Bill Mitton - poems · 2017-11-18 · A Friendship Trilogy I hear her cry, once again, she is alone. Once again natures clock dictates a mate. I hear him answer, and I know this night,

Poetry Series

Bill Mitton- poems -

Publication Date: 2006

Publisher:Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

Bill Mitton(26-03-45) Electrician, Soldier, Electronics Engineer, Quality Engineer(Part-time playwrite, writer, poet, Scholar, Historian,) Married to Rosyanne, one son, Simon, (flown the nest)I'm too big, the house is too big, Rosyanne is still beautiful, loving, patient, kind,as gentle as an Angel's smile and STILL too good for the likes of me!I love Corned beef Hash, Chilli, any literature from Chaucer to Pratchett, all typesof music. Manchester United, (Football) Sale Sharks (Rugby Union)

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A Chance Meeting He sat and cocked his headso that his eyes seemed almostvertical.Unfortunatelyhe spoke no Englishand I spoke no Blackbird. Bill Mitton


A Fool In All His Glory Ifas they saya fool in loveisa fool in all his glorythenI am heHere amongst the goldsand russetsThe rustling and thealmost holybarenessof the autumn treeswhere greens and goldscompeteto becomethe next voyagerupon the coolingbreezeA fool indeedbut ohthe glory Bill Mitton


A Friendship Trilogy I hear her cry, once again, she is alone.Once again natures clock dictates a mate.I hear him answer, and I know this night,will echo to the sound of their joining.In the turning of the season she will come,tired, and heavy with her burden of new life. She is more grey than red, with one white legI know her and am sure she is aware of me.I feel her trust, wary tho' she is and must be.I will feed her chicken laced with cod liver oilto help her through the growing heaviness. We will spend the winter watching each other.I will watch her feed from the tray I leave,Then, through my field glasses 'til the hedge.I know she watches me as I put the food out.And again at the hedge she turns to look back at me. SHE IS OLD NOW She is old now herbreeding daysare doneIt is hard to Spother white legthe greynessis so advancedher movementis slowershe limps ona hind leg Yet for all thisI knew herAs soon as ISaw her


As I’m sureShe knew meAnd then I gotto wanderingif I had agedas much inher eye GREY INTO BLACK I started my walk with a happy stepthere was mist and rain mixedbut I was warm witha heart full of sunshineWhy should I feel downcastbeside me walked my own tall sonmirroring his mother's smile. Off to one side the rain shimmering shapeof Heaton hill andat her brambled feetthe dark but evergreenof Brody's spinney.as always at this point I thought of hermy once gold and red but now grey friend. I wished a wish to see herjust once more by that hedge turnbut no, fate held only painas we turned my son and Iin anticipation of supper and laughterthrough the evening mistI caught a hint of greyness inamongst the wet grass My heart turned in that momentand had she been acrossJohn Garton's cold poolI would have gone waste deepto see her in that placeBut there she lay amongst wet grassthe numbers of her days written


across cold grey red tinted fur. I sat and cried and my sonunembarrassed, took off his coatand gently wrapped her in itshe was not his friend buthis father's friendthis was for him, enoughand now she lies beneaththe hedgerow corner whereI can still see her turnand watch back over our years Bill Mitton


A Grey Perspective A GREY PERSPECTIVEAsk me not of ethereal thingseven less of Queens or Kingsfrom politics and diplomacyI pray dear friend deliver me What care I of ozone holesof rising seas or dwindling polesOf warming world I worry notof carbon footprint not one jot! Ask me please of creaking jointsthat with oils and unctions I anointthe worry of the hair I loosethe fight to find wide fitting shoes Sympathise about my achesthe decisions my bladder makesStiffness that invests my boneseach move a serenade of moans. What care I of worldly dinwhich politicians loose or winBeijing nor Kremlin bother meof Parliamentarians set me free I’m afraid I just can’t find the timeFor hoodies, druggies, wars on crimeIndeed nor can I any interest showFor where Rainforest or Gorilla go. I must admit that I care an awful lotabout this arthritic foot I’ve got.and likewise I find it most concerningthe lack of interest my pension’s earning Dispensing sage-like wisdom freeIs not a gift you’ll find in meThe aches that plague my aging joints


detract from making salient points The interface twixt life and meis far less tenuous than it used to besixty years of gravity has taken tollHow far away the stone and hole. So join the cause and fight good fightsGreenhouse gases, Human RightsMe, I’m opting for a gentler plodto anoint my aches and wait for God Bill Mitton


A Leap Of Faith A LEAP OF FAITHSometime, you just have to jumpand hope to God the net appears.As everything inside you screamsThat it’s now! The time is here.The dreadful tightness in your chestA racing pulse rate way too highDry mouth, wet palms, a paradoxunsure, do you laugh or cry.To wager here, on just one leapwithout stopping to ask why?All you have, and own, and cherishOn this one, risky, single try.Here on the cusp of win or loseas fate begins her dealThrough every fibre of yourselfYou have never FELT so REAL. Bill Mitton


A Man Of Two Islands I am a man of two green islandsWhich by unhappy force and natureHave become home to five peoplesNot that these people are differentFor we have lived cheek by jowlFor fifteen hundred summersWe have traded, and fought warsAgainst, and alongside each otherWe have loved and marriedWe have moved and mixedThe blood that flows in our veinscontains the elements of allAnd the whole of noneCruelty, treachery, dishonour, deceitWe have used and shared them allBut it remains a factWe of the two islands, have becomeWho we are in this worldNot, as history would have it,In spite of each otherbut because of each other.Throughout the bad timesThe men of Andrew and DavidBled and died, alongsideThe men of George and PatrickNot for any Queen or FlagNot for any Flower or PlantNot for some government edictNor a Royal commandBut for a far simpler truthThe cement which in the endLet’s us live in this sometimesFragile, sometimes unequalEdgy brittle harmonysimplybecause of this love we shareFor our two green Islands


Bill Mitton


A Name On A Wall It was a forgotten warand a wall of afterthoughtsIt was Black with white scarsand every scar a name, a lifeIt was pain it was sorrowand I was drawn to it's namesdrawn to it's single storiesIt took a stunned nation years toacknowledge their sacrificeand perhaps not until thevast black stone wall stooddid a people understand thethe enormity of that sacrificeand the scale of their ownindifference and ignorancefifty eight thousand scarsare marked on that black stonefifty eight thousand livesgiven to the cold groundand as I scanned the namesof men and boys who in mindsand hearts will never changethis stone touched my lifein one more surprising wayas one white scar borefor me a poignant reminderof the smile of fortuneit was the name I haveand will carry all my lifeWilliam Mitton,But this name was followed byCWO US Army1949-1970 Killed in Action.Wednesday, May 6,1970.The Day he was killed in Cambodiais the day I left Thailand,The British army, and harms way.I looked at that black wall knowingHere are fifty eight thousand


prayers imploring, that we find another way. Bill Mitton


A Question And the barbed wire never ceasesAnd the craters never fill.The guns are made and the guns are soldAnd in the end they kill. And the bombers drone unendingAnd the missiles fill the skyAnd the people fear and then they runAnd as refugees, then ask, Why? And the politicians argueAnd the Generals plot and viaAnd the young are set to soldieringAnd in the end they die. And the earth just goes on circlingAnd her borders rise and fallDoes our evolutionary processHold no place for PEACE at all? Bill Mitton


A Song For The Journey A SONG FOR THE JOURNEYSometimes you may sing in your heartor have song running through your headbut there’s always singing’s in your souland it’s on this song’s journey you’ll be led.Towards a distant point, as yet unclearyour singing soul will lead you onto find that place of understandingwith all your preconceptions gone.Yet we sometimes meet more questionsHard, hash decisions we must makeSo the Soul song leads you onwardsalong the pathway you must take.The road can be both rough and smoothits horizon hidden from your viewBut the power within the singinggives you strength to see it through.With every step upon the roadthe soul song keeps its tune and beatand from its verses courage comesto face the challenges you meet.For some the song is understoodthey come to recognise the voiceand in the facets of their livesthey use the song to make their choiceSome feel of the sound of singingbut don’t care, or know, where fromThe song it doesn’t differentiateinto each soul it still sings on.If we can listen to the messageand the true meaning in the songOur footfall becomes much gentlerdown the paths we walk along. It’s the soundtrack of the life we leadof the choices in life we makeThe pragmatic or compassionatea search for beauty, greed, or hateSomewhere wthin the soul songare great sacrifice and pain


and a promise ever presentof eternal peace and life again.In the silence and the stillnessbetween all the bustle and the strifelisten carefully and you’ll recognisethe first and last love song of your life. Bill Mitton


A Wet Squirrel And there he satamid a haloof raindrops.handling an acornlike it wasfine bone china Whilst all aroundtowers collapedGods were beseechedand bombs and food felllike the acornsdiscarded shell Not for himthe worry of poisonby post.There are always wars,but only so manyso many acornsbefore winter. Bill Mitton


A Wonder In Sepia From beneath the dusty layersOf paper old and brownA wonder in fading sepiaA face at last put to a name.I was rooted to the spotShe died long before I was conceivedYet I’d know her all my lifeBridget Flynn, from the Hill of the MoonShe of the lilting voice and dancing feetwho had tamed the heart of Red Liamand punctuated the passing yearswith nine wailing nativitiesclothing them in history and honesty.Then watched her son’s march offto die one by one on far flung shores,see her daughter give herself to GodYet could still rise above that sadnessTo sing the songs of Meaveupon the Hill of the Moon.My chest tightened becauseHere, held in my trembling handI saw for the first timeThe smile of Bridget Brennan nee FlynnMy Grandmother 'Sleep well Matty My old friendI’ll hold our laughter in trust until we meet again.' Bill Mitton


A Word With God God he spaketh unto mehe said “Ow art thee lad? ”Low his voice was comfortinghe sounded like my Dad “Well..well am alreet Lordthank you very muchthen E asked me “wer I prospering”and I answered “Not as such” Then E’ paused as though in pondering“Lad I’ve a job for theeI’m ending th’world next FridayI’ve ad enough you see.” You can tell em that I said soOw you do it ’s up to you“By eck Lord that’s a shockerAm flummoxed what to do.” “Well you’ve got a week to do itTo spread the news about”I asked what help he’d give the righteousThe Lord’s one word reply was “Nowt” “The good are sodding boringThey’ve lost the sense of funI gave the gift of laughterAnd they’ve forgotten how it’s done” “The wicked.. well, they’re wickedThey worship Sin and moneyBut at least amongst those evils sodsThere’s one or two that’s funny! ” “I’ve given them the world” he said“And they’ve buggered up the lot.They think my love’s eternalWell they’ll find out soon, it’s not.”


“And you know what really riles me,which drives me up the wallthey never stop their moaningSo they’ve had it! Sod ‘em all.” Then thunderbolts and lighteningFlashed across the skyAnd suddenly it dawned on meThat I, was going to die. Bloody Hell! Or Heavens abovedepending on his whimit was either lodging with old NickOr in Paradise with him I searched in desperationFor some argument or planOf stopping Armageddon“By gum I think I can! ” “Have you really thought this out lord‘cos remember if you dothe bad end up with Satanbut the GOOD end up with you! ” “By Eck! ” he said (The lighting stopped)“I never thought beforeI’ve got wall to wall do-goodersI don’t want no bloody more” By now th’ thunder had abatedAnd a quiet reigned againGod was having second thoughtsAnd I was shaking with the strain “On second thoughts” the Lord he asked“is it worth the song and dance?Appen I were hastyA think al givem one more chance.” “Well it’s up to you, of course Lord


But if you really want my viewBetter the boring sods are all down hereThan up there annoying you.” “I like you train of thought LadEEH It’s all turned out a treatI’ll see thee right Lad, when tha time comesAl leave thee name onth’ door with Pete! ” Bill Mitton


Acid Reign At least 15 were mad as cootsseveral more were deaffour we know, responsiblefor their older sibling's deathSix we're sure had syphilisand seven more were drunksone it's said, distastefullyhad his mother chopped in chunksa number, Gay, we also knowand there's nothing wrong in thatbut when a kings a raving Queenit doesn't sit 'quite' patmost of them were warmongersand for some, we spell that 'whore'and one was locked up straight awayMAD! 'he tried to help the poor'We had one called 'The Virgin Queen'but did she really fit the bill?as she had the ‘evidence’ all bumped offwe don't know.....and never will.At least George the Third was funnyhe thought he was a treeHe even had them water himhow much more Royal can you be?Quite a lot weren't BritishI mean, Richard One was a FrenchOrange Billy a Dutch importis this making ANY sense?A good few had their relativesLocked up in some towerAnd some poor sod was on the ThroneFor barely half an hourThe Queens we’ve had (except THAT King)Were just as bad, and in cases even worseIf you got too close to Lizzie oneYou’d end up in a hearse.Her dad, you know him, Henry 8,Was very big on weddingsHe went through wives like nobody


‘cos he also liked beheadingsOne was forced to abdicateThe scandal of divorceThere would not have been a bigger rowIf he’d been marrying his horse!The present lot are GermanSax Coberg was their nameBut in World War I, hey presto!The Windsor’s they becameBy ditching consanguinityFrom the royal marriage formAnd marrying their cousinsStrange children they have bornThese grow up as ugly kingsAnd most of them are …well….dimlook at the Crown Prince we have nowwould you be ruled by HIM?Of course we have the dear Queen MumOh hurrah I hear you sayI’m sure I’d live passed a hundred tooIf I’d, never worked, one day.And they’ve upset every bodyCaused strife on every shoreBut it doesn’t matter what they doTHEY never fight the war.Yet the thing which really riles meYes, the thing which really jarsIs for all they KNOW about the likes of meWe might as well be from Mars. My apologies to any Monachists out there, don't worry I'm sure the House ofWindsor (?) will be around for a long time yet. You'll get the last laugh. I'm quitesure I'm going to die out before the Monarchy does. Bill Mitton


Agnus Dei AGNUS DEIqui tolis peccata mundi.You made us in your own imageyet we hurt and kill each other.You came and offered us loveYet we gave you pain and deathmiserere nobis. AGNUS DEIqui tolis peccata mundi.You gave us the miracle of lifeYet we kill it casually in the wombYou gave us children in trustYet we exploit them everywheremiserere nobis. AGNUS DEIqui tolis peccata mundi.You gave us the earth to holdyet we broke it before your eyesYou gave us the gift of heavenAnd we threw it back in your face.Take our troubled hearts Lorddona nobis pacem.Agnus dei…….dona nobis pacem Bill Mitton


Albert Potter Is Not Dead! Albert Potter isn't deadIt were just a bloody lieIn fact, apart from athlete's foothe's as fit as you or Ibut someone’s got it in for himthey told the papers he were gonethat he’d popped his clogsturned up his toesthat his soul had “travelled on”EE! This fairly vexed old AlbertBy Gum he did get madIt’s not as If I’m old he saidWell …..I’m younger than my dadBut people keep on telling him“Aye up Lad, thou art dead,it’s in yon paper in big printyou died peacefully in bed.”They keep bringing wreaths and sentimentsAnd knocking on the doorBut then of course he answers itAnd confusion reigns once more.If it’s a joke, It ain’t that funnyIn fact it’s pretty sickOh Albert plays the whole thing downBut it’s getting on his wickSo he phoned the local paperAnd said can you print that I’m not deadAnd whilst I like the flowers and sympathyCould folk bring me beer instead. Bill Mitton


Allegiance. This is my landit the land of my birthbut it is only my land.Not my father's nor mother's.It is the land of theirhistory’s persecutors. Yet, it is the land I loveThe land I long forwhen I’m away from it.I am part of its fabricIt‘s part in my heritageis cruel and painful.but it is the land I claimthis I cannot norwould not change.Though I will alwaysbless the Black RoseI Rose I love is Red My life is clothedin this island and peoplethey belong to me and I to them.Never would I denymy roots or history.Yet across my heartis written, one wordEngland.She is both myparadox, and my love Bill Mitton


An Audience Granted I saw him briefly once,like a three dimensionalshadow on the lake.And I was breathless inthe presence of such majesty.The sheen of his plumage,changing, as the sun dancedon the rippling water.He turned towards thebank where I lay.Across the small distance,We met eye to eye,suddenly as if to offerme a benediction heraised himself in thewater and spread his wings.Then he turned and was gone,yet in the contact of our eyesI felt his pity, in that I wasjust a mortal man.Whilst He, was a Black Swan. Bill Mitton


And So The Women Wept In the noise and dust of that dark dayWhen pain and anger mingled.Where Love was driven on with whips and jeersshouldering the oppressive burden of a sinful world.A world blood hazed and scorched with hatredwith the dust of its decaying filling the eyes and mouth.Hope held hostage and life bleached of any meaningThe women wept, for they saw love bleeding. Ringed by indifference, goaded by ignoranceLove staggered, faltered, slipped and fell,And goodness bore the kicks, blows and bitesof poverty, famine, hunger and despair.Pity fled, compassion turned its face awaychaffed shoulders bled, thorns pierced as spikes.The burden grew heavier with every faltered stepOnce more the women wept, for they knew love’s agony. The sound of hammer on nail, a death knell ringingand Love was iron spiked to the wood of sacrifice.Upon a hill named for skulls, they raised love upto be ridiculed below a label of false titles.In that moment love took the evil of this worldand gathering it all into an anguished heart.To place it imploring at the feet of eternal lightand the tears of the women became a prayer Side pierced on that hill who*s name was skullsLove died, and the world knew darkness complete.she who had born love in her womb, felt the swordand she who had once denied love, now knew her lie.So they wept, together, for the lose of that light,and love was entombed in haste amongst dark rockThus a world hung in the canyon between darkness and light.Huddled, cold and frightened the women wept in fear. From the radiant glory, of a third dawn,fulfilling the prophecy and promise of his wordin glory, Love arose, Hope was given wings and flew


to illuminate all the corners of a dark world.The light of eternity smiled upon Love’s ransomand in his gift this world would be redeemed.Death is banished for all who’s lives hold lovethis the women saw and they wept with joy. Yet still, down the ages the women’s tears have fallenat births, and deaths, in sacrifice for life’s grief and joy.Yet in these tears, Love’s message is ever present.They wept for the lives they’ve born into an evil world,from crib to cross, in gentleness and compassion,they watch each painful step up to the hill of skullsanguishing at the ignorance in every hammered nailthe women wept and will ever weep, for they weep Love’s tears. Bill Mitton


And Then You Know In an instant I saw it clearly.This smiling girlwasno longer a casual date,but the person whofilledall the corners of my life.In her eyes I saw thefuture.In the passing of aheartbeatmy life was madeanew.In one breathTime stood stillandwebecame a lifetime. Bill Mitton


Bamboo Ducks Today I bought a Bamboo DuckWell three, to be preciseI bought them at a roadside stallThey were just, well….kinda nice The stall was full of carvingssorta folkys rural thingsmushrooms carved in sycamoreMoths on Beech wood, wings Yet the Ducks they really drew meThey seemed to be aliveThe colour and the markingsTheir posture strong and lithe They’re made from bamboo rootsHe said, the guy who ran the stallwhen they uproot a bamboo plantThese people use it all They take the root and clean themread the story in the shapethe size and contours telling ofthe mood the duck will take The ducks come from IndonesiaFrom a village workshop thereto a village green in Englandwhere another carver sells his wears And the beauty of this storywhen all is said and doneIs that no one gets exploitedno environmental damage done Because bamboo grows rapidly


the resource can be sustainedand because Fair Trade is organisedan Indonesian village is maintained The guy who ran the roadside stallplayed a part in this as wellHe only used recycled woodIn the things he carved to sell So now I’ve heard the story ofhow they came to beThe ducks I fell in love withMean that much more to me Bill Mitton


Bowled Over It only happens once a yearAnd that once is tough enoughThe Ladies v the GentlemenBy eck it does get rough! Our Club is not a male preserveIt’s mixed, except for teamsAnd for two weeks before the matchIt’s full of plots and schemes. Oh we set the rules impartiallyThe committee’s fifty, fifty.STILL the atmosphere gets tenseAnd the teams, get downright shifty. Ethel Rudge the ladies Cap’created last year’s stinkby accusing Arthur Openshaweof doping pre-match drinks Then Arthur. being ArthurBit back, as he knows howBy calling her ‘a lying witch’And that caused another row! But it isn’t just the womenThe men can be as badThey’ve sabotaged the ladies LooNow, I find that, very sad. They’re usually SO supportiveThe women and the menBut every year before this matchThe knives come out again We’ve threaten and we’ve warned themThat it makes the Club look badYet every year it’s open warThe committee’s going mad!


