A Poem a day keeps the melancholy away

kerry4sam

The Village SchoolMaster
by Oliver Goldsmith

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,
The village master taught his little school;
A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace
The days disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he:
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd:
Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declar'd how much he knew;
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too:
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And e'en the story ran that he could gauge.
In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill,
For e'en though vanquish'd he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thund'ring sound
Amazed the gazing rustics rang'd around;
And still they gaz'd and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot.

Love the quote: "And still they gaz'd and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew."
kerry4sam

Lovesong, by Ted Hughes.

I hope I am not cheating by posting a video of Hughes reading the poem. The reason I post this video is because he reads this poem so spectacularly. The poem is about Sylvia Plath, of course, and seems crowded with feelings of love for Plath contrasted against the mental exhaustion, even anger, brought about by living with a person suffering psychiatric illness.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H2YjyakdsVs

He loved her and she loved him.
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she sucked
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Off that moment's brink and into nothing
Or everlasting or whatever there was

Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His words were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assassin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
Her vows put his eyes in formalin
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall

Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage

In the morning they wore each other's face

Dave!

I love that

And it's always great to have audio/video of the poem being read!

Dave!

The Solitary Reaper

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

Day Lewin

The Good News, (by Thich Nhat Hanh)

They don't publish the good news.
The good news is published by us.
We have a special edition every moment,
and we need you to read it.
The good news is that you are alive,
and the linden tree is still there,
standing firm in the harsh Winter.
The good news is that you have wonderful eyes
to touch the blue sky.
The good news is that your child is there before you,
and your arms are available: hugging is possible.
They only print what is wrong.
Look at each of our special editions.
We always offer the things that are not wrong.
We want you to benefit from them
and help protect them.
The dandelion is there by the sidewalk,
smiling its wondrous smile,
singing the song of eternity.
Listen! You have ears that can hear it.
Bow your head.
Listen to it.
Leave behind the world of sorrow
and preoccupation
and get free.
The latest good news
is that you can do it.

Harry Angstrom

Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favoured, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Dave!

To Grace

Joseph Mary Plunkett

The powerful words that from my heart
Alive and throbbing leap and sing
Shall bind the dragon’s jaws apart
Or bring you back a vanished spring;
They shall unseal and seal again
The fount of wisdom’s awful flow,
So this one guerdon they shall gain
That your wild beauty still they show.

The joy of Spring leaps from your eyes,
The strength of dragons in your hair,
In your young soul we still surprise
The secret wisdom flowing there;
But never word shall speak or sing
Inadequate music where above
Your burning heart now spreads its wing
In the wild beauty of your Love.

Swiper the fox

Down By the Salley Gardens




Down by the salley gardens

my love and I did meet;

She passed the salley gardens

with little snow-white feet.

She bid me take love easy,

as the leaves grow on the tree;

But I, being young and foolish,

with her would not agree.


In a field by the river

my love and I did stand,

And on my leaning shoulder

she laid her snow-white hand.

She bid me take life easy,

as the grass grows on the weirs;

But I was young and foolish,

and now am full of tears.



William Butler Yeats

Hoof_Harted

ally2 wrote: »

I love this poem by Rimbaud, especially the last two lines.

The Louse Catchers

When the child's brow, red with raging turmoil,
Implores the white swarm of shadowy dreams,
Close to the bed come two tall sisters,
charmers,
With gossamer fingers, silvery-nailed.
They seat him by a window opened wide,
Where blue air bathes a web of tangled blossom,
And in his heavy hair on which the dew drips down,
Run their dread fingers, delicate, bewitching.
He hears the flick
Of their black lashes; through his grey langour
The regal nails and soft electric fingers
Crackle to death the scores of tiny lice.

Wow, Very powerful piece there!

biZrb

The Sleeper in the Valley by Arthur Rimbaud

It is a green hollow where a stream gurgles,
Crazily catching silver rags of itself on the grasses;
Where the sun shines from the proud mountain:
It is a little valley bubbling over with light.

A young soldier, open-mouthed, bare-headed,
With the nape of his neck bathed in cool blue cresses,
Sleeps; he is stretched out on the grass, under the sky,
Pale on his green bed where the light falls like rain.

