May 14, 2005

• First poem is from 1968, and already you can see my nuttiness in it!
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “Flower-Child”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Sitting on my ass
  

  
  

  Just a smoking grass
  

  
  

  And watching the clouds in the sky drifting past.
  

  
  

  Happy to laze
  

  
  

  In an euphoric haze
  

  
  

  Wishing the day will forever last.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I close my eyes and I sleep
  

  
  

  Not too heavy and sure not too deep
  

  
  

  Just listening to bird-song
  

  
  

  Letting my thoughts drift along
  

  
  

  And the hours by slowly creep.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  What a wonderful place
  

  
  

  With the sun on my face
  

  
  

  And the big unicorns
  

  
  

  With their long sexy horns
  

  
  

  Made to please the human race.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Terry.
  

  
  

  _____________
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Moving on:
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  One of my first jobs on the paper was reporting on a building site where archologists were working. This story is thus true.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “At the Dig.”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “If these bones could talk,”
  

  
  

  The old man sighed.
  

  
  

  “What will they say?”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  He held the skeleton as if
  

  
  

  It was a lover,
  

  
  

  And he sighed again.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “See the ribs have been crushed
  

  
  

  As if the poor soul
  

  
  

  Was kicked to death.”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  He performed the sign of the cross
  

  
  

  And gently placed the skeleton
  

  
  

  Back into its grave.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Up in the sky
  

  
  

  I could hear
  

  
  

  The rumble of thunder.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —-
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Terry.
  

  
  

  ____________
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Another poem wrote about real people I met in my job and like the above I did not so much “write” it as turned a real incident into a poem.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “Free-verse Sonnet.”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  A mad man with a beard
  

  
  

  Plays at aeroplanes
  

  
  

  In the background
  

  
  

  Of the home-cum-cafe
  

  
  

  Where a red-faced mother
  

  
  

  Serves us our teas.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  We say nothing
  

  
  

  We do not even comment upon
  

  
  

  The inclement weather.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  We drink in silence,
  

  
  

  As the screams of the demented man
  

  
  

  Mingle with the soft tears
  

  
  

  On the old woman’s face.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  Terry
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  The following is about my cousin, they told her her mother (my auntie) was feeling better, she drove 200 miles to be by her bedside, but on arrival found she had passed away.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “The Bereaved”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  They lead her crying
  

  
  

  From the hospital office;
  

  
  

  The flowers that she was to give
  

  
  

  To an old lady
  

  
  

  Were still grasped in her hands.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Outside, it was a beautiful day,
  

  
  

  And children were singing
  

  
  

  The very same songs
  

  
  

  That her mother had taught her
  

  
  

  So many years ago.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Terry.
  

  
  

  ______________
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Finally, a poem wrote this week after leaving a comment on James  site:
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “There would have been a time for such a word” (Macbeth.)
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  There would have been a time
  

  
  

  When I could have juggled with concepts
  

  
  

  And abstracts in mathamatical forms,
  

  
  

  But not any more.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  There would have been a time
  

  
  

  For so many words
  

  
  

  When esprit de l’escalier
  

  
  

  Was as alien to me
  

  
  

  As dancing on the moon.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  When I had read Joyce
  

  
  

  And Wittgenstein
  

  
  

  And Einstein too,
  

  
  

  And considered them easy reading
  

  
  

  In a form of snobbery
  

  
  

  I kept to myself.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  There would have been a time,
  

  
  

  Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
  

  
  

  But to me there is no tomorrow
  

  
  

  Only my yesterdays
  

  
  

  Of lighted genius.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  People called me that, ha!
  

  
  

  How shallow it sounds now,
  

  
  

  How much of a lie
  

  
  

  A make-believe.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  So much so, that only rarely do I hanker
  

  
  

  After what I have lost
  

  
  

  And what noble Macbeth hath won!
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Terry.
  

  
  

  _____________

  
  

  Ps my photos are on
  
  
  
  

  http://community.webshots.com/user/terrycuthbert

  
  

  And look out for Baldmikes on my favourite box, he’s a great photographer.

  • 1:05 am
  • 47 Comments