POETRY

Their covered bodies lay that night,

By lonely flowing Dee,

Six puppies now were sleeping for

Their lives were not to be.

Pups that year were surplus,

Their lives were short and cruel;

Where sheep will roam in vales and hills,

The collie’s but a tool.

Their eyes were closed, not weeping

They slept in slumber deep,

Less demand for sheepdogs,

Made collie prices cheap;

So in a sack and no road back,

The river was their end,

Which frantic mother sheepdog,

Could never comprehend.

She howled at night and prowled till dawn,

Until she found her brood,

In shallow banks of river where,

Her pups were buried crude.

Whimpering, she pulled them out,

And licked each puppy clean,

Then one by one she carried them

To where they’re better seen.

One by one she lined her pups,

On threshold plain to see,

Each puppy begged one question,

The question was, why me?

When farmer’s wife at break of dawn

Gazed on her doorway’s step,

The crime of River Dee laid bare,

In single row they slept.

Michael (Walsh). 30.08.13

This story is true and took place in rural Wales where sheep are a mainstay of the economy. The following year, the pregnant collie slipped up into the mountains to give birth to her next litter in secret where the farmer could not find them.

The Party of the Second Part

If tears shall wet your heart tonight,

When passion-love is torn,

If tears from loss that once was yours,

Shall dampen love reborn,

Then go with grace, God speed your pace,

If turn you must to see my face,

See not the tears it sheds for you,

For come what may I wish you well,

And I will love you still.

If pages from your diary die,

On flames with photographs,

If recollections, dreams we shared,

Nostalgia too must lapse,

See not the soul but follow heart,

For one man’s end another’s start,

Then sweet repose shall be your star,

Resignation comfort me,

And I will love you still.

Michael Walsh

24.08.2013

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

Locked Hearts

How do I keep your love, my dear,

That it burns as it does this night?

I would wish it to be an eternal flame,

And to glow as the sweet moonlight.

Oh, my dear, you must rest and believe in love,

Not seduced as in misspent youth,

For I too dreamed in your arms tonight,

That our love will endure as truth.

How do I keep the love I have,

In my heart but for you alone?

For I will ne’er take another love,

Nor be seed where the oats are sown.

My dear, there are those who shall love tonight,

But will boredom set them free?

Stabbed in the back by indifference cold,

And blind to the love we see.

Will I give you a rose each evening, dear,

Shall I strive as we loved this night?

Always tell that my love is true?

Pen my poems till the dawn’s sweet light?

My dear, I believe that your heart’s in mine,

I shall keep it by lock and key,

But hold me just as you did this night,

And you will always belong to me.

Michael (Walsh) 20.08.13

quite_write@yahoo.c.uk

If you think of animals, yes those of little voice,

Self-centred, sometimes killers, but beasts have little choice,

Now man is yet a different breed, who apes his beastly friends,

Exceeds their every avarice but rarely makes amends.

Man’s territory he covets, he hungers yet for more,

As vicious as the wolverine, as beastly as the boar,

Yet beast shall kill to get his fill but then shall rest and play,

Whilst man will kill then kill some more, it is his beastly way.

There’s little that shall set apart the man from vicious beast,

Apart from killing mere for fun when he has had his feast,

Scheming and disloyal, in ever search of wealth,

Man alone will kill for gold and often kill by stealth.

There is one little difference, it earns man’s special place,

A single small advantage, regardless of his race,

For man alone has conscience, the voice of life and God,

But when he doesn’t hear it he exists as under sod.

Michael (Walsh) 15.08.13

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

There’s an empty chair so lonely and an empty space in bed,

Each one for sons and daughters, whose fathers once were bled,

On battlefields in futile wars for men who never learn,

Those politicians, bankers too, have many bucks to earn.

I miss the unborn children, who by right should share our fate,

Betrayed by callous old men whose gold will never wait?

If any question why they died, it was because their leaders lied,

And unborn sons ne’er kiss a bride whose lives were squandered too.

I mourn their never passing, I mourn they never were,

I mourn that we do nothing, when lies are brought to bear,

On those of us who live today, whose parents made it through,

But what of many others, the ones we never knew.

When men shall die in futile war, their unborn children too,

Will lose their lives and those who live though many are too few.

I curse the lies, how I despise the moneychangers’ table,

When those unborn, unknown to us are nothing more than fable.

R.I.P

Michael (Walsh) 13.08.13

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

Poets talk in whispers,

For they talk from heart to heart,

They leave it to the normal folk,

To speak from other part,

For tongues will often tell a lie,

As will avoided gaze,

But poets when they talk with you,

Their thoughts are truthful blazed.

Poets talk in poignant guise,

They mirror thoughts your own,

If poets use their lips at all,

They use their tender tone.

For when their pen goes on its way,

And postman’s duly paid,

The poet’s thoughts are yours alone,

Each word is careful weighed.

The scribble pad no longer blank,

Oh, what a happy day,

When dusk is down and wine is quaffed,

And pen shall silent lay.

Till inspiration strikes her bell,

My muse has cast another spell,

Then in my mind as poets do,

My heart and pen elopes with you.

Michael (Walsh) 10.08.13

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

In this world of mediocrity, the one-eyed man is king,

Where men who cannot sing a note,

Are the only men who sing.

The poet of the dribbling pen,

The charlatans and frauds,

The artists and their blasphemies,

The sycophant applauds.

In this world of mediocrity, the man who blatant sins,

The base, corrupt and hypocrite,

The only man who wins.

The poison lies of editor,

Who dips and writes with pen,

Refills it with the blood of those,

Who are much better men.

In this world of mediocrity, false gods, the lies and vice,

False prophets, politicians,

Will queue to name their price,

Whilst honest man and woman,

All those of conscience led,

Bow to masters false and base

Before their trust is bled.

Michael ((Walsh)

02.08.2013

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

Some brides will stay, some brides will go,

Some brides will faithful linger so,

The years may pass in less than bliss,

Yet brides they stay when they’re un-kissed,

But if my bride you choose to be,

Then I shall be your groom,

For I would gladly stroll with you,

Until I meet my doom.

A bride will always be a bride,

Whatever be her fate,

Until the midnight hour strikes,

For then it is too late,

But if my bride you choose to be,

And should you wish to stay with me,

The aisle will reach my epitaph,

That waits at end of love’s sweet path.

Michael Walsh

30.07.13

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk