Picture Perfect

And because it has been suggested to me I need a new subject to write about in poetry, I decided to write about nature. More specifically, the seasons. Even more specifically, Autumn - or as the Americans call it, through the astounding observation that the leaves fall from the trees during this season, fall.

Now, now. Before you think i'm anti-American and start carpet bombing London in the hope of hitting my place of abode, I will tell you all I fully intend on marrying an American girl. Why? I don't know. It's just one of those things.

Anyway, poetry. Here it is:

Autumn's Hand

Now from us the summer departs,
Uprooting itself from upon our hearts,
For who never loved it's scenery,
with blues, and purples, and all it's greenery?

Who disliked the roses red,
And all the colours in the flower bed,
Who didn't enjoy the warmer days,
And complained against the sunny rays?

Sadly, summer can't last all the year,
For in it's place will Autumn appear,
And over the earth it will pass it's hand,
To sweep away these colours grand.

The petals have faded from the roses red,
And all of their colours the flowers have shed,
The Autumn cold replaces summer heat,
And the sky with clouds is now replete.

But all is not lost when Autumn arrives,
For under it's hand the colours still thrive,
For when colours bright are swept from the land,
They are replaced with Autumn's own brand.

Yellows, oranages and that rusty hue,
Are placed on all trees within our view,
And their leaves which fall upon the ground,
Are taken by Autumn and browned.

Look at what the Autumn has done,
To grass once scortched by Summer's sun:
Autumn has painted it green again,
And revived it with all it's rain.

Enjoy all the newness which Autumn brings,
And all the colours it puts in things,
For now it's time to welcome Autumn here,
And say farewell to summer, until next year.
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Autumn Elements

Wind in the trees,
Leaves shake and fall,
Coats ruffle, put on with ease.

Clouds in the sky,
Brown on the ground,
Fallen leaves make a rustling sound.

Scarves around necks,
Boots on feet,
Stomp in puddles on outings and treks.

Umbrellas held up,
For rain fills the air,
Falling on those caught unaware.

 

I like this poem, actually. It's short and to the point. And it remains true to the experiences of Autumn.
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Live for Life

When's the last time you've admired a flower,
Taken the time to enjoy a Spring shower,
Touched the mildew upon grasses green,
Amd walked under a forest's screen?
- Or was there no time, to do all these things?

Did you ever chance to see,
The meandering flight of a honey-bee,
Or watched the beauty of a setting sun,
Before the Summer's been had and done?
- Or were you too busy, to notice the scene?

Have you ever watched leaves fall on the ground,
Listened to the wind's rustling sound,
Taken the time to admire the scene,
Where Autumn's paint brush has been?
- Or was it too much to do, to glance about you?

Ever wrapped up warm as can be,
And stood at the side of a raging sea,
Or even admired the brilliant sight,
When Winter made the ground all white?
- Or were you too tired, to make such an effort?

Please take your time,
Don't rush so fast,
Admire the beauty,
Around us so vast,
For one day you'll go,
Too late to see,
The earth around you,
With all it's beauty.

Just live for life.
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The above basically means, just in case you didn't realise, open your eyes, you maniac! Too many people rushing too quickly. If you don't ever take the time to look, then how will you see? And there's so much to see, so much to notice. But it's all lost in the bustle of the day, because it doesn't even enter the minds of people to look and see.

The idea is that the first four lines of every stanza rhymes, and the last line breaks up the rhyming scheme totally. This ruins the flow of the poem, and therefore doesn't allow the reader to fall asleep in the lull of the tune, and is intended to make a little jab at the reader...it's as if the poem is saying "ha, you didn't have the time to look, did you? Of course.." in a sarcastic, dissaproving sort of way. Which should make you feel guilty.

If you found yourself saying, "actually, I did that" then that's the surest sign that you feel you could have "done that" so many more times than you did, but just didn't make the time...

