POETRY

Ah, the summer’s here at last,

And winter lies un-mourned,

Oh, how the gentle breezes blow,

When boughs are gay adorned;

The days are long and night hours few,

When blooms shall drink from sun and dew,

Then I would wish to be with you,

And we alone unchanged.

But change it must and change is just,

And with it brings the snow,

Yet arm-in-arm we go as one,

Wherever brides will go;

Without your kiss my life is nought,

A woman lost is never caught,

When seasons change and time shall flee,

Yet change shall never beckon me.

Michael Walsh

30.07.13

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

Who will dance in the pastures now, for the summer has early gone;

It took the storks, the swallows, swifts to the warmer lands of the sun;

Prophet-like the cool breeze speaks of the winter’s hiss and howl;

In meadows where we danced so gay soon leaden skies will growl.

Our songs were lifted by the breeze and danced across the weald;

And like the autumn leaves to come they skipped across the fields,

For warm winds blow before the snow, they scatter come what may;

The summer flowers have yet to sleep when time shall have its say.

Their summer dance and meadow song will never let me be,

And dare I wonder what shall come of those of spirits free;

Like swallows, swifts and flights of storks they leave with autumn clime;

Whilst I will be still chained to thee in thoughts of summertime.

Michael Walsh

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

Scorned as but a woman but my charms have humbled kings,

Taken sons from family hearth and when the nation sings,

It sings of Motherland and love, from womb to tomb to Him above,

The trials and ways of womanhood will still the nation’s heart.

Behind the throne she stands supreme; no queen shall better be,

Of sweetheart with bold lover who weeps far out to sea.

The siren of the swirling skirt, whose voice beguiles to please,

Makes equal king and peasant, brings nations to their knees.

And I should have such woman, as fine as those who bled

The hearts of better others with sad words kindly said,

Then I shall love my woman as I would love oneself,

The throne or cottage garden, one‘s woman is one‘s wealth.

Esmeralda, Esmeralda, devoted you shall be;

Faithful unto last, so prized, I give my heart to thee.

Oh Esmeralda wear my heart and if it pirouette,

On your devoted bosom be my love lost silhouette.

Serendipity, be my life, my ever beating heart;

May the love we share so true be never torn apart;

Serendipity shadow me, forever be my bride;

That I may live and know through you a love that never died.

Magdalena, Magdalena, love lies at your feet,

Wherever they may take you then be sure our hearts shall meet;

Magdalena, be my bride, ever true and by my side;

If heart pain ever be your foe, my love is balm where e’er you go.

Pandora, timeless gift to man when gown loose sets you free,

Then as the burr holds tight the burr then you hold tight to me;

Pandora, open up thy box , reveal your priceless gifts;

That true love we endure for life is never sand that shifts.

Jezebel, you faithless fool, if I should pass your way,

Then never strike in evening but at breaking of the day.

For you are wanton, feign and fool;

Your lips bring pain and constant drool,

But bitter-sweet rejection know,

Wherever broken hearts will go.

Michael (Walsh) 26.01.13

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

Michael (Walsh) 29.04.13

If joy is yours and sorrow mine,

Then matters not my tears,

If freedom beckons, you must go,

Breathe freedom from the years,

That now hang lifeless, dead remain,

To plead you stay I would refrain,

Nor cause you ponder sweet recall,

When love now lost no longer calls.

When tears of joy are on your face,

They wash away each love-lost trace,

Take your life on platter gold,

Untie the bonds, whatever holds,

For then my tears of joy be true,

To water all that you would do.

If tears shall wet your heart tonight,

When passions are so torn,

Then tears of love that once were yours,

Shall water love reborn,

Then go that grace may speed your pace,

Turn your head and see my face,

With tears of joy as always true,

For come what may I’ll still love you.

Michael Walsh

July 2013

It isn’t true that clock hands two,

Will beat in steady time,

When you are far away from me,

The tick-tock’s not in rhyme.

The clock hands tick as slow as death,

When time stands still I hold my breath;

I wish the clock hands quick to go,

But tick-tocks are so painful slow.

When I'm with you my heart is light,

The clock allegro ticks,

But when I wait and watch for you,

Burns slow like candle wicks.

Then tick-tock sounds like mourner’s tread,

Unhurried hours till time for bed,

Will curse the swiftness, tick-tock slow,

As ocean currents languid flow.

Michael Walsh

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk.

I'll put my shoes on back to front if I would shed a tear,

Turn my coat around me, place cap to face the rear,

Then if my trail would seem to you now stepping to the fore,

Be not deceived, the trail would go where fools have gone before.

Better still to pen this poem and seal it in an urn,

Then take it to the graveyard where others go to yearn,

I’ll place it somewhere secret, and known to only me,

Inside the urn my memories that no one else can see,

Yesterday was somewhere else, a place where I’ll not go,

Another man, another time where thoughts like rivers flow,

This night my bed will be my womb and I will rise anew,

With coat and cap and shoes to front I’ll walk ahead with you.

Michael (Walsh) June 2013

Paint me not when at my best,

In gown, tiara, fancy dressed,

For I would not the world to see,

A woman who was never me.

Blood is writ upon my face,

My beauty true reflects my race,

Blessed am I by nature’s mien,

My breeding is more purer seen.

Artist, if I pose for thee,

Then paint what I would daily be,

In simple dress and hair undone,

To please the man whose heart I won.

Sackcloth, ashes, common dress,

Woe to those who would impress,

Those seduced by gown and jewel,

For they shall blind no one but fool.

Why would I be other self?

Better left a maid on shelf,

Far preferred as nature made,

Not dowager but country maid.

Seeds will grow where seeds will blow,

Where better soil is tilled,

When young ones seek a greener grass,

That hopes and dreams be filled.

Bartered birthright, native soil,

The émigré shall faithful toil,

That fruits will bloom where e’re they sow,

Where fresh young seed shall gentle blow.

Sweet wagtail sings her sad lament,

When fledglings fly their nest,

As mothers weep and fathers sigh,

Their blood shall be the guest;

Of lesser folk so far away,

No peace in sleep for émigré,

Yet children keep their blood and name,

From seed and soil from whence they came.

Their brows will water far off fields,

But will the daisies grow,

As wild they did on pastures where,

The Baltic breezes blow.

The stork, the skylark, swallows, swift,

When homeland calls, their wings will lift,

But what can lure our kin that stray,

Return to home the émigré.

Michael (Walsh) June 2013

Quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

My passport, sir, you dare to ask,

It’s here and plain to see;

Where Gauja carves its signature,

Before it meets the sea.

My passport’s written on my face,

Reflects my nation, mirrors race,

And I will tell you, tell you so,

It goes wherever Letts will go.

Our fathers died, our mothers wept,

When passports were unknown;

Culture is our passport,

Our roots thread through the stone.

You needed not our passports,

When times were cruel and tough,

When rail cars took our folk away,

Our kind was good enough.

My passport none shall gift to me,

My birth right not to grant,

Bequeathed to me before you came,

That I shall not recant,

The land that was bestowed to me,

Held back the Rus and Baltic Sea,

What need for passport, paper proof,

Can I be else but else in truth?

Penned for émigrés in general but inspired by the haemorrhage of Latvians. They lost so many through Soviet deportations and their being obliged to flee their homeland. The Gauja is a great Latvian river.

Michael (Walsh) © 20.06.13

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk