POETRY

Never a Wife, Always my Bride

Some wives are wives and some are not,

Wives in law but pledge forgot,

But you will never be my wife,

For you’re my bride forever.

Some marriages are soon forgot,

Whilst others are forget-me-not,

But brides eternal some shall be,

For you’re my bride forever.

Come circumstance or fateful ways,

I pledge to you to end my days,

With endless love for you alone,

For you’re my bride forever.

Michael (Walsh) September 3, 2013

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 is other’s start,

Then sweet repose shall be your star,

Acceptance can but comfort me,

Yet I will love you still.

Michael Walsh

24.08.2013

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

I waited, how I waited,

As the years quick passed me by,

At ‘garden gate’ I waited and

Impatient I would sigh,

For patience is no virtue,

If the heart will anxious brew,

When every ticking second,

Is but a wish for you.

I waited, how I waited,

For the one who’d be my bride,

As young again I waited till,

We two lay side by side.

But patience is no steadfast friend,

When I would restless be,

But it whispers faith and promise,

For the day you’ll be with me.

Now arm-in-arm we saunter,

No longer need I wait,

Yet still each second counts as much,

As once it did at gate,

True, patience is a virtue for

The bride who turns up late,

She travelled longest, furthest,

And her friends were Love and Fate.

Michael (Walsh) 22.08.13

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

The Dolls House

Love is love and love will stay,

When lifeless hand has slipped away.

Working hard for many months, he built her little home,

The fitted kitchen, windows too, the bathroom taps of chrome,

The gable end was sculptured as the image of her face,

And every chair and table had its special little place.

He handed her the key that day, his daughter’s eyes were wide,

Oh, that day was special as he showed her round inside,

Nothing missed; her face was bliss, the tiny kitchen stove,

Who knows what dreams will whisper when enchanting thoughts are wove.

His daughter loved that little home and each and every day,

She dreamt of guests arriving and the compliments they’d say,

The entrance door and staircase, the bedrooms all complete,

The furniture and carpet laid for countless little feet.

Her home her own, her reveries, would never disappoint,

The house to her was real enough and size beside the point.

Those careful chosen curtains and the little family placed,

Each child will have their fantasies reflected in their face.

The years passed by and he did too for time demands its toll,

Yet often in her mother days, she played her childhood role,

Then came an offer for the house, to cross her palm with gold,

But gold when young still turns to rust but children can’t grow old.

Michael Walsh) 21.09.13

Man v Woman

You’re not a man of pretty shape,

No more than I’m a pretty ape;

We’re different wired, there’s more than breasts,

And hips and lips and all the rest.

Venus you and Mars I be,

Your plumbing’s different as can be,

Your skin is smooth and silk to touch,

Whilst mine will never count for much.

You turn our heads, you melt our hearts,

When we’re in love our sense departs,

You compensate my brawn with guile,

Our anger melts with sweetheart smile.

You see this and I see that,

Like world is round or world is flat,

There’s much divides the man from maid,

But you or me the sharpest blade?

You’ll not do what shames we men,

Whilst you seduce we kill and then,

We lie to cover up our sin,

Commit foul crime then shameless grin.

But I will not a woman be,

You may be fine but you’re not me,

So God be thanked for horse and cart,

But who’s the horse and who’s the cart?

Michael (Walsh) 18.09.13

The Free Man

The herd it thinks one thought alone,

A million strong but not its own,

The instinct to conform at cost,

Of conscience and a soul that’s lost.

Ten million minds that others own,

Sheep to polling booth they’re thrown.

King of one to better be,

Than lost in herd and bend the knee,

If herd should have one dream alone,

Then let them fight like dog and bone;

No cattle droving press shall make,

A lesser man of me.

Eccentric, odd, the rebel thought,

Without such folk the world is nought,

No toady who will sell his soul,

Will see his name on parchment scroll.

The shackled man seeks quiet life,

Zest for change brings toil and strife,

A lion for a day I weep -

Than cautious life in flock of sheep.