I was recently introduced to Calvin and Hobbes - what is perhaps the most popular cartoon since Snoopy. In America, at least. Featuring in American newspapers, it ended it's run in the year 1995. 10 years later, in the year 2005, I got hold of it (ok, so, it took me some time to catch on. All the best things in life takes time).

I would recommend the feature books to anyone. Go. Library. Get. Now. Hysterically funny - and what more does a cartoon need?

Back in reality, I have launched a new blog, dedicated to politics, religion, and any other issue which I decide needs to be ranted on, such as the great truths of Colgate Original Toothpaste, or the liklihood of the whereabouts of faries being in people's back gardens (though looking at some people's back gardens, any fairy living there would certainly need a tetnus shot). This doesn't mean I shall abandon this blog. No. No sir. Though I fear this is what shall happen shortly, when I finsh my holiday in England, and head back to the middle east.

To summarise, this was a completely useless entry. Oh. One more thing. I have some more poems, which are here:

February Toil

In the winter nights gone by,
I lay upon the whitened ground,
To observe the blackened sky,
All voices quiet, there's not a sound.
I lie entrenched upon the earth,
Allow yonder snow upon me fall,
Recall once more memories past,
Written up in stars so small,
Upon a sea so very vast;
Then write our moments up there too,
To then recall in later days,
All the things we've done,
And marvel at the misty haze,
All the time the moon's ablaze.
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My favourite topic appears to be love. Or lack of it. This, therefore, makes a change, does it not?

On the surface, yes. This poem appears to be about the author (me) lying on a street looking at the stars, and letting the snow fall on him, whilst he "recalls memories past." The title "February toil" is ironic therefore inasmuch as it doesn't befit the actions of the dude in the poem. What sort of toil is lazing about? Exactly.

If one looks a bit further, however...
There is a secret message hidden in the poem (I do so love hiding messages in poems. It makes for more of a challenge. The quality of the content of the poem is sometimes sacrificed, however) which can be discovered by taking the first letter of the first line, second of the second line, etc. all the way up until the words "Then write our moments up there too." One guess as to what the message reads.

The last 4 lines also contain a hidden message, but follow completely different rules to the above, rules which I shall not divulge now, or ever. The message in this part of the poem is the name of the person to whom this is addressed.

Cat, stop speculating. You don't know her.

The reason why I chose a disrelated topic to the hidden message is because the girl in question resides within a household which values literature, and would request to read anything I gave to her. Obviously, it wouldn't do to hand a mother of about 40 years of age a love poem for her daughter now, would it? No sir. No sir, not at all. Hence, no one would ever guess at the true meaning of the poem, unless they previously knew what it would contain. Clever brain things worked all this out in my very own brain.
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A single day,
A single hour,
A single minute in which to say,
How much you've meant to me each and everyday.

Oh, to gaze upon your pretty grace,
To take the image of your face,
To etch forever in my heart,
And recall from their it's every part.

Oh, to sit with you once more,
Perhaps to gaze across a shore,
And when the day is done,
We'll watch the setting of the sun.

And enveloped in cloaks of dark,
We'll sit and watch the mark,
Which through the sky shines bright,
With an everlastingly pure light.

Before we'd know it the night is done,
And though from us it's forever gone,
It will live forever on,
And be my dearest memory.

But sadly it could never be,
For there's another one for she,
But oh, how much I woulg give,
If only I were he.
-----

A slightly different version of the above poem is posted here.
This poem is, as you've guessed, in keeping with my tradition of writing about impossible relationships. As it happens, it's about the same girl in the first poem, above. No messages, no nothings, such the surface.

I don't think it's possible for me to ever be with this particular girl. I have a knack of liking those I can never be with. Peculiar. It's not as if I go about looking for people to develop a major crush on, then realise the possibility of ever getting together is about as big as George Bush converting to Islam. Which is not very big at all. Meh. Still, it could be worse. We could live 3,000 miles apart...

Oh. No. It couldn't be worse: we already do.