Memoirs In Verse

Listen to: The Guardian of Dreams Do not lie beneath my lonely rampart, And see an ancient, worn, discarded toy, I am the guardian of his childhood dreams, And he is my child still, that ungarnished boy. Only when I hear his joyful laughter do I rest, I am he who held at bay his youthful fears, It was I who gave his dreams the wings to fly, He made me, more than once, bathe in tears, I listen still for the beating of his heart, Close beneath his arm and beside his breast, Where we fought and cried and laughed as one, And I, like a meadow’s flower, was pressed! I know the weight and value of his love, And if you would have him love you too, Then listen for the beating of his heart, And count yourself among the precious few. He became a man as I stood by his side, I implore you, take him and hold him dear, While I stand my watch each passing day, And help protect him from all that’s drear. If you would also know and love him, And share his disappointments as do I, Then I will stand besid

Listen to: Clydeside Steel It's better my faith rests with Clydeside steel,  than heaven's careless, unworthy deity,    for how fickle and uncertain He remains.  When winter’s seas reach out in frenzied rage, to test my abiding faith's resolve, I will rely upon those who forged this steel  to endure the cold and dark of winter days, for by their skill they've earned my well-found faith.  At the winter's end must spring emerge, from skies as grim and black as granite tors, and her fury give way to kinder seas, when boisterous spring wears only veils of rain that flutter in the season's breeze. Until then—and after— I'll keep my faith in Clydeside steel.

This poem, of a stevedore mourning the passing of a way of life, is written as a villanelle, comprising five tercets and one quatrain of ten syllables in each line with a formal and distinctive rhyming pattern. Listen to: The Stevedore The city docks stand idle and forlorn,  Old wharves and warehouses lie decaying,  The sky weeps soft and gentle tears to mourn. The long grass grows between the cobbles worn  By the tides of men and cargo passing,  The city docks stand idle and forlorn.  The ships, seamen and stevedores have gone,  Now, few hold memories of our calling, The sky weeps soft and gentle tears to mourn. Who remains to hear the dock foremen call,  For gangs of men for that day’s labouring? The city docks stand idle and forlorn.  Or board the Kiwi meat-boat in the morn,  Her holds packed full, ready for unloading?  The sky weeps soft and gentle tears to mourn. For one last time, I pass those gates well-worn,  My memory, like the tide, is ebbing,  The city docks stand idle and f