This year we tried a different tackThe Carrot, not the stickThe Burnage Cup for “Sportsmanship”It just might do the trick So there we are before the matchAll is quiet and sereneBut the referee is nervousAs he views each smiling team It started off so calmlySo sportsman like, and warmNot once did we suspect it wasThe calm before the storm The jack went out to start the endThe ladies went off firstThen Ingrid Morgan dropped a WoodAnd Harry Bennet cursed “My bloody toe, you dozy sod! ”he bent and grabbed his footIngrid swung to “slap his face”but she got poor Brian Tutt. Now the Referee, was good hereHe calmed it down a treatas Harry and Ingrid made it upWe got Brian to his feet. The end was played with no more fussBoth sides were seeing senseThen the ladies took a three chalks leadAnd things started getting tense As Avril Jones sent down the JackTo start the second endFred Thompson yelled and wavedHe said, “he’d seen a friend” Gamesmanship! The cry went up


‘Team Ladies’ were irateOK, the ref he cautioned Fredit was too little and too late Then Brian Tutt threw down his mathis stance we know, pure classone minute he was drawing backthe next, face down in the grass! “Oh is that wood there a blocker? ”asked Ingrid in poor tasteas Brian raised his face to seehis wood about, six inches from his face. The referee he took Bri’s matAnd turned it upside downIt’s Vaseline! He cried in rageAnd he threw it on the ground The Atmosphere was ‘cutable’and almost ‘daggers drawn’“BY Gum” said Jim to Eric Stott“This Ref will earn his corn” April Pike, the ladies sub,Laid Arthur on his backHer reason for the knockout blow?he ‘nudged away’ the bloody jack So it went the whole game throughIt was cheat and cheat aboutAnd Jim remarked to Eric that“It would take some sorting out” It’s ended up nineteen chalks eachWith one end ‘just’ left to playAnd it looks like who cheats the bestIs almost sure to win the day I just can’t watch this final endIt will descend to open warBut fickle fate gives two chalks each


By God! We’ve got a DRAW! That’s your lot we tell themThis fixture is no moreBut to our surprise amazinglyThey ALL begin to roar It seems they like ‘tradition’And want to keep this gameFor without this “Bit of Rivalry”The Club wouldn’t be the same! ! ! ! ! Bill Mitton


Captive Of A Grecian Moon The gentle beat of waves on sandHelios sinks below a darkening sea.yielding his sky to the glory of Selene’s smile,the whiteness of the sand becomes a silver grey,figs trees now darkened rows against the land.I am seduce once more, my senses no longer freethe willing captive of a Grecian moon. The waves of this ancient centre sea caress my feetwhite crests bejewelled by the tide’s phosphorescence.Each sound holding harmony with the nextall that is peace is captured in this amber of time,and be there Gods or be there none, in this instantmy heart knows the same majesty they would hold.Whilst high above my captor smiles on all knowingly Slowly dies the hum of the Cicada’s busy songdriven to stoic silence by the cooling evening breezeon the air the mingled scent of Black Pine and Mimosafrom a sea in gentle mood a gifted hint of salt upon the lipsoon all that is not of this place is for an instant vapourbound am I in silver chains, the bounty of a Grecian moon To: DavidI hope I did justice to your Moon, I left her exactly where she was, in all hersplendour, awaiting her next captive. Bill Mitton


Dancing Lightly On The Wind (In Memory Of GeorgeBest) Dancing lightly on the breezeAs any autumnal leaf wouldJust ahead of that finalchasing icy winter wind.How we’ve watched youOver the wasting yearsIn the sure and dark knowledgeOf our own untold guiltThis mass implicitlyIn your change from summer’svibrant, and virile greento the brittle dying russetyou’ve become.We witnessed you halcyon day’sroaring you on as you dancedlithe and supple, acrossthose green gladiatorial meadowslittle knowing or caringthat with every roar and cheerwe were bringingwinter’s icy and killing blastmore surely and swifterhidden within fame’s golden shroudand now I stand watchingthis sad and grieving panoplyunable to grieve, held back fromwhat should a natural thingupon the lose of greatnessI cannot grieve GeorgeMy shame won’t let me. Bill Mitton


Days Like These On days like these there is no other songjust the soft duet of gull and seano perfume sweeter than the scentof salt upon the warm gentle breeze On days like these Neptune’s breastsings a gentle song of peace, andthe sun smiles fondly upon his slumberclouds float by on a canopy of Azure On day’s like these there is no landThe world holds only that which we seeNo Gods save the sun, moon and seaAnd the benediction of the wind On days like these all worries are becalmedall ills hidden across the circling horizonall angers and hatred held at bayby the blue salt vastness beneath our bows Yet my head tells me of the falsenessworking upon my heart and eyesThat with the night, dark clouds will gatherbringing the reality of the horizon’s storms but oh with all my heart I dearly wishthat I could share with all who breaththe wonderful falseness that holds meas I live through days like these Bill Mitton


Defying Gravity (Amongst Other Things) It’s quite a simple thing to dojust between gravityAnd you.Natural laws are binding?Then, answer this.Say’s who? It’s just a bit like singing,Catching that singleperfect tone.take the law and ditch itand draft one ofyour own. No wings of wax like Icarusnor fear of mortal jeeror gloatRelease the ties of mind and manWho says that youWon’t float? Bill Mitton


From The Study Window Across the white mantled lawnThe dotted smudge marksof a feline homecoming.And through the naked branchesThe twinkling signals ofa universe*s past and future. From the Heaton hill come shadowsAs in homeward pilgrimageUpon sled and childhood*s laughtergirl and boy and man descending.Reminding me of my bygone partIn this self same happy pageant. Another year is come and goneAnd most is just a memoryloss and pain are yet for healingBut there upon the bird tableUnaware of all my thoughtsA Blue Jay takes his evening feeding How fragile the dividing wall betweenmankind and man, savage, cruel, greedyThen the Blue Jay*s call distracts me.Its snowing, the lawn is white once moreAnd for a while the world is pureUntil I start again, to thinking Bill Mitton


Geese In The Dawn GEESE IN THE DAWNSometimes when your heart holdsall the worries and troubles of life.when you cannot find a smileand your soul know shades of grey.You See Geese In The DawnThere in Skeen and dark definitionagainst the orange morning skysinging their noisy joyful song.And the picture become a prayerBecause of Geese in The DawnAs the morning sun dresses the dayflying silhouettes change colourand a soul becomes a lighter hueperspective paints a different dayA Gift Of Geese In The DawnAs the distant hills accept their crythey become hidden by the tree linetaking with them all sombernessleaving behind another bright day.And in a grateful hearta Prayer of ThanksTo him who sentGeese in The Dawn. Bill Mitton


God's Dog God's dog he barketh neverHis tail is ever stillFor heaven hath no cats to tauntNor rabbits yet to kill He scratcheth notAnd howleth lessHis life a bitter pillFor omnipotents they throw no sticksAnd low they never will. To throw a ball in heavenIs simply never doneAnd cars to chase in paradiseAre numbered less than one. So paradox on paradoxThe circumstances tellOf a hound who dwells in heavenBut lives his life in HELL! Bill Mitton


'Gold! ' Gold! 'he yelled'in them thar hills'he danced to pass the time'it's laying all around'he said 'and I'm gonnagit me mine.But first I gotsta tostake my claim.'and he turned towards the town.thinking of the life he'd leadand the dynasty he'd foundBut he shudna, didna yelledso loud,shoulda kept thenews hush, hush,‘cos henever gotsta stake his claimhe was trampled in the rush.....yuk......yuk.....yuk Bill Mitton


Herbert Whilst cleaning out a stableA was about to light me lightWhen a voice behind my shoulderSaid “It’s rather cold tonight” “How do you do”, he said “I’m, Herbert”then he give his foot a stamp“I expect this has quite shaken you”He was right! …A nearly dropped me lamp. For a start he’d no right talkingA mean he were a Bloody Horse!And secondly he had real a posh voiceE’ made me sound proper coarse. “Well” a said “am gobsmacked”am am not sure what to doa talking horse named HerbertA you sure that, that was you? “Of course not, don’t be sillyBut I’ll tell you what you missedYou see that pig behind youThen he whispered “Ventriloquist” Well a give the Pig a reet good stareBut he never blinked an eye.“Herbert art thou takin piss”and the horse he said “I try” So it is you that’s bloody talkingBut isn’t that’s against the rules?the Horse just looked straight at meand you could see him thinking “fool! ” Now that’s a matter of opinionAs to who’s allowed to talkI mean you humans just have two legsBut you still allowed to walk.