His feet in the yellow flags, he lies sleeping. Smiling as
A sick child might smile, he is having a nap:
Cradle him warmly, Nature: he is cold.

No odour makes his nostrils quiver;
He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his breast
At peace. There are two red holes in his right side.

Day Lewin

@biZrb
Wow. Stunning. Thank you.

Swiper the fox

Quarantine


In the worst hour of the worst season
of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking — they were both walking — north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.


Eavan Boland

New Home

I love all these poems, they are all so touching, but I must admit they're not helping to keep the melancholy away, not at all...

marienbad

New Home wrote: »

I love all these poems, they are all so touching, but I must admit they're not helping to keep the melancholy away, not at all...

Here is one to cheer you up then ( though I may have posted it previously)


Pangur Ban


I and Pangur Ban my cat,
'Tis a like task we are at:
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.
Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill-will,
He too plies his simple skill.
'Tis a merry task to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.
Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur's way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.
'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.
When a mouse darts from its den,
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!
So in peace our task we ply,
Pangur Ban, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his. Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light

From the 8the Cent.Irish Trans. Robin Flower

New Home

Thanks, that's much better... and it's about a cat, so that makes my inner cat lady very happy indeed.

Swiper the fox

We Real Cool




By Gwendolyn Brooks







The Pool Players.
Seven at the Golden Shovel.


We real cool. We

Left school. We


Lurk late. We

Strike straight. We


Sing sin. We

Thin gin. We


Jazz June. We

Die soon.

Day Lewin

(Keeping to the Cats theme to cheer us all up even more)


The Galloping Cat
by Stevie Smith

Oh I am a cat that likes to
Gallop about doing good
So
One day when I was
Galloping about doing good, I saw
A Figure in the path; I said
Get off! (Be-
cause
I am a cat that likes to
Gallop about doing good)
But he did not move, instead
He raised his hand as if
To land me a cuff
So I made to dodge so as to
Prevent him bringing it orf,
Un-for-tune-ately I slid
On a banana skin
Some Ass had left instead
Of putting it in the bin. So
His hand caught me on the cheek
I tried
To lay his arm open from wrist to elbow
With my sharp teeth
Because I am
A cat that likes to gallop about doing good.
Would you believe it?
He wasn’t there
My teeth met nothing but air,
But a Voice said: Poor Cat
(Meaning me) and a soft stroke
Came on me head
Since when
I have been bald
I regard myself as
A martyr to doing good.
Also I heard a swoosh,
As of wings, and saw
A halo shining at the height of
Mrs Gubbins’s backyard fence,
So I thought: What’s the good
Of galloping about doing good
When angels stand in the path
And do not do as they should
Such as having an arm to be bitten off
All the same I
Intend to go on being
A cat that likes to
Gallop about doing good
So
Now with my bald head I go,
Chopping the untidy flowers down, to and fro,
An’ scooping up the grass to show
Underneath
The cinder path of wrath
Ha ha ha ha, ho,
Angels aren’t the only ones who do not know
What’s what and that
Galloping about doing good
Is a full-time job
That needs
An experienced eye of earthly
Sharpness, worth I dare say
(if you’ll forgive a personal note)
A good deal more
Than all that skyey stuff
Of angels that make so bold as
To pity a cat like me that
Gallops about doing good.

barney4001

RENDEZOUS




In a quaint old chateau garden
stood a shepherdess of carven stone
and over by the sleeping fountain
stood a little shepherd all alone
but when moonlight floods the alleys
and the nightingale sings all night through
they waken and they meet together
in a sentimental rendezvous
ah,ma belle,at last we meet!
Oshepherd mine,speak lower i entreat
theres none to hear ,my own,my sweet!
how the nightingale above
is singing dearest,of our love!
will you dance with me my love?
softly plays moonlight fountain
making music in the lonly spot


as the shephedess and shepherd mingle
in the places of an old gavotte
and the little marble cupid
laughs to see the lovers dancing so
and keeping to the quaint old measure
he is beating with his broken bow!
and now the night is still
the fountain waves into silince
the bird has ceased her trill
the shepherds pair can murmer what they will
when one oclock is tolled
their hour of magic life is over their arms must now unfold
and love turns marble cold
through the garden goes the shepherd
stepping ever where the shadows fall
his shepherdress is left all lonely
on her little marble pedestal
and the gardener on the morrow
passes by the two and never knows
the little shepherd now is holding fast
the sherpherdess'smarble rose

lockman

I hadn't ever read this until I saw that it had topped some recent poll on being Ireland's favourite poem of the last 100 years:

http://www.irishtimes.com/culture/when-all-the-others-were-away-at-mass-tops-favourite-poem-poll-1.2135284

So, apologies if this has already been posted. Reading this has certainly lifted my spirits today.




‘When all the others were away at Mass’

[from Clearances in memoriam M.K.H., 1911-1984]

by Seamus Heaney

When all the others were away at Mass

I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.

They broke the silence, let fall one by one

Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:

Cold comforts set between us, things to share

Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.

And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes

From each other’s work would bring us to our senses.

So while the parish priest at her bedside

Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying

And some were responding and some crying

I remembered her head bent towards my head,

Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives–

Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

From New Selected Poems 1966-1987, Faber and Faber Ltd.

Dave!

I love the rhythm of this one

The Destruction of Sennacherib
BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Dave!

The White Feather

Joseph Mary Plunkett

I’ve watched with Death a dreadful year
Nor flinched until you plucked apart
A feather from the wings of Fear—
Your innocence has stabbed my heart.

I took your terrible trust to keep,
Deep in my heart it flames and sears,
And what I’ve sown I dare not reap
For bitterness of blinding tears.

I have not scattered starry seed
On windy ridges of the skies,
But I have ploughed my heart indeed
And sown the secrets of your eyes.

And now I cannot reap the grain
Growing above that stony sod
Because a shining plume lies plain
Fallen from following wings of God.

Earthhorse

Very Like a Whale by Ogden Nash

One thing that literature would be greatly the better for
Would be a more restricted employment by the authors of simile and metaphor.
Authors of all races, be they Greeks, Romans, Teutons or Celts,
Can't seem just to say that anything is the thing it is but have to go out of their way to say that it is like something else.
What does it mean when we are told
That that Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold?
In the first place, George Gordon Byron had enough experience
To know that it probably wasn't just one Assyrian, it was a lot of Assyrians.
However, as too many arguments are apt to induce apoplexy and thus hinder longevity.
We'll let it pass as one Assyrian for the sake of brevity.
Now then, this particular Assyrian, the one whose cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold,
Just what does the poet mean when he says he came down like a wolf on the fold?
In heaven and earth more than is dreamed of in our philosophy there are great many things.
But I don't imagine that among them there is a wolf with purple and gold cohorts or purple and gold anythings.
No, no, Lord Byron, before I'll believe that this Assyrian was actually like a wolf I must have some kind of proof;
Did he run on all fours and did he have a hairy tail and a big red mouth and big white teeth and did he say Woof Woof?
Frankly I think it is very unlikely, and all you were entitled to say, at the very most,
Was that the Assyrian cohorts came down like a lot of Assyrian cohorts about to destroy the Hebrew host.
But that wasn't fancy enough for Lord Byron, oh dear me no, he had to invent a lot of figures of speech and then interpolate them,
With the result that whenever you mention Old Testament soldiers to people they say Oh yes, they're the ones that a lot of wolves dressed up in gold and purple ate them.
That's the kind of thing that's being done all the time by poets, from Homer to Tennyson;
They're always comparing ladies to lilies and veal to venison,
And they always say things like that the snow is a white blanket after a winter storm.
Oh it is, is it, all right then, you sleep under a six-inch blanket of snow and I'll sleep under a half-inch blanket of unpoetical blanket material and we'll see which one keeps warm,
And after that maybe you'll begin to comprehend dimly
What I mean by too much metaphor and simile.

barney4001

---

the Locket - John Montague


Sing a last song
for the lady who has gone,
fertile source of guilt and pain.
The worst birth in the annals of Brooklyn,
that was my cue to come on,
my first claim to fame.

