Untitled, As of yet

The winter sun descending,
Hiding behind the despoiled trees.
Daylight’s glow is ending,
The darkness comes to appease.

But the twilight does not dismiss,
The rare beauty that nature emits.
And Reed’s croon their fondness and bliss,
Oh, how humbling creation is.

What a wondrous world we live in.


A Losing Game (Acceptance)

As I must accept my ascending years,
I must also come to face my fears.
Time no longer is my friend,
Instead it impends,
Reminiscent of the end.

If it is my time to go,
Then tell me why must it hurt us so?
But if there is one thing that comforts me,
It is that I lived my life candidly.
So at my graveside do not weep,
As I go on to my gentle sleep.


Upon my pilgrimage, weak and weary on my feet,
Wandering the depths of the dark cold streets,
And by chance on my travels, a stranger I meet.
With his old, sun-beaten and weathered face,
His glance meets mine, in a kind sort of grace,
And supports my fatigued shoulders in an aiding embrace.
Tell me guest, have you far to go?’
Oh, kindly stranger, I do not know,
I know not how far I have to go.’
Then please tell me you have a place to stay?’
I shook my head with deep dismay.
I have not a place to stay, and if I did, I have not money to pay.’
And in that moment he looked at me,
I had half expected him to flee,
Instead, he just stared back pityingly.
It was this look which made me ashamed,
Kindly stranger, I ask for nothing.’ I proclaimed,
As I drifted on my journey feeling maimed.
Further on at the path side, I began to lament,
I was lost, and this was my torment,
My life in a state of complete discontent.
And through my tears, I saw an ambushed deer,
It thought through strength and flailed in fear.
But after it’s suffering, the fawn was clear.
And at that moment it became evident,
That whatever path I took was irrelevant,
And that life was simply about development.
The only people who can truly help us, are ourselves,
But by our journey, we must not be overwhelmed.
My path is mine to choose,
For this fact, one must peruse.

In April

I found a poem of mine that I wrote for one of my classes at University, I realise it’s not April but I liked stumbling upon this again and thought that I’d share it. I’m craving the Spring now, I’ve had enough of the cold.


Reflective puddles and relentless showers,
Raindrops tumble down and embellish the flowers.
Little lambs play in the sweet morning dew,
And the intermittent sun, through clouds, peers through.
Bunnies retreat from their warm little burrows,
For the March winds have gone, let us forget our sorrows!
Let us neglect our gloom in the pure warming sun,
And we shall rejoice for April has begun!

After W.H.Auden

This is a poem I wrote after W.H.Auden’s ‘Funeral Blues’, I wanted to expand on the feelings that Auden had mentioned in his poem and added my own narrative to it so I could expand on those feelings. The italicised parts are original pieces of text from Auden’s poem.


Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
He mumbled mournfully, in hushed tones.
And for once there was silence, in the place he called ‘home’.
He refused to keep company, he just sat there alone.

The air raid sirens sounded over his head,
They appeared to wail too, now that he was dead.
Nothing could cheer him, not even the birds,
Who sang and called to him, but they were not heard.

To him he was everything, he could not be replaced,
And he sat by the window, with an expressionless face.
Every day he sat there, from dawn to dusk,
Would talk to no one, to all he was brusque.

He sat by the window in his bedroom,
By the desk and his papers, all a mass of gloom.
And he stared at the path that led up to his door,
As he hoped he’d come to see him, just once more.

It was evident on him the strain,
But he did come to him once again.
He wandered in his dreams at night,
His smile soft and his eyes so bright.

In the morning when he would wake,
How his pitiful heart would ache.
But every night he closed his eyes,
He fulfilled his wish of saying goodbye.

My North, My South, My East, My West,
Without your love, I cannot rest.
Pack up the Moon, dismantle the Sun,
For without you, for me there is none.’