OK OK I said, a take your pointI suppose it’s really up to youBut for all them years not one horse spokeNow suddenly “how do you bloody do” A’ said hang on just a minute HerbertHow come you picked today?Oh it was by way of an experimentJust to see what you would say. On reflection though a little rashPerhaps not the thing to doMankind is just not ready yetIf I am to judge by you Well you’ve blown you cover big styleOf that there’s little doubtA talking horse called Herbertjust wait ‘til this gets out So you met a talking horse did you?Now who’ll believe the truthI mean once this conversations overThink carefully, where’s you proof The Horse he looked around himThe he eyed the pig as well.“He’s your only real eye witnessAnd who’s the Pig about to tell” Bill Mitton


Hope HOPESometimeshope is all we haveand yet it is enoughFor it is the fuel.of every heart.That light which showsthe way acrosseach weary andfrightened soul.It is the sign uponthe path whichbrings each of usto an understanding, and from this,the gentle acceptanceof our fears. Bill Mitton


I Don'T Like Candied Peel! I don’t like Candied Peel,And never will I fear.So I am lost to cakes and piesbaked at this time of Year. Most Christmas cakes contain itAlong with love and careBut I can’t eat these offeringsI ask you, is that fair? The Brown sugar and the brandySultanas and their ilkI love them as the next man wouldAlong with the flour and milk The icing and the marzipanThe bowl after the mixAre things that I enjoyed as wellIf just the peel, they’d fix! Mince pies are simply no goThe cake I dare not touchI’m missing part of ChristmasIs it asking very much To instigate a PEEL FREE zoneAt least within the cakeThe pie of course is hard to doPeels essential to the bake. Dedicated to Mike Morris 'Christmas Cake Baker Supreme.' Bill Mitton


Jimmy Hogarth's Motorbike Jimmy Hogarth had a motorbikeboth it, and Jim, were wrecksAnd the consensus of opinion wasIt would break his bloody neck. But Jimmy didn’t heed themHe’d heard it all beforeit’s not surprising that he hadthe bloke was eighty four! How he kept the damn thing goingIt was something of an artPeople said he used black magicJust to get the bike to start The lads down at the bowling clubTried to get old Jim to stopBut it just seemed to upset himSo they let the subject drop Mind you, once it was movingBy gum, the thing could shift a bitOld Jim he liked a turn of speedAnd he’d often go for it But people said he was too oldFor the excitement and the speedThat if he didn’t start to act his ageGod knows where it would lead His daughter tried, then Age ConcernTo make old Jim slow downBut he told them all to “bugger off!I'll be a long time in the ground.” The local bikers loved the guyif you mentioned him they’d smile“Yeah we know the guy’s a wrinkly,but the old fart’s got some style! ”


He shuffled when he walked did Jimhe’d say “not long now ‘til I’m dead”but sat astride that motorbikeby God his years were shed But in the end the do-goods wonThey took Jims bike away.So just to spite the kill joy sodsOld Jim died the following day. Bill Mitton


Life Collectively Life is cheap.that which makes life preciousis the individuality of each onefor we walk this earth uniquethroughout all eternitieseach life never to be repeatedevery one a notch upon time's tallyand in that wayeach death it's own small Hiroshima Bill Mitton


Mobile Egyptian Deities Two Mobile Egyptian Deitiesboth black and both annoyedthe object of their earthly Wratha pingpong ball caughtbeneath a non-celestial fridge.Surely Worlds willshake for this orSomeones Nile run redbut nofor they aredeities with style and classthe Sacrificial wall paperat the stair head willstand shredded in mutetestiment to theirtempered wraths. For Kane and Mabel,Black Feline Deities, pretending mortality and fooling no one. Bill Mitton


Mythology! MYTHOLOGY!What do you mean!Zeusspatthunderbolts and lighteningand the Gods they walkedabout on eggs shellsto the sound ofseveral sphincters...tighteningTHIS is no MYTH!another lightening boltOne scorched Ionic Columnthe Kracken quakedThe Muses fledto leave behind aHera calm but solemnSeveral sheep were roasteda Ricochet the causeHades had his Toga singedPoseidon lost his drawsPan left for somewhere GeorgicPesephone for the coastand Ariel and Mercurya second delivery postBut Zues would not be quietenedHis words echoed from the roofTHIS IS NOT MYTHOLOGYTHIS IS THEBLOODY TRUTH! Bill Mitton


Poetry In Motion To be a poet Laureate be good at what you doif what you do is kissing arse, well, that’s a talent too.You have to know the ones to kiss, the mighty or the grandinclude in this dead royal butt, if that’s all there is on hand be fulsome as a sycophant, the verse is ‘by the way’you needn’t try to rhyme or scan, but be careful what you saydon’t rock the boat, or startle, preserve the Status Quo’make sure the ones you versify are always ‘in the know’ Do not court controversy, keep your poems blandThat’s how to win the laurels of high poet of our landNever heed the call of poets who hold a different viewLet them kick the arses, and leave the kissing up to you Who ever said that poets, must challenge where they canOr point out the inequities or errors in life’s planIt’s not our job to criticise, to chastise or beratepoet laureates ought to eulogise, or versify the great Yet in the realm of lesser folk there’s somehow held the viewThat poetry should help to change the jaundiced to the trueThey seem to think the Laureateship has lost a lot of lateAnd if there’s poetry in Motion, is still open to debate Bill Mitton


Questionable Horizons. How should it be I speakand yet say nothingWhen sun, and sky and seacan say so much.Why should it be my voicebooms in shallownessWhen mind and heart togethersing so readily in tune.Where are my darling buds of May,my sparkling ice of winterI know the path, I see the door,but the key eludes me. What worth my eyes, when I see nothingsave the sparkle of false baubles.when all around precious stonesare trodden underfoot.Why does my footfall echointo the emptiness?And not the measuredtread of reason.Where are my summer birdsongsWinter’s song of twisting iceI know the path, I see the doorBut the verse eludes me. Who am I to speak and sing of love,to plead for peace in all thingsyet to be at war within myselfentrenched inside my soul.Where is the ache of hatredwhen love holds a greater painHow can I share my journeyI do not know it’s end.Where are my snowclad mountainsMy warming summer rainI know the path, I see the doorBut all answers elude me.


Bill Mitton


Reportage 'It wasn't me, ' the man he saidthough he held the smoking gun.'and he's not dead, ' the cop replied'he's stopped breathing just for fun.''Who's the victim? ' asked the pressas they looked in through the door'if I had to guess, ' the cop said back'him, bleeding, but not breathing,lying face down, on the floor.” Bill Mitton


Roses In A Lions Den Across the fields whereonce a bugle playedThe returning echoof the children’s laughter.Ground that shook tohistory’s martial bootSings now to the small joyousfeet that tread the future.Blessed time has thinnedThe rows of marching menInto a rainbow crocodileof curiosity and wonder.Now where rifle andbayonet once held swayA sand pit and plastic slideGive the calling and the purposeNor am I sad at what I seeFor things are, here at least, in order.Children at play and learningAnd wars and soldiering, heldSafe, within old men’s memories. Bill Mitton


Sonar What did I think was I doing here?This was no old man*s cruise.These waves belonged to theFresh faced, twenty something, sailors.Their deference simply made it worse Even here in this dark Sonar roomfaces tinged green from the screen*s glowMy heart holds only lonelinessmy mind ever on her who’s smile haunts meand even their young laughter jars The vow *never again* becomes a mantra.And I dig inside myself for one,Just one, small spark of joyBut my mind and heart areLike the seas we sail, troubled and grey *We have a contact* brings me from the greynessand on my screen the dots appear and growstrange, unusual contacts, *Go to aural* headphones buzz.Suddenly my heart lifts, my eyes swim and my soul soars,as my head is filled with waves of whale song. Bill Mitton


Songs Of Loneliness………….. And Resentment And here I sit, in thissmall island of light,bequeathed bythe laptop's glow.I am fingertipsaway from the world,but lonely still. Outside the windowof this hired space,a river runs the gauntletof the street lights,mirrored in it's flow,and I am lonely still. Doors bang, a car starts,someone in thehallway laughs.The noises whichlitter life,surround me.Yet I am lonely still. There is no gentlebreathing.No warmth againstmy back.No kiss upon myshoulder scar.And I am lonely still.


and resentment……………. FULL FLOW Hello river,I'm here once more,and isn't it nature'sparadox.That thisincessant rain,which deflates me,should swell you so. Yet stranger still,that the sight ofyour swollen wrath.Should bring thesoothing to,my angry soul. But though weboth may angerwe are each inour own wayconstrained,You by the concreteof the Weir.Me by a senseof responsibility. Bill Mitton


Stranded Shoe One shoe half buried in the sand,stranded above the tidal beach.Suspended in some parched limbo,it's striding days long overand it's sailing daysjust inches..........out of reach. Bill Mitton


The Scent Of God Behind the eyebefore the mindwhere 'feel' and 'see'are one.A place ofleast resistanceall pre-conceptionsgone. A void between whatwas and iswhere must and couldboth vietwixt wake and sleep,a limbo.where truth’s barriersall die. It’s here within life’smolten corewhere who we areholds groundand we see ourselvesfrom inside outthat the scent of Godis found. Bill Mitton


The 39 Years There is no weight upon these yearsOnly gentle love, patience and understandingAnd within a heart and mind such thanksgivingThere is no time upon these yearsFor they have passed as in one heartbeatAll laughter, tears, sadness and joysheld within one seconds runNor If I could would I change a thingSave this oneI would try to love more than I didyou have deserved far greater than I gavefor as within the dance of sun and moonmine was but a reflection of your love.You are my warmth, my light, my lifeAnd in all things the reason whyI can look back and sayThere is no weight upon these years. For Rosyanne,My Wife, My friend,My companion on life’s journeyMy one true Love. Bill Mitton


The Black Mountain (Brecon, An Old Adversary) I stood in tight chested forbodeingat the hem of your heathered dresslong years on from whenyou did your best to kill me.I brought a garland of bright memoriesof the years between then and now to show youSee here my son is born, there his graduationthe continuing song of the life you held to ransomfor three long cold and painful days.In spite of your dark wrath, I am, still.Now in sunlight once again your beauty beliesthe icy wet stilettos neath your dressthe dark shroud with which in secondsyou ensnare those who you select.Standing in tight breathlessness upon your crownThe backpack of years weighing heavyI see the rocks where once I lay brokenfrom one sunrise to another dawnfor an instant again, death's icy hand upon my heartthen in rain and fading light I descend your flankthe memory of a nightly kiss upon a deep shoulder scargiven I know, in thanksgiving for my life.I see your own brown scar, a road cut deep into your sideYou are nolonger the mountains you were back thenand I am nolonger the man I was.I suddenly feel that thought I lived inspite of youI am who I am because of you,perhaps we are even Now, mountain. Bill Mitton