Naturally, she longed for a girl,
and all my infant curls of brown
couldn�t excuse my double blunder
coming out the wrong sex,
and the wrong way around.
Not readily forgiven,

So you never nursed me
and when all my father�s songs
couldn�t sweeten the lack of money,
�when poverty comes throught the door
love flies up your chimney�,
your favourite saying,

Then you gave me away,
might never have known me,
if I had not cycled down
to court you like a young man,
teasingly untying your apron,
drinking by the fire, yarning

Of your wild, young days
which didn�t last long, for you,
lovely Molly, the belle of your small town,
landed up mournful and chill
as the constant rain that lashes it
wound into your cocoon of pain.

Standing in that same hallway,
�Don�t come again.� you say, roughly,
�I start to get fond of you, John,
and then you are up and gone�;
the harsh logic of a forlorn woman
resigned to being alone.

And still, mysterious blessing,
I never knew, until you were gone,
that, always around your neck
you wore an oval locket
with an old picture in it,
of a child in Brooklyn.

tomasocarthaigh

First up best dressed! Good morning... here's a little offering from yours truly to keep the melancholy away...

A friend of mine and fellow Tullamore Rhymer Anthony Sullivan has a quotation that goes something along the lines of “Never mind the heartache, always get the song”. As a writer I have to agree… and in my latest outbreak of unrequited love… I have got the poem if nothing else!

She of the wild heart, free spirit, did not intend
To capture the heart of a man like me
She did, unknowing, of this romantic fool
I fell , quick and full, for her, the dawsie.

It was not to be, she desires not me
But others, rougher and tougher, I the inverse!
Being the writer, the lover, poet and fool
At least from the heartache got the verse!

Reference
* Dawsie is a phonetic spelling of a Longford dialect phrase for a Jezebelesque character, a temptress. Origin unknown, it has been suggested its a form of description of a young jackdaw, a mischievous playful; character.



Awaiting the Eclipse
Engaging with Art in Longford Providers
She Walks Not the Paths I Find Familiar
Fleeting Shadows Confuse the Walker

As a prologue to the main poem, this short, anonymous piece can remind us that poetry doesn't have to be terribly abstruse to be brilliant

There was a man, and he was mad
And he ran up the steeple,
And there he cut his nose off,
And flung it at the people

(Anon)


With that in mind, this poem by Adrian Mitchell is called, 'Watch Your Step – I'm Drenched'

In Manchester there are a thousand puddles.
Bus-queue puddles poised on slanting paving stones,
Railway puddles slouching outside stations,
Cinema puddles in ambush at the exits,
Zebra-crossing puddles in dips of the dark stripes --
They lurk in the murk
Of the north-western evening
For the sake of their notorious joke,
Their only joke -- to soak
The tights or trousers of the citizens.
Each splash and consequent curse is echoed by
One thousand dark Mancunian puddle chuckles.

In Manchester there lives the King of Puddles,
Master of Miniature Muck Lakes,
The Shah of Slosh, Splendifero of Splash,
Prince, Pasha and Pope of Puddledom.
Where? Somewhere. The rain-headed ruler
Lies doggo, incognito,
Disguised as an average, accidental mini-pool.
He is as scared as any other emperor,
For one night, all his soiled and soggy victims
Might storm his streets, assassination in their minds,
A thousand rolls of blotting paper in their hands,
And drink his shadowed, one-joke life away.

barney4001

Simple Minds – Belfast Child Lyrics
When my love said to me
Meet me down by the gallow tree
For it's sad news I bring
About this old town and all that it's offering
Some say troubles abound
Some day soon they're gonna pull the old town down

One day we'll return here,
When the Belfast Child sings again

Brothers, sisters where are you now
As I look for you right through the crowd
All my life here I've spent
With my faith in God, the Church and the Government
But there's sadness abound
Some day soon they're gonna pull the old town down

One day we'll return here,
When the Belfast Child sings again
When the Belfast Child sings again

Some come back, Billy, won't you come on home
Come back Mary, you've been away so long
The streets are empty, and your mother's gone
The girls are crying, it's been oh so long
And your father's calling, come on home
Won't you come on home, won't you come on home

Come back people, you've been gone a while
And the war is raging, in the Emerald Isle
That's flesh and blood man, that's flesh and blood
All the girls are crying but all's not lost

