRbxrXGc7gEtAHDEazq0KAFO-iCT1cLA4sQYf9mXzmkScA2pLNlZsAEck3K4dG-VPtO8UVOJRCB-s0Famqw/s400/Donegal+019.jpg" border="0" /></a><em> Báidín Fheilimí, d'imigh go Toraí, báidín Fheilimí is Feilimí ann,</em></div><div align="center"><em>Báidín Fheilimí, d'imigh go Toraí, báidín Fheilimí is Feilimí ann.</em></div><div align="center"><em></em> </div><div align="center"><em>Báidín Fheilimí, briseadh i dToraí, báidín Fheilimí is Feilimí ann,</em></div><div align="center"><em>Báidín Fheilimí, briseadh i dToraí Fheilimí is Feilimí ann.<br /></em><br />Pitching through the growling tide,<br />Spies the tiny craft the light<br />That drops and rises like a star<br />On speed.<br /><br />Like a gannet, half-concussed,<br />Returning to her rocky ledge<br />Where squawking chicks are huddled in<br />Their need.<br /><br />Desp’rate struggle, yet her pledge<br />Will drive her on through ice shards thin.<br />For the young, the journey must<br />Succeed.<br /><br />Next season, she might well decide<br />The cliffs that fall from Foreland’s spar<br />May prove to be a safer site<br />To breed.<br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0