Poetry and Prose for any season

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Tenebrosi Diabolus , Funesta Pugna


The snake that slithered in lay quite still
as if testing my shaky resolve, my weak will
I saw its blackness and that shining skin
mesmerized , my body was so quickly drawn in

So fast did it flicker its forked tongue
warning bells hell, none were ever rung
This great danger set upon me a great thrill
that this opponent could very easily kill

Inside my guts turned to quivering jelly
sickness rushed up deep into my belly
A wave of nausea wrapped my daring heart
why, why had I chosen this battle to start

My brain screamed to run, run quickly away
damn, this is no damn time to stupidly play
Closer I stepped to deliver a swift hit
it coiled up, this demon from the dark pit

I heard the hiss as it struck out at me
on these lightning feet my body did flee
I looked to see my opponent ready for more
then I saw that baseball bat beside the door

One quick step and that weapon was mine
now we could do battle , I felt right fine
That sinister gleam from the demon's eyes
told me it was ready, ready for all my tries

My resolve was, end this combat early tonight
no more nightly repeats of this epic fight
With courage I moved in to deal that final blow
gain victory that would ease my troubled soul

A flash and a strike but the snake had missed
such relief, then anger, man was I pissed
I felt the smash as the bat struck that head
no more fighting this night, the demon was dead

I saw this dark limp body just vanish away
never to return again as I knelt down to pray

Robert J. Lindley, O2-11-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

An Old Battlefield , by Frank L. Stanton


The softest whisperings of the scented South,
And rust and roses in the cannon's mouth;

And, where the thunders of the fight were born,
The wind's sweet tenor in the standing corn;

With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam,
And blue skies bending over love and home.

But still the thought: Somewhere,-upon the hills,
Or where the vales ring with the whip-poor-wills,

Sad wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat
For the loved sound of unreturning feet,

And, when the oaks their leafy banners wave,
Dream of the battle and an unmarked grave!

Frank L. Stanton

------------------------------------------------------
My tribute below, to this great man and his fine poem
quoted above.


Where Now Sings The Sweetest Morning Lark


The morning dew falls upon the ground
precious soil, where blood was laid down
Fine men, hearty soldiers one and all
upon this battlefield they did bravely fall

Silence now , no loud cannons booming out
no screaming in an agonizing painful shout
Bullets once whizzed onward to hit their mark
where now sings the sweetest morning lark

Morning mists now wrap the towering hills
where war took so many with senseless kills
Courage so true, could still save no man
not if cruelest Fate had a different plan

Death raced about in the air with glee
sad was every blood soaked dying plea
Of brave men that fought and valiantly died
leaving behind family that forever cried

The setting sun casts a saddened glow
on this once bloody soil covered with snow
No victor's glory can ever stand to replace
these fallen that lost their greatest race

No laurels given at that deadly finish line
no great banquet to celebrate and dine
Only quiet and forgotten memories remain
of this great battle and its bloody stain

Robert J. Lindley, 02-12-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

A contest entry, on conflict and dead romance. -Tyr



The Fight, A Show That Sells Out

Lights blink in time
with ghost music playing loud
Words set in rhyme
conflict draws a happy crowd

Curses all the rage
her hurt makes him so proud
Wisdom of a sage
agreement is simply not allowed

Each cut a jab
seeking blood to flow deep
Take it quickly grab
music echoes within her weep

No solace this day
each seeks a deeper hell
Misery sent to play
chiming of a darkened bell

Crowd cheers for more
painful words cast to do harm
Accuse her the whore
ringing out lying false alarm

Each on a mountain top
this bastard cutting her throat
Can anything make it stop
she cries as he joyfully gloats

Dueling demons dance
firing the blaze with flames
Death to all romance
bullet hits exactly were he aims

Black cloud in this room
death shadow settles on down
Lost love was her doom
destruction grows in this evil town

Robert J. Lindley, 02-12-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Shining Fruits From A Solid Tree

As I rest on this high mountaintop
blessings come, they never stop
All my family are blessings to me
shining fruits from a solid tree

The clouds parting early each dawn
sunshine on flowers on the lawn
Looking closer I am content to see
smooth waves upon my family sea

Whenever this life sends some bad
I reflect on blessings I've had
Bow my head and settle in to pray
good Lord, thank you for every day

As my time for leaving comes near
I stand in faith not abject fear
Seeing my family in heaven my goal
praying God's mercy on every soul