The streets are empty, the streets are cold
Won't you come on home, won't you come on home

The streets are empty
Life goes on

One day we'll return here
When the Belfast Child sings again
When the Belfast Child sings again
Songwriters: KERR, JAMES / BURCHILL, CHARLES / MACNEIL, MICHAEL JOSEPH
Belfast Child lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, BMG RIGHTS MANAGEMENT US, LLC

barney4001

Where the Sídhe Dance
Posted on September 23, 2014 by Tomás Ó Cárthaigh

According to lore, a ring of mushrooms mark the spot where the faries have danced in the cover of the fog, in Irish folk stories.
According to lore, a ring of mushrooms mark the spot where the faeries have danced in the cover of the fog, in Irish folk stories.
The grass grows green where the Sídhe dance
Unseen by men in the fog
The mushroom circle is kissed by the dew
Round the trees at the edge of the bog…

The fool who walks the road at night
Misfortune on his kin does bring
Finds himself in the Underworld
A giant in front of the Faerie King

“Why do you walk the forest walk
When the fog it strikes the ground
The cloak for the Little Folk
Who neath it dancing are to be found?”

“I am but a fool my King”
Answers the terrified man, though tall,
I was drinking the health of my new born son,
Now I find myself in your hall…

I’d give anything to hold my wife again,
So see my new born son,
I never meant to spoil the merriment,
Woe the disturbance on it I put upon…

The king took on a look of delight
A titter rippled over the place
His queen, quite drunk, fell from her throne
Apologising for her lack of grace

Said the king, “I’ll trade you your infant son,
Should you wish to be free,
We will place a changling in his cot,
Your son will be raised by me…

“To my wife” begged the man, “say never a word,
Let me see my son once a year!”
“He will look on you as a proud stag”, the king said,
As such a beast he will appear”

So it went on for many years
His wife never took to the child
Supposedly theirs, that seemed so strange
With a wild look in his eyes…

One day out shooting in the woods
The man made at a shadow a quick shot
The shadow was a stag, that turned into a boy
“My son!” he cried! – “I hope its not”

But it was, as he buried his son in the darkened woods
From his wife he had to hold his grief
They had no more children in the family
The changeling made their happiness brief

Bad tempered and quarrelsome, he did not fit in
For he belonged to another word, it was true,
His mother never understood him or tried to at all
His friends they were very few…

One day angered, the father took the changeling to the woods
Anniversary of the stags shooting set him in fury wild,
He placed antlers on the boys head,
Then shot him dead, the Faerie Childe

But when walking home, a fog came down,
Covered him like a cape,
The more he ran, the more he was lost,
For him there was no escape!

He was back in front of the Faerie King
Who in anger, roaring before him shook…
He would never escape the Underworld now…
As the Changlelings life he had took!

So, should you yourself in the woods yourself find…
With a thick mist gathering there…
Run for your life from among the tree’s
Avoid such a fate as our friend was of unaware!

barney4001

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PvbBM_-Md0Y

barney4001

Lost Memories.
As he walks along the windswept shore
watching waves break on the sand
slowly dandering through the storm
holding his true loves hand.
The memories of long ago
flood back to him galore,
of many sun drenched happy days
they spent upon this shore.
When they'd chase each other through the dunes
and make love in their secret place
then lie together in the sun
wrapped in a loving embrace.
They were happy carefree days
not a worry in the world
but sadly age has changed all that
as through time their lives unfurled
For although they seem so happy
walking side by side,
her memory is receding fast
just like the ebbing tide.
For he's losing her to Dementia
and it's breaking his heart
he's slowly losing the one he loves
and it's tearing him apart.
Most days she sits for hours now
just staring at the wall
ranting rambling sentences
that make no sense at all.
There's a sadness that descends on him
as he watches her decline,
for just a year or two ago
everything was fine.
Her mind is like a child's now
although she's old and grey,
she retreats back to her childhood more
with the passing of each day
But he'll be always by her side
though she barely knows him now,
for he promised to love and cherish her,
when they made their wedding vows
by jmac from belfast forum

Day Lewin

@barney4001 - that is so sad :-(