The Blessed Virgin Of The Late Night Store Her Children sleep, Guarded bya fourteen year old disciplewhilst she works the dead hoursdispensing, pale smiles, pepsi andtobacco, to the weak beards andyoung breasts of a student populationSaving lives and slaking thirstsBlessed virgin of the late night store There in her neon glass grottothe conduit between the last jointand something sticky, sweet, quick.Worshipped, protected, 'til semi dawndreaming of her lost childhoodand picking away childhood's shellsfrom those who worship atthe blessed vigin's late night store Until at last their drunken youthbecomes an empty echo in the aislesher dreams grow cold within the dawnher limbs grow numb from worshipand the call of her children's lovedrive the blessed virgin home toher earthly life, and a few hours fitful sleep Bill Mitton


The Box From The Attic A Father's Medals World War OneThe wrist band from a stillborn sonThe first picture of the two (now three) An Old Irish Fiddle, Left to meMy Rugby Jersey old and BlueMy Son’s first Rugby Jersey tooA silver frame, the self same smileMy wife’s Pennant (She ran the mile) War department Telegram (a death) My wife’s Mothers Christening dressmy first handcraft (a mat of reeds) My Father’s Mothers Rosary beadsA picture of our son at playa memento of my graduation dayMy wife’s Pearl backed wedding bookBig Peter's number (what a crook) The box is almost empty nowForgotten memories, but how?The pride, the Lose, the answered CallThe pain, the joy, I knew them all. Bill Mitton


The Chosen You who were the 'Chosen',you who suffered long.You who wore the yellow star,The victims of great wrongs.You who lost six million dead,slaughtered for a creed.You who for centuries have beenthe whipping boys of greed.You who watch the old ones come,to scan the lists with dread,with tattooed arms and memories,to say kaddish for their dead.Has the pain and grief,your race endured,stopped your ears and eyes.Does the horror of the Holocaust,Silence Palestinian cries.Are the camps across the Jordan,with their dying diseased and pained,less real than those your fathers knewand by which humanity was shamed.Though you've never had the peace you crave,and your children still are lost,Can you really want to add the blood,of other innocents to the cost.The things we see your soldiers doand hear your politicians state,can they really be the deeds and words,of refugees from hate?Can oppression be the practice,of those who bear its scars.The use of fear and naked force,when your history it mars.How far apart Salaam - Shalom,'Peace’, in both your tongues.This land has held you in its palmin truth you both belong;Arab, Jew semitic both,your histories entwined.


Can you not find a middle groundwith differences that fine. To Arab, Jew, and Christianthis land has long held sway.In Gods name, yours, theirs, and mine,can peace never find it's way Bill Mitton


The Death Of A Carpenter I find no guilt within this manThe Roman Prefect saidWhilst all around yelled Crucify!We want to see him dead As Pilate felt their Angerhe wondered at the fatesnot five days on “Hosannas”were replaced by screams of hate. This Nazarene would surely dieIf this went a further stage“Scourge him well Centurionand that might stem the rage”. Using cruel iron clawed lashesTo strip his flesh from bone.Soldiers jeered and mocked himBut he neither cried nor moaned Once again they brought himBefore the Governor’s thronein crown of thorns and Purple robeto the baying crowd he’s shown If they see I’ve scourged him badlysurely then their rage will wilt“Be satisfied and let him go freefor I still can find no guilt.” Unrest was not an optionwas the message sent from RomeShould this turn out uglyIt would not go well at home. “Bring me out the BrigandI think I have a planWe’ll offer them an amnestyBarrabas or this Man”


The Sanhedrin and Phariseeshad work upon the crowdSo when Pilate made his offerBARRABAS! Came back loud Amid all this the Carpenterstood impassive to his fatepain and death pre-ordainedlikewise the rage and hate. Then Pilate called for waterTo wash away his partIn the fate of this young Carpenterfor fear gripped the Prefect’s heart “Take him then and kill himI wash my hands in shame.This is all internal politicsfor which Rome is not to blame.” The Carpenter looked to this SkyAnd his lips they moved in prayer“Father they do not understandThis pain for them I bear.” So they drove him to a hilltopWith whips, insults, and jeersthe carpenter he fell three timeshate ringing in his ears They stripped him of his garmentsAnd they nailed him to a crossraised him up between two thievesbelow a label writ to scoff. In the midst of hate and angerThis young Carpenter he diedBut his death was the beginningFor all like you and I For now we know, unlike that crowd


That nailed upon that treeWas Christ the Saviour, God’s own sonWho died to set men free For in Glory he has risenTo the Trinity on HighFather Son and SpiritSo all who love will never die So now I celebrate this Easter dayAs I believe men shouldIn praise of this young carpenterWho shaped Souls instead of Wood. Bill Mitton


The Eternal Circle These terraces and pillars are pitted withthe dying screams of generationsand where I sit base instinctsgrew with every final pained breath. Here within Rome’s stone centreon display the glory of her nameand yet the grim reminder of the history of her lowest ebb These stones that echo to our stepsonce rang to blood hazed roarswhilst in counterpoint there raiseda song of praise and supplication. Here within this pained theatreThe stuttered beating of a dying heartand all the Gods of Romedid became, recognisable as clay Within this ring of ancient stonesupon the plain of blood soak sandhere in the torment and the paina stone ring became a crown of thorns here against this backdropp ofa civilisation’s death throescame forth in fiery baptism the lightwhich brought eternal truth. Held in trust within this open spaceThe answered prayersOf those who turnedA Crown from Thorns to Gold. Bill Mitton


The God Of Albert Road Much like any other Godmost peoplenever saw him coming. Yet when he spokeit boomedno ignoring him.He was Paddy the God of Albert road,resident deityof the A6. His loud prophecies almost Biblical.In that they, passeth allunderstanding.Possiblydue tothe cloud cover between his idea of heavenand ours. A down to earth God who rodea small bicyclefestoonedin tinsel and day gloworange tape.Not quiteyourtraditional fiery chariotbuton Stockport roadit seemedfitting. No need of a Gabriel.this Godbulbhorn, hand, and


handlebarswere for him,even in the rush houralways.In communion.A self reliant saviourofferingblessings whilstdodgingheavy traffic. Somewhat untypically. He was notA vengeful God.His unholy bark being infinitely worsethan hisunpractised bite.Though,in truthand passing,his languagecould, sometimesbe choice. On high and holy dayswhen he choseTo rideamongst us.He donned hiscelestial shades.offerings ofsome old earthlylucky bag.They were hisShieldsagainst the fallen. Yet it is writtenGods, like stolen cars, are often left,burned out and


abandoned.I still rememberthe dayshe rode out tooffer benedictionto bus driversand remindnoise dazed shoppersthatPaddythe God of Albert road.Liveth! Bill Mitton


The God Of Hedgehogs I am the God of HedgehogsIt’s a living, though quite smallYet still within my mood swingsHedgehogdoms rise or fall The spikey skin was my ideaa nose man did the snoutits colour scheme, traditionalas were the ‘in’ and ‘out’ Mobility I did myselflikewise the feet or pawsThe tail, a small sad victimof the overspend on jaws I think we got the balance wrongbetween temerity and pluckso the roll-into-a-ball responsewas quite a stroke of luck The size and weight? A safety netI mean, how happy would you beat a Hedgehog the was eight feet sixmade by a larger God than me. The brain we used an old oneI got it cheap some Garage Sale?one previous owner, hardly usedfrom some guy called Dan Quayle The eyesight was a buggerI just couldn’t get it rightSo I boosted up the sense of smellAnd said don’t go out at night But all-in-all it ain’t that badIt came out better than the Batand let’s not talk about the Platypus


The Guys STILL rib me over that Bill Mitton


The Good Thief (From The Easter Suite) The Good ThiefWhence came the grace he got that daywhilst he to hung there in agonywho wrung the goodness from his soulwhilst death did slowly take its toll.'Our deeds have earned the death we die.yet this man dies and none know why,Lord as this day you reach your homeremember you did not die alone.” Yet should we wonder at this thingof the Thief who died beside our kingfor even though with sin forlornin God’s image this thief was bornand so they died there on CalvaryThat thief, and, He who set us free.for the simple faith of his last wordsin his final breath the thief he heardOur dying Lord and Saviour say“you'll be in paradise with me this day.” Bill Mitton


The Gorilla And David Attenbrough This one is male and getting onthere’s silver in his hairI don’t believe he’ll do me harmStill I’d better take some care.If I keep the eye contact minimaland pretend he’s not been seenthat should keep the bugger docileand stop him turning mean He’s not the best of specimensThe years have not been kindand I have to say in fairnessHe’s left most of his behindthen again there’s none of themyou could say were all that cuteand this one’s no exceptionin fact he’s quite an ugly brute He’s spends the whole day sittinghalf hiding in those treesand seems to show an intelligenceOr is it eagerness to please?Those funny noises that he makessound like talking when he’s stirredbut with those rudimentary vocal cordsof course, he couldn’t form the words He has rudimentary social skillsbut they’re primitive and fewwith thumbs attached the wrong way roundthere’s not much he can do.I suppose it’s evolution’s faultWe adapted and moved onLeaving his kind a good way backProbably wondering where we’d gone. But this one really seems to want to learnWith his pleading big round eye’sHe sees the things we’re doing


and then pathetically he tries.There’s a chance that he’s the brightestbut he looks to old to breedand an improvement in their gene poolis really what they need and as we move away at nightto build our sleeping nestsI often wonder where they goTo take their nightly rest.There’s a view amongst our eldersThat we were once like themBut I don’t believe a word of itI mean, Gorillas descend from MEN? Bill Mitton


