New Day

New Day
Form: Cornish Sonnet 3
Theme: Love
Subject: Writing

What is nature’s beauty for
As sunrise pierces the soul
As my feet touch the cold floor
At the dawn of a new day
And another working goal
Before the heart can then play
Let my fingers dance on keys
And let words fall into place
So I may write like a breeze
then embrace nature’s envoi
What is the love of nature
But to release the heart’s joy
What is nature’s beauty for
But to release the heart’s joy

©JGFarmer2022

Joe Ramsbottom by Marriott Edgar

Joe Ramsbottom

Joe Ramshottom rented a bit of a farm
From its owner, Squire Goslett his name;
And the Gosletts came over with William the First,
And found Ramsbottoms here when they came.

One day Joe were ploughing his three-acre field
When the front of his plough hit a rock,
And on closer inspection o’ t’ damage he found
As the coulter had snapped wi’ the shock.

He’d got a spare coulter at home in his shed,
But that were some distance away,
And he reckoned by t’ time he had been there and back
He’d have wasted best part of the day.

The accident ‘appened not far from the place
Where the Squire had his sumptuous abode;
He thought he might borrow a coulter from him,
And save going back all that road.

He were going to ask… but he suddenly stopped,
And he said ” Nay-I’d better not call;
He might think it cheek I borrowed from him,
I’d best get my own after all.”

He were going off back when he turned to himself
And said “That’s a gormless idea;
The land you were ploughing belongs to the Squire,
It were ‘is rock as caused all this ‘ere!”

This ‘eartened Joe up, so he set off again,
But he very soon stopped as before,
And he said ‘Happen Squire’II have comp’ny to tea,
Nay I’d, better go round to t’ back.

Then he answered himself in a manner quite stern
And said “Here’s a nice how-de-do!
You can manage without him when all’s said and done,
And where would he be without you?”

Joe knew this were right and he knew it were just,
But he didn’t seem happy somehow,
So he said “Well, there’s no harm in paying a call,
And I needn’t say owt about plough.”

This suggestion that he were afraid of the Squire
Were most deeply resented by Joe;
He said “Right! I’ll show you… I’ll go up at once,
At the worst he can only say ‘No.”

Then he said “After all as I’ve done in the past
He would have a nerve to decline;
He ought to be thankful to give me his plough,
Seein” damage his rock did to mine.

Then he said “Who is he To be puffed up wi’ pride,
And behave as if he were King Dick
He’s only a farmer the same as myself,
As I’ll tell him an’ all- Jolly quick.”

Then he turned round and looked himself straight in the face,
And he said “What you’re scared of beats me;
Ramsbottoms was landlords when Gosletts was nowt,
And it’s him should be working for thee!”

Then he said “I’m surprised at myself, so I am,
To think I should so condescend
As to come hat in hand to a feller like ‘im
And ask if he’s owt he can lend.”

This argument brought him to Squire’s front door,
It were open and Squire stood inside;
He said “Hello, Joe… What brings thee right up here?”
“You’ll know in a tick,” Joe replied.

He said “P’raps you think yourself better than me,
Well, I’m telling you straight that you’re not
And I don’t want your coulter… Your plough-or your farm,
You can-do what you like with the lot.”

Marriott Edgar

Marriott Edgar
Born: 5 October 1880, Kirkcudbright, Scotland
Nationality: English
Died: 5 May 1951, Battle, East Sussex, England

Edgar was a poet, scriptwriter, and comedian. He is best known for the sixteen monologues written for Stanley Holloway, including the ‘Albert’ series

Keating’s Triumph by Maurice Jarre

Keating’s Triumph
1989
Film and TV

Maurice Jarre

Maurice Jarre
Film and TV
Born: 13 September 1924, Lyon, France
Nationality: French
Died: 28 March 2009, California, USA

Jarre was a composer and conductor best known for his film scores, including Lawrence of Arabia and A Passage to India. Jarre received nine nominations for the Academy Awards, winning Best Original Score for Lawrence of Arabia in 1962, Doctor Zhivago in 1965, and A Passage to India in 1984. He is also the father of Jean-Michel Jarre

From Muse to Id

From Muse to Id
Form: Triolet Sonnet

That dark lady I call my muse,
Angel of art inside my head.
My tears are shed as she sings blues,
That dark lady I call my muse.
Colours scheming in vibrant hues,
each time I lay there in my bed.
That dark lady I call my muse,
Angel of art inside my head.
Ideas float with static clues,
That dark lady I call my muse,
She brings them forth in words to use
In pictures tonal views are read.
That dark lady I call my muse,
Angel of art inside my head.
She holds me tight in vice-like grip,
yet tender is her sultry touch.
In thought, imagination’s trip
She holds me tight in vice like grip,
from her chalice I gently sip,
at first it all seems double Dutch
She holds me tight in vice-like grip,
yet tender is her sultry touch.
As words and art meet my pen tip
She holds me tight in vice-like grip,
she guides the words that form on lip,
the ink on paper now my crutch
She holds me tight in vice-like grip,
yet tender is her sultry touch.
That dark lady I call my muse,
She holds me tight in vice-like grip,
Eases the way that I confuse,
That dark lady I call my muse.
Images once lost, now diffuse
and on paper they swiftly slip
That dark lady I call my muse,
She holds me tight in vice-like grip,
no longer words can I excuse,
That dark lady I call my muse,
As I dwell in fantasies views
I see I’m at her fingertip,
The dark lady I called my muse,
She holds me tight in vice-like grip

©JGFarmer2009

Human

Thank you for sharing your poetry Stephen. Awesom reading as I drank my teabreak tea today

Through The Cracked Window (Revisited)

Cruelty has a human name
Love is of the eternal soul
Jealousy has a human rage
Hatred is a being of words untold

The human face a furnace sealed
The human form shares a heart
The human hand is bound in greed
The human, only that from the start

Stoic Poetry

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Celtic New Year

A Garret Poet

Celtic New Year
Form: Sestina

The year closes upon Samhain
As summer days come to an end,
The harvest field gathered in
While mystery dances in the flame,
A bard and lute pick a tune
To tell the old stories once again.

The Celtic folk have gathered again
Upon the eve of Samhain
They hear the old soulful tune
That says the hunter’s game must end
Amid the glowing Pagan Flame
As winter nights close in.

Deep memories, long held in
Revealed to the heart again,
In the dancing light of the flame,
The old souls called at Samhain
And like a dream that has no end
They dance once more to a midnight tune.

The heart that hearkens to the tune
And lets the spirit enter in
Shall know the circle of life shall never end
And all shall surely live again
As the Lady calls upon Samhain
For…

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