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I love Calne…
A sunny day,
Calne is bright?
The rain is drizzling down
again, for all in sight…
People rushing past,
fighting the beating rain…
Witness’ to the weather farce,
the rain buckets and pours again…
The Parish Church and
Town Hall too,
take upon a aerie hue.
Rush hour traffic shuffles through…
Calne’s awash there’s no mistake,
lets build the ark for God’s sake!
Let’s all fly balloons to escape.
We’ll silently avoid this bellyache…
The rain has stopped, now all gone…
Now we sing a sweeter song.
Dear sweet Calne we love you so,
but why do the rain clouds throng?
Would Calne turn tropical,
with parrots in the trees?
Lurking crocodiles in the River Marden,
and the smell of eucalyptus and tropic breeze…
Flamingoes in Patford Street…
Hippopotamus in Phelps Parade!
Like apes we swing among the shelves,
we are all shopping en masse in Sainsburys!
Kevin Bewley
Poisoned lives…
The plundered look around your eyes,
yet scandalous gossip is your trade…
That plastic look of veiled surprise,
hiding the outrages that you have made…
Time will catch you and it will,
those looks cast with venom disguise…
Daddy’s ‘poison bitch’, best described,
God forgive your deceits and lies.
Although your own children never will…
So now you the fool with silly bribes…
Just realise you’re going downhill,
and life will treat you harsher still.
Poisoned innocence in no sense,
but did you ever truly care?
Now getting on in years,
your face looks older than your hair…
You’ll fool yourself while shedding tears,
as the onlookers blankly stare…
You brought it all upon yourself,
your foolish decisions past repair…
Now go quietly and try to sin no more,
you never listened and had your way…
You’re advancing toward an opening door,
what waits behind is unsure…
Kevin Bewley
The gilded picture…
There’s a picture hanging on the wall,
almost sentinel by it’s presence.
Eyes from a portrait steal witness…
A portrait of a peering man withal,
a portrait from Renaisance Venice…
He peers through a curtain veil,
witness those who visit my rooms…
It is a bemused face smiling as it does.
His head is enclosed in a metallic helm,
to all appearance the texture of chain mail…
For all the times I’ve watched that face,
I have seen no cruelty there…
He is my guide, my guard. ‘My Sentinel’...
Just those bemused lips no sardonic trace,
and times I have thought to see him stare.
On quiet nights I feel he fills the room,
oblivious of me and mine…
He could be a Crusader of Antioch.
Speaking in some far archaic tongue,
reassuring company and sublime…
Here we persist on parallel planes,
both viewing our lives the while…
Unable to speak only witness the other,
all the whiles with that subtle style.
O noble knight with chivalric smile,
forever.
Kevin Bewley
He has dust on his hands and feet…
There comes those moments in one’s life,
when all appears lost to no ending strife…
You thinking yourself irrelevant and unsure.
Stumbling careworn with a clouded aperture.
He had dust on his hands and feet…
You only have to raise your tired eyes,
some moments move in unseen ways to trace.
A desperate thought, a prayer that amplifies…
Or to dream to see a memorable face…
He has my dust on his hands and feet…
Always some one listens, apparently not there.
But so surely to be relied on and deliver,
and not so very rare!
Hope is given that will not wither,
the road is shared all burdens light…
This is the start of a enlightening affair!
The road was clear,
there were few obstructions there…
We have dust on our hands, faces and feet…
We walk together side by side,
see the venues, sights and dives.
Avoiding the potholes and muddy slides,
plus the strangest revelations goggle-eyed.
My Lord had dirty hands and feet,
now wearing gauntlets and working boots.
He comes only of the moment…
He watches over the lost and destitute,
his message is karmic atonement.
Kevin Bewley
Recognition
To see such warmth in a glance,
in a enlightening moment…
And a merry smile perchance…
The spirit light of your eyes,
the twinkling of our delight…
The elusive smile on those lips,
a downward glance to capture.
To capture an errant heart…
Caught suspended moment,
and here we start never to part…
Such is our recognition,
such is the precognition…
You advance to me and we
both embrace this predisposition.
And with all the world to see.
You know the very all of me,
through trials tested long ago.
Now we advance tacticians,
onward and upward go!
Such whimsical suppositions!
Withal and all to show…
Kevin Bewley
Rooms for thought…
Within the pantheons of my mind,
are many rooms to seek and find.
Herein the tranquility of myself,
no dust sheets evidently defined.
Persian carpeted and terrazzo floors,
a ‘scense’ of flowers and outside grass.