The Jouney Of The Magi I have long know of their journeylearned at my mothers knee.How the Magi travelled long and hardTo the land of GalileeI never questioned why they wenton this journey so profound.for I knew too of the Christ Childwho beneath a star they found.Gold and Myrrh and FrankincenseThese names through ages ring.The gifts they brought the infantas their homage to a king.The prophecy of Seth had toldof a star so wondrous brightto lead them to the Prince of Peaceacross the Eastern night.Balthasar, Gasper and MalchiorThe three Wise men of oldwho did not betray the son of GodSo the story is still told.Balthasar came from the EastGasper from the WestAnd Melchior came from the southAll at the Star’s behest.Some say it’s just a legendI believe that it took place,but that really doesn’t matterThe story holds this grace.That everyone has such a starand they follow where it leadsto find there own small stableaway from cruelty and greedor in a quest to find some answersin hard journeys for some proofby sacrificing everythingenduring all to gain the truthand the journeys always differentfor some it’s Pole to Polefor others it’s much longer


‘til they reach their own life goal.It’s a journey that we all must maketo find that place of peaceor throw off our pain and sorrowand know the joy of that release.Or in the footsteps of the MagiTo find, just as they told,the stable and the Christ Childand the flame which lights the soul. Bill Mitton


The Man Of Kerioth (From The Easter Suite) THE MAN OF KERIOTH(Judas Iscariot)Was he just a Hebrew Zealotwho’s choice went badly wrongor was he really Mr Ten Percentout to con his way along.He who down all the ageswe learned to vilify and curseIscariot! who sold the ChristFor a thirty pieces purse.Yet he was an ApostleTheir funds were his to holda man who’d walked with Jesuscould his motive just be Gold?Had he never loved the MasterWas he just there for the rideOr was he thinking JesusWould turn the Roman tideThis man who saw our SaviourHeal the sick and Blindfeed a Crowd on one man’s foodand turn water into wine.Had he mistaken Love for powerAnd this kingdom for the nextHad he listened the word of ChristBut not understood the text.So that in his disappointmentHe let the anger flarehis actions trying to tell his heartthat it didn’t really careThen when they took the Masteranger changed to deep remorseremorse then turned to black despairand only one recourseWe know no man is all good or badBut it’s for goodness that we tryWas Iscariot just a soul confusedLost in this world, like you or IHe tried to give the money back


Then hanged himself in shameIf his heart had never loved the Lordhow could it feel the blame?Or is the answer far more simpleDid it cause Iscariot’s soul to dieThe night his kiss betrayed our SaviourDid he see God in his Master’s eye. Bill Mitton


The Memory Of A Smile The memory of a smile long gonereturns to warm me onthis windy March morningand in it’s swirling songthe happy counterpointof gentle laughter For we were children ofthis quartered moonhip joined in childhood’sjoyful wanderings.Rascal partners upona rocky mischief trail We were the young immortalsunbreakable in space or timegiven wings to flyacross the skies of youthsmall lords of the domainswithout a far horizon Yet the Gods and Natureconspired against usand in one dark night youand your smile becamea legacy, to be fixedwithin the amber of my mind. I watched the sad tapestry ofyour earthly leavingwith unbelieving eyesfor I was sure you would returnas we had always done beforetired contrite and hungry. Another March wind blewbefore my hope and expectationgrew into the certainty of deaththe black stone was not


your hiding place, I knew nowyou would not come, you could not come Never does the March wind blowThat your smile shines throughmy minds amber once moreYet their is no sadness in itonly the glow of childhood’s joyfor in our time we knew no othernor could we have, nor should we have, Bill Mitton


The Moon And Icarus He never saw my reflected warmthhis reason blinded by light of Soldrawn by the brillianceunable to know the dangerheld within Sol's close embraceso on fragile wings began his danceand I waited in my quarteringshoped in my waxings and waningsbut mine was only a reflected gloryand Icarus saw onlyday's golden molten glowEven in my full dressed beamingsI was unnoticed in his flightand as his wings obeyed Sol's heatas the earth cried out it's death callIcarus in his falling must have heardLunar's invocation gentle and softMy embrace would have been warmcaressing and oftenYet Icarus you would have danced on Bill Mitton


The Pigeon Man 'That pigeon lofts his only lovehis daughter often saidIf it wasn’t for those bloody birdsHe might as well be dead!Just sits up there and talks to themAnd they’ve all got names.Mabel, George, and dozens moreE’ says none of them’s the same.He’s often up there all day longBad weather, he doesn’t care.Cleaning out or feeding themOr just sitting in that chair.He’s known for it is our dadFamous in a wayAye up! Here comes yon pigeon manYou’ll often here folks sayYou can ask him any questionAny one you likeAs long as it’s about them birdsHe’ll get the bugger rightAnd if a bird gets poorlyHe’ll worry and he’ll fretHe’s had me out all hour of nightTo fetch him to the VetThere’s one up there a dappled henShe’s special so he saysA ruddy pigeon she might beBut she’s got your mothers waysOur mother used to humour himUntil she passed awaySaid’ she’d rather have him doing thatThan suppin’ Ale all dayThey helped him when she died, them birdsWhen his heart was set to breakThey seemed to understand his griefAnd helped to ease the ache.He’s entered them for shows an’ thatHe’s won some prizes tooSome cups, a shield, a cut glass bowl


aye, …..and a bob or two.He used to race them once as wellWith some help from our PatBut his favourite hen went missingAnd he stopped it after that.But now he seems contentedTo sit at’ loft all dayTo hear his pigeons cooingAnd wile his hours awayHis grandkids often go up there.To pass the time of dayAnd he’s always got some time for themTo tell them tales and playBut his life is centred on them birdsTheir the reason in his dayThey seem to keep him fit and wellAnd hold his years at bayBut we know that dad will leave usAye, we know that by and byGod will call him to his houseTo be with mum on highAnd when he passes through those pearly gatesAnd say he’s come to stayAy up Lord, here’s yon pigeon man!You’ll hear Saint Peter say.' Bill Mitton


The Song Of Seti The heavens ring with our calling,In vain we search the Cosmos,for another sentient, sapient, entity.Are we alone? Is humanity unique? Alone in this vast emptiness,No other like ourselves.It would be a crushing blow,were this to be the case. Think on then humanityat the song of the Whale.At our guilt, implicit,in it's sadnessFor his song mirrors our own. Bill Mitton


The Song Of The Atheist There are no giants, save for egos.We all enter the world,to the fanfare of our own wailingand the cries of our mother'snatal pain. There is no greatness, save the infinityof the universe's expanding gases,which places our facile, plodding, achievementsinto an ever shrinking context. There is no history, save that of Earthin her timeless turnings,we are and will be but anincident upon her skin,a rash which will die. There is no Salvation, for that wouldimply transgression.Our sentiency transgresses nothingexcept the dying earth. No omnipotent watches. There is no future, just the same thin dramaagainst the backdropp of insignificance.We still die, lie, cheat and more efficiently, and fiscally and for the watching millions. We have no cure, only a futile hopingin the dark of night.Small implicit yearnings for solutions,to problems, we’ve yet to know we have.The planet will have a cure for us. There is no mercy, save the sterility of cosmic oblivion.All arts, all cultures, all technological wonders,are but a tick upon the clock of time.Out there are other sentients, like usSimply, season’s blooms, in the garden of the universe. Bill Mitton


The Sound And The Texture THE TEXTURE AND THE SOUND (For Joaquin Rodrigo) We who hold the Moon and Starsby familiarity and timeto be but baubles in the skyand pay not breathless homageat each and every sightingshould learn from you Joaquinof the passion and beauty heldhostage within the vibrationsof air, ear and heart. Nor we who do not turnIn smiling, joyful, wondertowards the scents ofgreen meadows mownand glades with flowers strewnor cannot see within your songa summer’s invocationand yet feel not shamewithin our sin of ignorance. You who held within your sensesas if in loving gentle fingers,the perfect weaving ofthe song of birds in flightmagnolia scent upon the airAs from within its falling watersyou took the fountain’s songand gave the world a portrait ofAranjuez’s, fragrant, verdant, story I wonder how in your darknessyou captured the colours of lifeand made them dance and shineupon the strings and timpaniBefore in a night’s turning a child died


and your heart knew sadnessthe song became a saeta,for your child and Christ crucifiedso your pain became a hymn. Rodrigo we who listen with our heartsneed no eyes to understandthe colours that your music paintsfor love controls each brushstrokeand your Spain became the canvasfrom which you drew each breath in lifeThe world is weary now RodrigoAnd we are blinder that you ever wereFor you had always known the secretof the textures held within life’s sound Bill Mitton


The Stealing Of A Heart A thief, who didn't know my crimenor the victim of my deedI only knew the sudden surgethe clash of love and need.The heart that beats so close to minewas it never free to take.The love I claim, is it just in trust?Did I simply dull an ache? To be judged on distant shadows,and values from the past.So that every small comparisoncuts deeper than the lastto lie awake and ruffle throughthe ifs and buts and whys.and in every pondered heartbeatwonder, did I steal nothing but a lie? Bill Mitton


The Sword Of Mary (Extract From The Easter Suite) THE SWORD OF MARY When he was just a little boyI’d watch him laugh and playthen my heart would ponderon this pain I feel today You will know the greatest JoyThe Angel told me from the startFor you shall bear the son of GodBut a sword will pierce your heart As I watch him go from Boy to manThrough the turning of the yearsMy pleasure at his growingAlways tempered by my fears I loved him as a mother wouldAnd he loved me as my sonBut each of us both well awareGod’s will must soon be done. I watch him heal the sick and blindI watch him raise the deadAnd every day despite my smilesMy heart grew dark with dread. I saw him call the FishermenSimon Peter, James and JohnI knew then that his Father’s workAnd my trial had both begun. I stood in fear and anguishAs in his anger and his doubtHe went into the templeAnd drove the moneylenders out. He was my son in all thingshis love was always mine


and just for me at Cannahe turned water into Wine. His time with me was borrowedand I knew his hour was nearthat soon would be his sacrificemy heart was cold with fear. They took my son and scourged himWith thorns they pierced his headthen my heart it knew the swordAs God’s messenger had said But as I watched my Son’s last agonyas he hung there on the CrossTen thousand swords were not enoughTo express my pain and loss. Bill Mitton