Michael (Walsh) 13.09.13

The Solstice Garland

And you shall be my autumn maid; in winter, springtime too,

From dawn’s soft light at waking till the sky is Solstice blue,

When morning flowers are beaded wet then I shall weave the leaf,

A fine tiara for my maid, the blooms to make a wreath.

There is no Vainag crown, my maid, for single you can’t be,

You are truly my betrothed and soon will marry me,

So I will crown you Queen of Heart, the garland soft as down,

Each summer’s bloom is chosen pure from pasture’s summer gown.

The orchid is bewitching, to symbolise your lure,

The lilies and the crocus for a love that will be pure,

The daisies are the diamonds; I will pluck the jasmine too,

To thread through summer’s garland that I choose for only you.

No maid on earth can equal be to maiden sweet who married me,

In garland crown upon her hair,

That I shall weave for you;

Your coronet of bluebells, of Pasque so lilac blue,

Will crown the summer’s blessings and the love I have for you.

Michael (Walsh) 15.09.13)

THE BIG ISSUE

The High Street and department stores,

Book holidays for two,

But sleeping rags in doorways;

I wonder what you'll do?

Will you book a night with HMV,

Sleep on some cellar grill;

Scour through bins at Pizza Hut,

Or choose a Barclays chill?

Ah, my child of moonlight,

For you the rising sun;

But we shall stay in beds asleep,

Until the day is spun.

Your life a world of passing feet,

Your hopes lie in the shod,

The bourgeois heeled with wallets sealed,

Their gifts, two words; 'Poor sod!'

And can you tell, high heels perhaps,

The trainers or the brogues;

The difference 'tween the givers and,

The curse of callous rogues?

Ah, my child of street life,

For there but God go I,

May hearts of passing strangers warm,

The cold beds where you lie.

Michael (Walsh). 2000

Inspired by beggars in shop doorways.

The Latvian Sailor

The wheeling birds are joy beheld,

Though storks they’ll never be,

Or petrels as they wheel and sweep,

Upon the Baltic Sea.

I stroll the focsle north and south,

Warm winds are on the lee,

But now I yearn for Latvia,

That slumbers by the sea.

Its harbour lights shall lure me,

As the sirens sweet, seduce,

When I would sail the southern seas,

Where I played fast and loose.

But country lanes now call me,

And the lure of river, lakes,

Where wagtails on the pastures sing,

The dreams of home awakes.

So I shall pen an epitaph,

Renounce the seas so free,

For nation that is home-sweet-home,

That sings by Baltic Sea.

Michael (Walsh) 22.08.13

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

The earth comes up ,the earth goes down,

But the sun stays still whilst spinning round,

The twirl of earth at dawn brings light,

When turning world puts night to flight.

To say the sun goes down at eve,

Is but another make believe;

As rooster thinks its screech at dawn,

Awakes the sun to rise each morn’.

The sun wheel spins but hangs quite still,

But pirouettes the earth at will;

To wake and rest we live and sleep,

We all mark time as years creep.

We never see the grass grow down,

Nor autumn when the seed is sown?

When snow descends from southern clime,

Then clocks back spin to tell the time.

So mourn ye not the resting sun,

When swallows soar and day is done,

The sun shall never set on me,

The earth, not sun shall set on thee.

Michael Walsh 24.08.2013

Much Darker Than the Night.

At the stroke of midnight, whatever hour that be,

I heard a distant barking and I held you close to me,

Then I thought of faeries and the darling buds of May,

The midnight hour struck stroke of twelve and day was far away.

I thought of forest stream and moon, of solitude and peace,

I hoped that trolls would slumber on and live to honour truce,

That gnomes of war would cease; to break my heart and bring to woe,

The folk who never were a foe,

A pestilence of fire and flame - and worse they do it in my name.

While humble folk were sleeping in their happy little homes,

Far away were plotting, the warlike little gnomes.

Oh, how they scurried, born to loathe such humble folk as me,

I turned but sleep would never come, would never set me free.

Ah, futile gesture, pen to pad, so helpless I am lost,

I pay the price and suffer then I also bear the cost,

The highway hare is pinned by light,

The lovelorn moth is stilled in flight,

We’re mesmerised by powers strange,

Much darker than the night.

Michael (Walsh) 11.9.2013.