Poems
I wrote my first poem, "The Loss Of The Dredger", when I was eight or nine. Since then I've written more, but only a handfull are good enough to remember. I haven't put pen to paper for some years now, and never came close to finishing "True Faith". Anyway, for better or worse here come the verse (see what I mean!).
| 1 | Good Times |  |
| 2 | Time Well Wasted | |
| 3 | Ode To British Rail | |
| 4 | The Loss Of The Dredger | |
| 5 | Travelling to Caistor | |
| 6 | True Faith (Incomplete) | |
May we go our separate ways,
Finding fortune and new friends
But let us not forget these days,
Or let the good times ever end.
A poet with wiser words than mine,
Wrote that nothing gold can stay.
These are golden days we're in,
And so are bound to fade away.
These people whose lives are mine to share,
Will they stay or come with me,
As we go our separate ways,
Who will remain my company?
This is the summer of my life,
What comes I only have to fear.
Unknown horizons beckon me,
And yet my heart is stuck fast hear.
Good Hunting: Dennis Anscum, Oliver Curruthers, Tim Archer, Matt Westcott, Gis, Robert Bloomfield, Jon Waller, Steve Peck, Trevor Hollingsworth, Tom Ward, Sebastian Abbott(Seb), David Walker, Mark Beaton(Boge), Sarah Leg(Leggy), Jeremy Dawson(Tarquin), Robin Martin, David deNooijer, Christine Lillystone, Jo Saxton, Oliva, Jemma, Chris Dale, Tony Marks, Lee Davey, Barry Dynes, Pete Livsey, Keith Morton, Paul Adams, Gillian Lister, Jackie, Zaff, Malcolm Catchpole, Vodafone Ops, The Chatswood Rangers, Sumendra Edward, Tony Welsh
That was the summer of my life
The fear of change has lost its hold.
For now I know that golden green,
Is but a paler shade of autumn gold.
To the good times we've spent - forgotten, not wasted,
To the times we remember, And those yet to be tasted,
I raise my glass to the ceiling, and offer a toast,
"To good times ahead, with the friends I love most".
But no more shall my words be of teenage nostalgia,
For I hold in my glass a glimpse of the future,
And while we are scattered, quite different and distant,
Our friendship's revived in the breath of an instant.
Should the not so British Rail on occaision come to fail,
Or the speed of locomotion be reduced to that of snail,
Keep a sturdy upper lip in the form you know is true,
And shove a roll of bog role, down the British Waterloo!
A stormy night, with lashing waves
To send the sailors too their graves.
The howling wind brings mist and fog,
The captain nots this in his log.
"Abandon ship!", the captain cries,
"The sea is rough and spares no lives".
"Lower the lifeboats", he orders now,
"Dingies off the starboard bow".
With a splash the lifeboat goes,
Drifts off past the Dredger's nose.
Dingies swirl beneath the sea,
Now sand and water covers thee.
It's the darker side of midnight, we're in the thirteenth hour,
Travelling to Caistor, in a chariot of fire,
The streetlights stream behind us, the road ahead is straight,
We'll journey to the morning, or never shall we wake.
It's been a thousand miles since Tuesday, in more than just one way,
But the situation's changing, it's worse than yesterday,
The bright lights are behind us, the road ahead is bleak,
Should I stay with what I've got or risk all in what I seek?
I do not wish to struggle, I seek to be pulled in,
But the hand that gripped so tightly has thrown be back again
Those puzzled hills, deep in thought,
Beyond whose shoulders sweeps the sky,
In stoic silence set their weight,
Upon my palid, mortal eye.