The Tears Of The Magdelane (From The Easter Suite) THE TEARS OF THE MAGDELANE They took my Lord and killed himThey nailed him to a crossand we who loved him hid awayIn confusion fear and loss.He who did my life restoreAnd my very soul did healhis feet bathed in my sorrow’s tearsAnd taught me of a love so realThe darkness gathered round meThe old fear came once morewithout him could I face a worldThat had broken me before.All of heaven cried that nightI felt the stars scream out in painAnd in my fear I lost the faithThat he would rise again.The pain I felt drowned out his wordsMy heart and soul were numbAnd in my loss and darkness I forgot his Glory yet to comeOn the dawning of the third dayI walked to where he layTo see for just one last timeMy Lord’s body and to prayBut there his tomb was emptyThe stone was rolled awayIt was then his word came to meThat this would be his day.In the dawning of the third mornHe would in glory rise againand with it mankind’s ransomwould be paid for by his pain.I remember well his lovely smileAnd his words so soft and trueI remember when he said to usI will always be with youSuddenly my heart was full


And my soul in joy did glowFor now I knew with certaintyThe real Love, God can bestowIn this love he will not leave usHe will always be close byFor all who glory in this Dayhis love will never die. Bill Mitton


The Twisted Man THE TWISTED MAN(my relationship with my Lord and Saviour) I am he and he is me, he takes this manAll I am he gave me, and all he is, is in meIn one atom, or the universe, he is alpha and omegaIn me he is a breathing, beating, heartthe universe rests in me, because I am hisHere within one grateful praising soulAll summers warmth and winters coldand every seasons turning are thereAll bright starburst and planet turningsEach cosmic storm and comet showerdwell here within this imperfect mortal shellbecause this soul holds his breath.No pain, loss, nor sadness, hold dominionhere within a heartbeat, empires risekingdoms fall, and worlds slowly turn.Yet in the midst of all turmoil and terrorLook into the face of this one twisted manAnd see into the eyes of him who is loveSee within this lined imperfect countenanceEvery question ever asked, its answer.All anger, hate, and pain is written hereAcross this breaking, beating, heartHeld here in this twisted crucified man. Bill Mitton


The Unsung Bell The unsung bellatop the towerof a ruined churchunchallanged by windmute witness tothe creeking rottingsupports which willone day break beneaththe bells silent weightand allow the unsung bella final death nell Bill Mitton


The Watering Can Incident I said I hadn't borrowed itso stop accusing me!but the bugger wouldn't listenhow stupid can you be?Anyway, the damned thing leaked!and it was far from being new.but he just went on about itThere was nothing I could do So I soaked him with the hosepipeBy Gum! he did get vexedif he hadn't fallen on his arse.who knows where we'd been next.He jumped up like a young unhis vengeance for to takebut he trod upon the upturned bladeand met the handle of the rake. By eck! his nose looked awfuland his lip was cut as wellso he never saw the bucketand so once again he fellIt could have been quite seriousso when you take it, all in allhe really was quite lucky whenthe manure heap, broke his fall. He staggered to his feet AGAINYea Gods he looked a sightand if he'd packed in at that pointhe'd have probably been alrightbut no, he'd got his dander uphe just would not see sense.so in his rage he mistakenlyleaned on the broken fenceit's lucky that the duck pondis really shallow at the backunluckily when they get frightenedit's well known that, ducks attack.


He refused the help I offeredI tried to make the peacebut he slammed the gate behind himand that upset the GeeseI think he got away unscathedbut I couldn't really seehe was hidden by the foliageas he was sitting in the tree. I put the Geese back in their penthen I heard a yell and crashthe tree was now unoccupiedand he was face down in the grassBut just as quick he was up againand running through the treeswhich I thought rather strange untilI saw the pursuing swarm of bees. Just then old Jack he ambled upHe said “Yon looks a busy man,I’m sorry that I missed him thoughI’ve brought back his watering can.” Bill Mitton


The Waves Upon The Bass Rock The waves upon the Bass RockBeat mournful in the dawnAnd in the Leeside of this monolithThe Cod and Mackeral spawn Across the shore proud TantallonPart shrouded in the mistAnd edged with gold the hillsidesWhere the morning sun has kissed Upon the Rock the Seabirds nestTheir presence caps it whiteand golden sunbursts drive awaythe rear guard of night The wind blows strong and coldlyTo chill unto the boneand herring gull and gannet callare silenced by it’s moan But wind nor sea nor bird cryCan hold back the angry cryin the Wolf like howlThe Grey Seal gives, defiant, to the sky As though in thankful sacrificewe offer to the wavesThe filletings of Cod and LingThe Mackerel roe we save. This wind is set to drive us homeThis bitter spiteful blowAnd soon the swell begins to riseThe sign for us to go As we turn towards the shorefrom a rock just feet awaya Grey bull roars defiantlyso near we feel his spray


Bill Mitton


The Winds Around Kilturra I sat against the graveyard walllooking out across the Mayo peatlandsreaching out to touch your soulsand the names upon the crossesbecame stepping stones betweenthe greyness of our orb spun turningsthere in one ten graved rowthe stones aged before my eyespolished black and brightly goldto granite wind worn grey and Lichen green.Then the winds around Kilturra sangand my soul reached out,In one heartbeat those who had bought andbrought my life to this hillsidepulled me to the dancing circleof all who's blood I held in trust.This was the ground which heldthe final paths of nine generationsI am ten, and here in this watery dawnmy heart sings the memory songsof countless voices and my souldances the dance of a hundred soulsthen, all to soon, Kilturra’s wind diedthe heartbeat, once more became my own.As I closed the gate upon the stonesthe Bittern's called their joy upon this daymy soul gives thanks to earth and skyfor all the pathways given to my lifeand at my back,Kilturra’s wind sings me home once more Bill Mitton


The Winds Of Troodos THE WINDS OF TROODOSSometimes when least expected I feel youThe scent of Pine resin hits my nostrils and memoryand for a short while I sense you dancing at my backWelcoming and cool in the long warm daysChilling to the bone in the dark frightening nightsThen once more I am standing against a Landscapepainted in beauty, yet coloured in hate and crueltyonce again you carry the smell of fear in your flowand in that one night the world opened its handto show me the ugliness and horror of humanity lost.Then your sound became a cry of agony and anguishto cut and scar a young soul for the rest of its days.So that even now, in the small hours, my soul criesIn the knowing, that down the years the horror grew lesswith each terrible repeated painting of the scene.Now, with hair as white as that, which caps your peaksand my years written in deep lines across my face.I remember the Easter Dawn at Kykkos Monasterythe alter with the crown of thorns and folded clothwhich brought such soothing to a frightened youththere, for a little while, your moan became a prayerYet still today, within the dark hours, I pray in shameasking forgiveness for a heart that learned to hardened. Bill Mitton


Thomas (From The Easter Suite) THOMAS “Get up and stand before meThen Thomas you will seeThe holes whereinthe nails were putSo you will know it’s me Then, just in case you’re still in doubtPut your hand into my sideTo the place where it was spear piercedJust before I died. Thomas I’m surprised at youHow little faith you’ve shownYou were there when I raised LazarusI would have thought you’d known. But since you doubt look at my headEach hole a separate ThornMy back still lined with heavy scarsFrom the scourging I have borne You watched me die yet here I amThe Jesus that you knewThomas I knew that some would doubtBut I didn’t count on you I told you I would rise againYet you demand to seeThomas I never doubted youWhy then did you doubt me? ” Thomas fell unto his kneesHis face was wreathed in shame“You are my Master Lord and GodI’ll never doubt again.” The Saviour smiled on Thomas


Then helped him to his feetand Thomas knew forgivenessso loving and complete. “Now hear me my friend ThomasThese words with you I leave“Blessed are they who have not seenand yet they still believe” Bill Mitton


To Make Stone Sing In fashioning Stone to give a song in every turning,by giving flow to glass that is not molten,placing a dancing step within a twist of steel,bringing life and warmth to wood long dead,seeing the story in a shape, where none intendedthis, surely is the alchemy in your Art By your hand and inner eye is the commonmade to become uncommon, cherished, special.Breathing sympathy into that which, by natures way,is wrought from clay and holds no life nor feelings.To balance shapes upon a pin within your mindand be not breathless at the audacity in the thought. To know the shape of time and spaceTo give bright image to a feeling.To hold within your palm a sunset's touch,and awaken within a dormant heartthe fires of something long forgotten.To be a signpost to life's light and beauty. To comprehend the colours of emotionand mirror them in paint and weft.So that on their reading, each heartand eye, is given choice of understanding.To bring forth from base elementsThe golden touchstone of the future. To give yourself into the singing stoneSo that hand and heart and mindare laid bare, for all to witness.To have the courage and the charityto open your palms and show the workingsof your soul.Should we not cherish such alchemy as this? TO JOE on your graduation “In admiration of your own unique alchemy, ”


Bill Mitton


To Old To Be A Rebel “Your to old to be a rebel,your marching days are gonelet someone younger do it this timeyour protesting days are doneand I can’t blame her reallyall my battles should be won.yet something in me won’t let gowhilst the war’s still going on I’ll be to old to be a rebelwhen I’m to old to breathe,and to old to see inequities,or to old to see men bleed,shed tears for children starvingand not try to ease their need To old to raise an angry voiceAgainst prejudice and greed. I’d be to old to feel injusticeand my heart to know the painor to see the growth of povertyand my soul not burn with shame.To old to shout in protestas many innocents are slainTo old to strive for what is rightwith hand and heart and brain I understand your reluctanceTo risk this life of ease.But the rebel in me can’t just watchPeople driven to their knees.I hope and pray that this won’t changeTil my soul finds it’s releaseAnd when I’m to old to be a rebelI’ll face eternity, at peace Bill Mitton


To Slay The Dragon Throw off the soft cheeks of childhoodBut not the joy nor laughter.Let not the dragon's roarstop your eyes and ears.All that was fresh and wonderful, still is.Keep them near, against the cold times Hold to your dreams, no matterwho or what, do storm against them.Listen to the song within youlet not fear of the dragon mar the music.Be as bold in your giving as you can,hold not your heart to ransom. Though the path may pitch and rollPlant your feet with carebe steady in your stance and gaze,and then, when time be right,tread a measured and deliberate stepby these things, is the dragon is held at bay. Know your worth, in sinew, steel, and goldyet rejoice only in the former.Understand that love is a borrowed gift,yet do not hesitate in the borrowing,for there is no greater gift.Let it be your strength against the dragon's claws Learn well what lies within your heartand you shall surely soar with falcons.Fear not the horizon, for itsdistance is of your own making.Understand the nature of all things,thus will you see the nature of the dragon Hold to these things, they will keep you safe,and life's bright talisman shall be your guide.Your heart shall beat to your own truths,And the only borders shall be your own.


