Poems By Simon Beechinor

 Listen to: No Kiss Goodnight I sat beside my father's old arm chair, As he read Treasure Island aloud to me; Each page he turned was like a lapping wave, Each chapter read, a flood or ebbing tide. The library book smelled as old books do; I smelled Flint’s hapless shipmate, Billy Bones, Awash in Widow Hawkins' untaxed rum, And tasted gun smoke on the salt-laced air. The rain dripped on the windowpane outside, I held my breath in mortal dread with Jim, As Blind Pew tapped along the cobbled lane, Steeped in menace, searching for old Flint's map. He closed the book with a resounding thud, Like cannon shot that barely passed me by, I stood up from the floor beside his chair, And leaned toward him to kiss him goodnight. For what fault of mine did he push me away? "You're too old for kisses now, child, to bed!" The room turned as cold as a Channel fog, And grief held fast this troubled boy’s heart. My bewildered child’s mind churned with doubt, Would I know my s

Listen to: The Cry of the Bishop Rock My mother led me among the granite tors through grass of sheep’s fescue, wavy hair, and common bent. Together, we savoured the perfumed wild thyme. We marvelled at tapestries of lichens, binding, holding fast in colonies of pale sage, deep emerald, and gold. When I heard the cry of the Bishop Rock, in a haunting, distant call of warning. We played my childish game of counting ships emerging from the morning mist. One by one, they ploughed in spectral shapes as silhouettes to fade from view, though not from my restless mind. We dreamed of whence they came, the nature of their burden, and whither they were bound. And I heard the cry of the Bishop Rock, in a haunting, distant call of warning. I loved to look upon those unbounded seas and their palette of blues and greens. The mornings draped in muted, dream-like pewter greys and shades of blue that touched the shallows’ green as shrouded sunlight played upon the tranquil sea. How I longed to join thos

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, to 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. I ask if you would know and love him, And share his disappointments, as do I? Then I will stand

Listen to: Batman and Robin Mine is a tale of wonders untold, From Ko Tong Ha Yeung in China, Of two young knights, fearless and bold Named Batman and Robin Boy Wonder,   Long before the Penguin and Joker, Batman mauled the banded krait, Red-necked keelback and hooded cobra, Oh, how that brave knight could fight! Robin ne'er feared the stinging viper, The python, foul millipede or bullfrog, He shed no childish tears when bitten,  On the bum, by Fang, the village dog. But holy pawpaws, I must be mistaken, That was their loving mum, my wife - not them! Who cares? Not one of them was shaken,  So, all three are my superheroes, then!

Listen to: An English Boarding School She said I “must get away from” him. Now, fifty years later I’m reading his diaries, page by page. Perhaps I’ll find out soon why I needed to escape. My new home, a boarding school, was ‘character-building’, they said; perhaps you know the type? Regimented and authoritarian. Our spartan, cold dormitories reeked of sweat-stale boys, or suffered the wild west wind, blasting through uncurtained windows. Our cold and cheerless walls echoed with the relentless clatter of shoes on cold, stone floors. My constant reminder of the austerity I endured. Dull and bovine seniors, Empire-quality demented thugs beat, harassed and humiliated us, sometimes naked, under freezing cold showers, from dawn until dusk. Under a crippling lack of welfare, I longed for someone to be decent, to know me and care. Once vibrant and curious, I withered like a fire-blighted pear. Fear gnawed at my stomach and tore at my mind. Often I hid, alone and alert, ready to flee at unfatho

Listen to: A Guardian of Empire We must go to school somewhere, and mine was an idyllic island, of unbounded childhood joy. A bulwark of English tradition amidst the social upheaval, the anarchy, perhaps, of the ‘60s, with a progressive outlook, if one was of the Edwardian era, for it was a training ground for the Guardians of Empire. And I loved it. I was steeped in its timeless values:  of fair discipline,  academic excellence, and sporting prowess. Our gaggle of ancient and venerated teachers, all veterans of wars past, of Ypres and the Somme,  Normandy and the Yangtze Kiang, tried to shape my impressionable mind. They did better than my parents to foster my intellectual curiosity, my moral compass and a lifelong love  of literature, mathematics and science. They referred to me,  affectionately, I think, as ‘The Admiral.’ And I loved them. My memories resound with the boisterous laughter and chatter of young boys. We were constantly busy in a kaleidoscope of lessons,  games of crick