When the guitar is strummed
And music swells the soul,
When the walls reverberate
Like nets behind a goal,
Then silence seems as loud
As a tense soccer crowd
Desperate to catch all
The moment being played
Because time soon runs out
And all great memories fade,
Because we are the score,
Played just once and no more.

 

---

 

Sometimes simplicity works fine and this one is right for a ‘young person’, I think. Why should poetry not be written for them?

As the storm snatches leaves
Emeralds from fingers and those
Great arms in anguish at the robbery heave
And sway above their point of balance to and fro,

Do you sense your own disturb-
ance through the glass and do you find
The cause of all the movement and all the turb-
ulence dragging you from the centre of your mind

Lost in the scenery?
Be assured the ravens roost-
ing high in that wind-tormented canopy
Never share a girl’s anguish for mere leaves ripped loose

But black as storms they bide
The storm’s end when their hoarse calls
Can walk like rags around the countryside,
Bony lips tearing at the weaklings the tempest kills,

The hour your beauty shines.
Brushing mauve shadow round your eyes
And making mouths within the glass’s confines,
You will be yourself again, perfectly at ease.

---

This needed a lot of work. There is something there that wanted to be said. Have I isolated it yet?

I like the feel of books, the way
They open out their hearts
To everyone
As if the Sun
Amid clouds the wind parts
Unfolded ray by silent ray.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The book may be on the way out – or is that a myth, like the paperless office? Anyhow, when better to write a poem in praise of books! This one looks finished for now. Short but sweet.