Top 5 Poems for March 2011

Lady Of The Light - Tim Kitchen
Proud and Free - Andrew Provan McIntyre
Heart On A Page - Shane Telford
The White Canvas - Shiksha Dheda
A Poor Man's Poet - Shirley Harrison

Lady Of The Light

You were always the faithful one
with a saviour in your heart
you had seen the light of the Lord
from the very start.
Even in your darkest days
and the autumn of your life
you never lost faith in the Lord
lady of the light.

Now you have left this life
and in us a memory
but we all think of you
and how you used to be
you had been the special one
when you lived your life
with a special kind of love
lady of the light.

And when I look back on life
I often think of you
looking out your window
the way you used to do
watching children go off to school
in the morning light
smiling to the world outside
lady of the light.

Now you are there in Heaven
and back again once more
with those who you had loved
who had to go before
always forever the faithful one
when you lived your life
for you had seen the light of the Lord
lady of the light.

© Tim Kitchen

 

Proud And Free

 Taking the water at Royston's well
Betrayed by fellow highland knight
Stopped in his retreating flight
Murdered by tyrannical might.

Mist lying over Drummossie moor
Crows circling rain-filled sky
Lamenting Scotia's fallen clans
Silence now in hills and glens.

Forest flowers withered and dead
Left at Flodden dirt and mud
Sightless eyes look to the sky
On that field they silently bled.

Spirits cowed in fear and despair
Words not spoken in defeat
Always we cry in national song
For freedom's way on every tongue.

Warriors and poets are our race
Proud and free the last to be
No matter where on Earth we are
The call we hear no matter how far.

© Andrew Provan McIntyreHeart On A Page

Reading old diaries that I have compiled,
I saw something small - and I smiled.
The smallest of hearts, all coloured in red
And beside it a poem, a poem that said
We were forever, we were a team,
We were a match made in a dream.
Forever has faded unlike that red heart,
It sewed us together and ripped us apart
And that heart on the page that I fondly drew
Is the only thing I didn't give you.
Reading those diaries brought everything back,
The smallest of feelings - the slightest of cracks,
And that little heart, all coloured in ink
Fills up my eye, each time that I blink.
What happened to forever? What happened to that team?
What happened to that match that was made in a dream?
Forever has faded unlike that red heart,
It sewed us together and ripped us apart
And that heart on the page that I fondly drew
Is the only thing I didn't give you.
I don't draw a heart now,
I don't write your name,
You don't have the patience,
I know I'm to blame.
So, I'll keep that poem
And that heart at the side
As a trophy of you
And the tears that I've cried.

© Shane Telford

The White Canvas

You look.
You see a soft, clear
untainted, unblemished, pure
piece of paper.
A white canvas.

You look.
But don't see the bright, delicious,
fruitful, messy, alluring
chunk of beauty.
A colourful portrait.

You think.
That I will be a good foundation
a stable base; a colourless
bland beginning.
A white canvas
You doubt.
That I can be a compliment
a worthy mixture for an equal
solution of heaven.
A colourful portrait.

You ponder.
Over my invisible; clear;
straight lines to even out your
messy intangibility.
A white canvas.

You smirk.
At my apparent beauty
non-servient; non-submissive;
self-standing artwork.
A colourful portrait.

You admire.
My nothingness; empty
incomplete, defeatist
stable pureness.
A white canvas.

You ignore.
My bright, richness;
my independence and incorrectly
mix up the beauty of
A colourful portrait.

© Shiksha Dheda

A Poor Man's Poet

He sings his songs of poetry
For those who wish to dance,
Mesmerized by his words
They arrive in droves
Their lives he will enhance.

A poet who could paint
Divine goodness and the
Deepest fires of Hell,
With one single sentence
Enlightened and burdened
He can make any living soul
Feel joy or pain within his spell.

'If the world paid attention
To the foundations nature has laid
And we built on that, the world would
Be peopled well'

As his torch burns out
Dispersing the crowd as they part
The roars and claps
Warm his heart.
He does not look for shillings
Nor does he seek fame
He is a poor man's poet
And that's how he found his name!

© Shirley Harrison