Til' at the sunset, your own tall sons shall bear witnessupon the body of the dragon, you have Slain. Bill Mitton


Today I Stood By A River Today I stood by a river swollen in songand from its rippling, happy, surfacea rainbow mist of laughter and love arose.Here, inside a treasured, pinned, likenessa poignant song for a love lost to the sea,there, flowing by under a day-glow wiga heart in grateful song for a love saved.Multiplied within this swollen, rainbow, flood,33,000 songs of hope, gratitude and loveflowing through the Sunday morning streetsand from the walls and windows of our citythe returning echoes of these love songs,became in every watching, listening, heartstanding upon this running river’s banksa sympathetic beat to each trainer footfall,and glow of pride at this generosity of spirit.Here in the cold morning air the river runsuntil tin-foiled, medaled, tired, hot, it stopsand it’s colourful, rippling, roar subsidesinto a memory hymn of love andan anthem for the will to live and love. Bill Mitton


Trust Not The Wind Trust not the windfor on his blowingis carried the scentof blood red false dawns.Be wary of the gentle breezefor in its gathering curlhides the anger of the storm.Trust not the gentle breezefor by his mood swingsare giant redwoods snappedand seas given swords. Bill Mitton


Uncaring Shores There is beauty here withinthis sea silvered bayrich bounty too, along thetide’s shorn edgewhilst the green ramparts ofproud Cumbriahold back the weather’scold, angry, excessesand the wind hold no threatwithin her singing.Lulled by the scene,drawn on by the promiseof the sand’s hidden bountysix thousand miles from home,they walk upon themoon sheened wetnessof this foreign baynot knowing of the tide’sMedusain threat.That silver icy snakescrept steadily upon themhidden by the contoursof glowing sands.They should have leftan hour sincebut none is there to tellnone hold their livesof importancenone care for their safetythey are pitied no better on the shorethan by the silver snakeswho came to kill them.They are illegalsescapees from another tidewhich sweeps their landthey are a new slaverybought and soldby the slave masters


of this mobile ageandtonight the sea’s silver snakeswill pay their slave price Bill Mitton


Voices On The Edge Of The World (In Honour Of MyFellow Poets) It is how we are and who we arethat we live out here on the edgethe ragged rim of the worldIt’s the nature of our viceThis dark self imposed isolation Yet the paradox in it shines brightAs the isolation bears heavyupon our pale and brittle skinfor unless we share our soulsthere is but dust in what we do Each staking a separate claimalong the river of the golden museand each naked in hand and heartbares the working of a soultasting the ice in the edges isolation yet from each site along the rimthe voices of comfort and supportand a song becomes an anthemso into each isolation a warm voice‘We know, we understand we’re here’ Bill Mitton


We Are The Champions! We’re as ready as we’re going to beThe lads are fit and keenOh George’s lumbago plays him upBut, that goes for half the team No, all in all we’re set to goI think we’re at our bestNow Ron and me can only watchThe lads must do the rest We’ve tried to keep them focusedTo concentrate their mindsWith only one small crisis‘Harry’ left his teeth behind So now it’s just the boys out thereBowling on that greenWill the team end up as ChampionsOr one of “might have beens” Dave’s the one who worries meHe’s a bit young, and I’m not sureThat he has the “big game temperament”The lads only sixty four Arthur, Jim and Smokin’ jackHarry George and FredOh Percy would have been there tooBut he can’t be, ‘cos he’s dead. The Burnage Veterans Bowling TeamIt’s written in their eyes To win the Mauldeth Crown green CupBefore another bugger dies. No thoughts of frozen shouldersArthritic hands, or goutNo limps, no stoops, no hearing aidsThe signs of age they flout


The Final ends, they’ve won it!The championship is theirsSend young Dave up to fetch the CupHe has no problem with stairs. So think on this young peopleNext time you pass us byWe’re not just out there playing bowls‘til it’s our turn to die! Bill Mitton


What Brought Us Too This Day That we were brought to this day by LoveIs beyond all reasonable doubtIt’s written in their facesThese two who’s joining we celebrate.In much the same waywere they not made byanother generation’s lovewhich in turn goes folding back throughour memories and histories.Yet, in their own unique waythese two renew and relayall the love gone before them.Once more through them, love’s beaconshines the brighter on this day.In so much as they were twoAnd now become one, so wewho wrought and brought themto this place are also changed.Because through these twoour love, is renewed once more.And will light the future Bill Mitton


Why Am I Standing In Front Of This Fridge? WHY AM I STANDING IN FRONT OF THIS FRIDGE?(or..Memories Are Made Of..Of?)Why am I standing in front of this fridge?because it’s just a mystery to me.Something I wanted? or just putting back?A can of beer, or some milk for my tea?My memory’s becoming just like a black holeA place where things go…..to get lost.Locking your cars keys…well inside the carInconvenient, I’ve found to my costKeeping appointments or things you’ve to doAre both things that I’ve missed or forgotLeaving your wife stranded at Tesco’s…bad newsIn fact…that’s something I do….. quite a lot.Last week I forgot where I’d parked my bikeIt’s still chained to some telegraph pole.I could use the car, but it’s got all the keys?Still, they say walking is good for the soul.The answering machine is obviously, not on my sideIt keeps telling me appointments I’ve missedI can’t phone them back ‘cos the cordless is lostOh, and my mobile is on the same missing listName’s……. those I’ll also forgetIt’s… it’s like I keep telling the wifeOh, her name I know…. it’s Doris….I thinkWe’ve been married …….well quite a bit of my lifeJust Last night I was going upstairs to my bedwhen my mind turned to our old tabby MidgeI wasn’t quite sure if I’d put the milk out the doorand put the poor bloody cat in the fridge!To try to remember all the things that I shouldI bought myself a small notebook and penIt worked like a dream…. BUT then I lost them as wellSo right now….. I’m on small book…… number TEN!So why…. am I standing in front of this fridgeI said it’s another mystery to meHang about I remember, it’s football tonightOh Bugger! I should be watching………….. TV!


Bill Mitton


With Open Palms WITH OPEN PALMSWith open palms, I face the setting sunawaiting the stillness within my soul.As the orange sky becomes burned ochreand the heat of the day sink into the earthAll that I am and have been melts awayeach breath becomes a mantrato its accompanying heartbeat.There I wait as sunset’s amber fadesuntil in the darkness, I become nothingbelow the canopy of the DivineSo that in his sacred presencemy emptiness becomes a prayer.There within in this timeless oasisLet my essence join with the windand like incense be carried skywardsin thanks for the gift of his love.Oh you who gave love as a ransomhear the song of worship within my soulSee past my weakness and transgressionsPlace within my open heart, your peaceand let my open empty palmsfeel my Saviour’s gentle touchAMEN Bill Mitton


Within This Space Within this space upon this spotHatred blinded worse than dustRepression and anger crushedMore surely than any falling concreteAnd once againInnocence became death's victim, Time holds no strong dominion hereLife's cycle ceased it’s turningGone, all hope, all dreams of futureA dark and mournful paradoxA bleak empty city lotwhich holds a million beating hearts They were but seconds on time's clockyet each did not fulfil its turning.Only harvested moments of agony.in hatred's deadly ripeningcarried spitefully,world wide, upon uncaring wings Here in this space, perverse sacrificea warped priesthood in serviceto an unwanting and unwilling God.Who must have wept blood once moreTo the chilling echo'sof innocence's bravest departures Here in this mummified dust blown citywho's only industries are war and deathchildhood’s heart can hold no hopewhen a God of cruellty is held aloftall innocence is dustand a creed of hatred soothsthe poverty, pain and hunger's yearning Within this dark space, is lonelinessHatred blinding worse than dustOppression and anger crushing


More surely than any falling concreteAnd once againInnocence becomes death’s instrument Bill Mitton


Young Sons YOUNG SONSA mother takes down a photoAnd she holds it to her breastJust has she’d done the child it showsThe little boy she’d washed and dressed.She remembers how his hair feltHis soft scent still fills her nose.And one again she curses,the path her young son chose.With boyish smile, and happinesshe’d picked the shilling and the gunshe remembered still the fear and dreadwhen he told her what he’d done.Yet she’d smiled and waved him offas only a loving mother couldIf God was good, her smiling sonwould return as young son’s should.but then fickle fate, it knows no Godit makes it’s judgments where it willand IED’s they don’t discriminateabout who they should maim or kill.So young son’s often come homefulfilling all their mothers fearsnot with happy smiles and laughterBut, draped in flags and mother’s tears. Bill Mitton


Your Children Are Always Your Children In your eye’s the childnever ends,nor should itOh the limbs grow,the body matures to adulthoodBut in your eye’s and heartthe child remainsThe laughter though a deeper toneStill holds thatjoyous golden ringof Christmas presentsor a birthday gameThe hair now full and SilkyStill holds the urgeto touch and strokeThe smile though olderstill makes the heart leapThe body may betall and lithe and grownBut in your eyes the outlineof the child is still seenThough they are grown and flownNever does a day passwithout the same worryhow are they, where are theythough they may be grownIn your eyes the child never ends nor should it Bill Mitton


Documents

Bill Mitton - poems · 2017-11-18 · A Friendship Trilogy I hear her cry, once again, she is alone. Once again natures clock dictates a mate. I hear him answer, and I know this night,