Auto-Eulogy

blank close up crumpled crumpled paper
Photo by icon0.com on Pexels.com

 

Auto-Eulogy

I lived the life I lived because
I found myself alive with life to spare.
I sang the songs I sang because
The songs were short, and cheap, and ev’rywhere.
I did the things I did because
The things I did were needing to be done.
I trod the path I trod because
I had to tread a path, and here was one.

 

 

Song of Summer

butterfly girl
Luna, Goddess of the Moon by Donato Giancola

 

Song of Summer

Summer makes the Spring give way to her,
She makes the roses purr,
The strawb’ries blush, the bubbles grin,
As Summer brings the Summer in.

Summer makes the Spring her sideman,
Summer takes the stage by thunderstorm,
Her beaches swarm, her waltzers spin
As Summer brings the Summer in.

Summer makes the Autumn wait his turn,
But still the year must churn,
The days must short, the rain must spout
As Summer sweeps the Summer out.

Summer always comes again,
When Summer takes possession of the sky –
Her dragons fly, her birds give song,
As Summer shines all Summer long.

 

 

Harvest Song

nature sky field summer
Photo by freestocks.org on Pexels.com

 

Harvest Song

Reapers sweep the scythe
And sheafers bush the sheaf –
Gathering the harvest,
Gathering the grain –
Threshers thresh the flail
To tear the seed from leaf –
Gathering the harvest,
Holding off the rain –

Winnow-women winnow,
And siever-maidens sieve,
Prizing out the pearls
That the golden ears give –
For to the corn we’re born,
And by the wheat we live.
Bringing home the harvest down the lane.

Once it took a village,
And ev’ry boy to spare –
Gathering the harvest,
Stooked and ricked and mown –

Now it takes machines,
With no use for man or mare –
Gathering the harvest,
Gathered to the bone –

Children of the corn
And cottage-kitchen wives
Are spared the broken backs
And spared the broken lives,
With Summers never shorn
By the sweeping Reaper’s scythes –
So bring us home the harvest on your own.

 

 

The Longest Day of the Year

stonehenge england
Photo by John Nail on Pexels.com

 

The Longest Day of the Year

She was born at Solsticetide,
And so they named her Summer –
Blond and bright and beautiful,
And all the Spring a comer.
But once the longest day was done,
She felt the nights draw in,
Just waiting for the Winter low
To let the next begin.

Now I will barely notice how
The evenings have crept,
Until the clocks have messed about
To show how dusk has leapt.
But then, she saw a greater change
Than I, from day to day,
For she grew up in Lerwick town
And I down Jersey way.

 

 

Nala

what happened to my eyebrow
Study of the Head of an Old Man with Curly Hair by Rembrandt

 

Nala

I know a man who’s all at sea,
But that’s alright, for he can sail –
He knows the winds, he knows the tides,
And where the undercurrent hides.
And back on land, it seems to me,
He’s just as calm within the gale –
He’s not afraid of getting wet,
And trusts upon the course he’s set.

He knows his destination isn’t fixed,
But just a stated aim –
The breeze may have its own idea
That he can’t fight, but still can steer.
He is a man of air and water mixed,
An old hand at this game –
But even sailors sometimes wish
For fresh dry clothes and no more fish !

I know a man who’s all a-shore,
Who dropped his anchor on the land
And found a port to beach his hull,
And trade the blackbird for the gull.
Yet still he hears the breakers roar,
And finds the driftwood on the sand –
But he’s content to furl his sails
And leave the whale-road to the whales.

 

 

Transatlantic Cable 1 – The Wake

jane
Jane & The Prisoner of Woolhouse by Kinuko Craft

 

Transatlantic Cable 1 – The Wake

The sea is wide, my son, so wide,
And the wind is free, so free –
The sea is long to the other side,
And the currents strong on the Westward tide.
Don’t tarry here because I cried –
Your boat is at the quay.

The land is big, I hear, so big,
The boat is small, is she –
But you must leave aboard this brig,
To seek out better roots to dig.
I know you won’t return, my sprig –
You won’t return to me.

 

 

 

Tick-Tock, Writer’s Block

nursery rhymes

 

Tick-Tock, Writer’s Block

The ants are marching ten-by-ten,
Running through my brain,
Where nine little Indians
Are dancing for the rain,
With eight green bottles
That they’re trying hard to fill,
And seven for a secret
When Jack falls down the hill.
Six geese are laying,
Though they’ve nothing yet to show,
With no knick-knack or paddy-wack
Where five men went to mow.
This little piggy stayed at home,
When the hickory-clock struck four
But three in the bed, in my empty head,
Find counting such a bore.
So two chirping crickets
Are all that’s left behind,
As one lonely tumbleweed
Is blowing through my mind.

 

 

Hysteranthous

cherry eggs

 

Hysteranthous

A Blackthorn Easter falls in March,
When Easter seems to come too soon –
But when it’s April, then we see
An Appleblossom Easter bloom –
And when it’s late, we celebrate
A Cherry Easter at its boom –
When leafless boughs are full of flowers,
Sprung from out of Winter’s tomb.

 

 

Coming of Age, Twice Over

twins
Self Portrait by Auguste Vinchon, also showing his imaginary twin brother (the original is on the one on the left).

 

Coming of Age, Twice Over

When I was just your age, you twins,
I dreamed of heading West,
Of hitching rides between the inns
That stretch from hill to crest.
I planned to leave at earlybird –
And yet…I never did.
For on that very morn, I heard
Your ma was got with kid.

When I was just your age, you twins,
I almost saw the world.
I almost got to grin such grins…
Till word came from my girl.
I longed to sail the ocean blue,
To joist with sharks and squids –
And oh!, I would have made it, too,
But for you pesky kids !

 

 

Again-Doubled Roundle

folk dance

 

Again-Doubled Roundle

Back up to the top, keep it going on round,
Keep it going on round and never let it stop,
And never let it stop, run it outwards bound,
Run it outwards bound, send it back to the top.

And better move it on, don’t ever let it drop,
Let’s keep it in the air and take it underground.
So never break the chain, pass it on, chop-chop,
And back up to the top, keep it going on round.

And in and out of knots, getting tightly wound
Dodge left, weave right, all over the shop –
But the race ain’t won till the victor’s crowned,
Keep it going on round and never let it stop.

And gallop for the line, catch the hare on the hop,
Let’s fly with the fox and chase with the hound –
So dig in the spurs and whip with the crop,
And never let it stop, run it outwards bound.

And never stop living while our hearts still pound,
While the music’s sweet and the colours pop.
Never quit the quest till the answer’s found,
Run it outwards bound, send it back to the top.
Keep it going on round…