As I rest on this high mountaintop
blessings come, they never stop
All my family are blessings to me
shining fruits from a solid tree

Robert J. Lindley, 02-14-2015


Note- A poet wrote to me recently that I should make up my mind if I am Christian or not!
That some of my poetry is not very Christian-like. I had to agree some of it is not but my writing is divorced from my religion or rather separated from my personal faith in God.
I reminded him that when I do a spiritual write there is nothing bad ever in it. Just truth and praise to God. My other writes are not to be cast into that pot of stew. For that one is special and is to be exempt from all others.
Am I a weak Christian for my other writes? I guess so but perhaps I am not driven to be in a higher station in Heaven but quite content to just be allowed in as a janitor or lawn-keeper as long as I can be with my family there my station there is unimportant to me. Some may say such humility is to be praised. I say its just me , I seek no praise for it..
This friend, went on to mention my "bad streak" and my past that I write about so often. How I seem to praise violence as a means to settle conflicts. I replied, "yes much of that is true but I can write no other without lying about my past--that I will not do"!
Hope you enjoyed this spiritual poem and reflect upon our God and the blessing that our loving God gave you!--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

O To Live With Nature Again


O to live with Nature again,
cross the forested paths
Be one with her as a friend
avoid most of her wrath

Stalk the woods every day,
join in life's course
In our world we all must pay,
for better or for worse

Wade free flowing streams,
eat the wild fruits
Live, live within dreams,
fly back to our roots

Lost is the way to live,
pleasure of each morn
Harvest but do freely give,
grateful for being born

O to live with Nature again,
cross the forested paths
Be one with her as a friend
avoid most of her wrath

Robert J. Lindley

[LongTermGuy]

O To Live With Nature Again


O to live with Nature again,
cross the forested paths
Be one with her as a friend
avoid most of her wrath

Stalk the woods every day,
join in life's course
In our world we all must pay,
for better or for worse

Wade free flowing streams,
eat the wild fruits
Live, live within dreams,
fly back to our roots

Lost is the way to live,
pleasure of each morn
Harvest but do freely give,
grateful for being born

O to live with Nature again,
cross the forested paths
Be one with her as a friend
avoid most of her wrath

Robert J. Lindley

I Like this one....

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

To the Memory of the Brave Americans

Under General Greene, in South Carolina,
who fell in the action of September 8, 1781


AT Eutaw Springs the valiant died;
Their limbs with dust are covered o'er-
Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;
How many heroes are no more!

If in this wreck or ruin, they
Can yet be thought to claim a tear,
O smite your gentle breast, and say
The friends of freedom slumber here!

Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain,
If goodness rules thy generous breast,
Sigh for the wasted rural reign;
Sign for the shepherds, sunk to rest!

Stranger, their humble graves adorn;
You too may fall, and ask a tear;
'Tis not the beauty of the morn
That proves the evening shall be clear.-

They saw their injured country's woe;
The flaming town, the wasted field;
Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;
They took the spear- but left the shield.

Led by thy conquering genius, Greene,
The Britons they compelled to fly;
None distant viewed the fatal plain,
None grieved, in such a cause to die-

But, like the Parthian, famed of old,
Who, flying, still their arrows threw,
These routed Britons, full as bold,
Retreated, and retreating slew.

Now rest in peace, our patriot band,
Though far from nature's limits thrown,
We trust they find a happier land,
A brighter sunshine of their own.


Philip Freneau

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I sat here just to write a poem today
amidst the activity of my long life
With true heart and purpose to say
my past still cuts deep like a knife

Lost dreams haunt my every daily task
memories of those I once dearly loved
Why and where, questions I need to ask
mysteries held by those once beloved

My coffee was as hot as her thrill
she of raven hair and legs so long
Dared not hold her against her will
vanished back in the worldly throng

Another filled with style and grace
dance in singing hold me so tight
Even I, could never match her pace
lovefilled acrobat every sweet night

All passed on as a hot blowing wind
each had grace and unique charms
Departed for thrills around next bend
leaving these outstretched loving arms

Sweet lost dreams eat away at my mind
did my heart fail to hold their love
Was my life destined to be so unkind
with storm clouds always lurking above

I sat here just to write a poem today
amidst the activity of my long life
With true heart and purpose to say
my past still cuts deep like a knife!

Robert J. Lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I Refusing To Cry, You To Ever Yield

I never went into your dark room
never saw your silent rage
In my mind your cannons never boom
nor does your face ever age

I never felt your lonely trance
never saw you naked in a cage
In this dark world you truly dance
with the melodic words of a sage

We never journeyed to the Keys
never saw that perfect moonlight
In your gaze rested your pleas
to be so closely held at midnight

We never lived in each other's dreams
never wept to the same sad tune
Side by side we waded cool streams
yet we never wed in early June

Our days, were they numbered badly
sunburnt harvest stripped from the field
Was it destined to end that sadly
I refusing to cry and you to ever yield

Robert J. Lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Graced By Skies With Multi-Colored Blues

Were I to live ruling in my own domain
life would sail with everything to gain
Love would flow freely from a fountain
life as sheltered as snow upon a mountain

Mountains wrapped in those majestic hues
graced by skies with multi-colored blues
Meadows below glisten in panoramic sheen
awash with virgin colors in every scene

Trails swirling through forested stands
blessed travels within beautiful lands
Nature kissing the brightest blue skies
mornings whispering promises of no lies

Each trek an adventure into epic bliss
paradise scenes a shame to ever miss
Every cool breeze a tonic for the soul
discovery the pleasure, the final goal

Seasons set to comfort the spirit of man
adventure in the journey without a plan
Free spirit away from many roads of Rome
a Nature's feast in this wilderness home

As each morn's beautiful Sun did rise
every day in sweet life would surprise
My land, far away in this golden dream
where Man and Nature are a true team
Flying birds plentiful , beauty upon wings
so majestic that each heart and soul sings
Death shall not visit to cast its deep hell
life will journey forever down this trail

Could I ever conjure up this paradise place
Pray a blessing of God's mercy and divine grace!

Robert J. Lindley , 02-17-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

A triple selection today by three truly great poets. I start it of with - A Poison Tree, by Blake because that poem so fits my sense of justice and admiration for a plan well laid, well executed that bears such promising fruit!--Tyr



A Poison Tree

by William Blake



I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.


And I watered it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.


And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright ;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil’d the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As Kingfishers Catch Fire

by Gerard Manley Hopkins




As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies, dráw fláme ;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring ; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name ;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same :
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells ;
Selves—goes itself ; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me : for that I came.
I say móre : the just man justices ;
Kéeps gráce : thát keeps all his goings graces ;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—
Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


When I was one-and-twenty

by A.E. Housman



When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
‘Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.’
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
‘The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
’Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.’
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Never have I appreciated poetry more than at this stage in my life,
as I peek at the closing curtain
Tumult, chaos and turmoil all are edges of that same evil knife,
find one, find the others for certain
A Saving Grace, now that is the treasure I truly dare to seek,
for none of the other matter
This dark world, a hell of a place for those sweet and so meek,
righteous hearts that shatter
Robert J. Lindley, 02-21-2015

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Three poems-Poetry tribute presented as a gift to all that may enjoy



To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

by Robert Herrick



Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.


The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.


That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.


Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
--------------------------------------------------------

The Skylark

by James Hogg




Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
--------------------------------------------------------

Anthem for Doomed Youth

by Wilfred Owen




What passing-bells for these who die as cattle ?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them ; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, ―
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells ;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all ?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall ;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note- Why is it that when most agree that--"War is never the answer" yet its the only one given?
Answer is, the heart of man ,truly lost and unredeemed knows none other. --Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Ok, could not sleep--so one more...- --Tyr

-----------------------------
Dylan Thomas

1914-1953



Dylan Marlais Thomas is buried in the over-spill graveyard of St. Martin's Church, Laugharne, Dyfed, Wales. His grave is marked by a plain white cross. His wife, Caitlin Thomas, is buried in the same grave and her name appears on the reverse side of the cross.

Thomas died on November 9, 1953 while on a lecture tour of America. He had been drinking heavily the night he died in the White Horse pub in Greenwich Village, New York. Later that evening he returned to his hotel room in great pain and summonsed a doctor. Unfortunately the doctor (Dr Feltenstein) administered an abnormally large dose of morphine sulphate and Thomas slipped into a coma. Thomas' last words were: "I've had 18 straight whiskies......I think that's the record." He was 39 years old. His body was brought back to Laugharne.

Thomas and Caitlin lived at The Boathouse in Laugharne in Wales from 1949 onwards after it was purchased for them by Margaret Taylor (the wife of the historian A.J.P. Taylor). However, Thomas used to write in a wooden garage which stood on the cliff edge a short distance from the house. The garage, which is still there today, overlooks the beautiful Taf estuary.



DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT


Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

On The High Mountaintop I See The Stars


On the high mountaintop I see the stars
they wait for me shining brightly there
Blasting like high beams on speeding cars,
or glowing lanterns at the top of the stairs

Those night sentinels dearly comfort me
with steadfastness in that galactic realm
Beckoning, come forth, venture to be free
a ship sailing with you master at the helm

Over that horizon Hope awaits its turn
promises unfulfilled sing a melodic tune
A man with great courage to use and burn
can find them with a leap over the moon

More lies in abundance a bit farther out
mysteries, loves and great treasure galore
When I find it I let out a mighty shout
thank God for creating every distant shore

On the high mountaintop I see the stars
they wait for me shining brightly there
Blasting like high beams on speeding cars,
or glowing lanterns at the top of the stairs

Robert J. Lindley, 02-21-2015

[LongTermGuy]

John Lindley (1952 - present)

An experienced performer, John has read at pubs, clubs, theatres and at the Buxton and Edinburgh fringe festivals. He staged a self-written show, Screen Fever: Movie Poems, at Congleton Library in September 1999, which married poems written on the theme of cinema to film music and dialogue. The show has since been performed for arts groups and at the Jon Silkin Memorial Festival in Camelford, Cornwall and at Ledbury Poetry Festival.

John has won the Words of Silk Open Poetry Competition, been a runner up in the Jackson’s Arm Poetry Pamphlet Competition, a three times prize-winner in the Lancaster Literature Festival and a prize-winner in the Manchester Open Poetry and the Blythe Spirit Open Poetry competitions.

Two booklets of his poems appeared in 1976 and 1982 and were followed by his first full-length collection, Stills from November Campaigns, which was published by Tarantula in 1998. This was followed by Scarecrow Crimes, published by New Hope International in 2002 and Cheshire Rising, published by Cheshire County Council in 2005.

John was appointed as the literary ‘Arts Form Specialist’ by Congleton Borough Council to work on their 18 month Imprints Community Arts Project. Other recent commissions include running workshops in schools for Buxton Opera House for their Feeder Reader – Living Book project, for Ellesmere Port’s Fusion project and in day centres for Age Concern for both the WearPurple arts project and the BBC’s People’s War project. He also provides distance learning workshops for writers in Africa as part of the British Council’s Crossing Borders project and travelled to Kenya to run workshops and give a reading.

He was appointed Cheshire Poet Laureate for 2004.

John Lindley can be contacted for readings and workshops at:

Tel: 01260 273219 (home)
07816 766611 (mobile)
e-mail: johnlindley@uk2.net
website: www.johnlindley.co.uk

Address: 26 Albert Place
Havannah Street
Congleton
Cheshire
CW12 2AJ

REVIEWS

“The directness, the levelling craic, eyeball to eyeball, the sheer pace of these poems is exhilarating, upbeat and a tonic for our troubled times.” Mike Bannister, ‘Links’

“.... ranging widely in form and content, yet unquestionably in one, very authoritative voice. These well turned and elegant poems contain wit, pathos, humour, tenderness, humanity, profundity and emotional depth. They are often moving but never sentimental. He has a wry and sympathetic eye for the frailties of the famous and the unknown.” John Latham, poet and novelist.

“Unlocks life’s little moments with uncanny insight. Beautifully written with warm attention to detail; emotionally engaging with nice touches of humour.” Agraman, The Buzz cabaret club.

“His poetry, which is vibrant and taut, is wide ranging in form and theme.” Sean Body, Tarantula publications.

“John Lindley’s poems exist in the twilight world between the merely fanciful and the genuinely disturbing” iota

“.... a quirky, lively talent with a way for the unexpected image. Nothing seems to escape his attention.” Mary Knight, Prop.

“ Lindley’s is an acutely observed world...(his) poetry is sexy, lyrical and by turns melancholic.” Keith Armstrong, National Association of Writers’ Groups magazine.

“An easeful voice pushes you along with a deceptive, unforced elegance.” Steven Waling, City Life.




Yes, EventuallyEventually life sends a message clear embrace courage abandon your fearTake big steps to lead a life of hope anything is possible given enough ropeEventually a great storm will try to slay prepare faithfully for such a tragic dayTake all our evil vices into account upon a charging steed soundly mountEventually critics will call for your head by lying about things you never saidTake measure of the false steps they make shine a great light proving they are fakeEventually the world will learn to respect youEven then, fools and knaves will not have a clueRobert J. Lindley, 07-27-2014 </pre>