Moving drapes that hang on high…
The murmer of a passing breeze,
as storm clouds have just rolled by…
Hearing footsteps come up those stairs,
the one who loves me and who cares…
I hear the footsteps as they advance,
while I as one caught in a trance…
Louder they come closer and I see that face,
colours scintillating and clear.
And oh, that voice.
‘I thought I’d find you here’…
Kevin Bewley
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Chanson papillon…
As scattered confetti on a summer’s day,
dancing above the new mown grass…
Hazy visions in the early dew tableau.
A fritillary of butterflies heads my way,
floating in the morning sun unsurpassed.
Butterflies passing through the air,
‘Painted Lady’, petals against the green…
The morning dance ensues to no abate.
On heliotrope buddleia everywhere,
‘Whites’, against the mauve to be seen.
‘Tortoishells’, and ‘Admirals’ gaily play,
against the summer scene to share.
Just for you and I to truly see…
And all this through out today,
few folk oblivious stop to stare…
The ‘Monarch’, butterflies deftly move,
from flower to flower of the hour…
An effortless ballet for you and I.
Dare to catch them if you’ll try,
but to partake of the moment and sigh…
Come the evening and they’ll be gone,
to butterfly heaven and out of view…
Still the ‘butterfly song’, goes on and on.
Clouds of ‘Large Whites’, and all the ‘Blues’
leaving us to depart and finally abscond.
Kevin Bewley
For Mary Bridget…
She was of the very best,
the best’s from the very start…
As radiant as a moon beam…
She was blessed with,
that generosity of the heart.
Her life was hard, obscure
and of some discomfiture…
Always giving and comfort too…
She always gave of her very best,
and was hands high above the rest…
She marched in where Angels never dare…
She shielded shyness oh, so rare.
She believed in goodness and Our Lord.
Her life was of practical faith.
Of honesty, truth and of one accord…
She was my friend and counselor,
my early conscience guide…
And always brushed me down.
Thought better of the fool,
than the pious bleary eyed.
Now she’s gone, I miss her so…
She held secrets and stayed dumb…
And I know she’s not so far away,
she’s obviously busy when she hums…
Undoubtedly, the kindest Irish Mum.
Kevin Bewley
A lady lived in Brockley…
Freda lived at No.2 Crofton Park,
for the greater part of her life and times.
She could still remember linden trees
growing expansive by the railway lines.
Superintendent for St. Hilda’s School,
she taught the rules for uncertain times…
She gave comfort there to those who listened,
from a spinster in her prime…
Many of those girls who crossed her path,
derived from unsettled homes and grime…
Freda Gosling was a classy lady,
and well before her time…
Perchance I once saw her spirit on the stairs,
years ago at Crofton Park in Brockley…
An exhilarating experience so sublime,
and she told me not to be afraid.
We exist in a parallel world divided,
a mapped out plan for those that share.
Shaker shifters always guided,
apparent life obscure and not all despair.
Kevin Bewley
Miss Ruth Bullock…
They said she wore jackboots,
underneath her skirts.
It was said she cut the tops off,
so they wouldn’t hurt…
If ever there was a child’s spectre,
Ruth Bullock was that invert.
‘May God forgive you’…
A follower of the devil,
her cruelty was reknown…
Terrorising little children,
with a smile and not a frown…
She made lives a misery
at the local Guthrie School…
‘God shall forgive you’…
She targeted the under fives,
and made their lives a hell…
She never had children of her
own, which was just as well…
Amorphous bulk in cardigans,
cigarettes her favorite smell…
‘God saw you naked’…
Today she would be seen as pscho’,
and not allowed near a child…
But she destroyed children’s hopes,
damages to last quite a while.
And all this fifty-five years ago…
‘Eternal Father strong to save’,
let the children dance on her grave!
(She became a missionary in the Congo,
in her next incarnation, where she gave
her all and was eaten.).
Kevin Bewley
The Night Roses…
Take this leap in to the dark,
while cats and rats are on the prowl…
See the cars and garbage share,
night scented roses in the park.
Bottles litter and the cans share,
white blooming roses in the dark…
Where the cars leave their sparks,
profuse ‘Alba’ perfumes the dark…
Hear the bird calls on the evening din,
while the drunkard’s voice twilight bark.
Sainsbury’s car park casts it’s spell,
where the vehicles appear to double park.
Now it’s quiet and sound is low pitch,
the nightingale appears to miss the mark.
All so close and yet faraway in mood,
this tree foliage beauty far from stark.
Over the silhouettes the dawn comes near,
a rain swept Sainsbury’s car park cleared.
Kevin Bewley
Squadron…
A squadron of Angels flew in yesterday…
They wanted a billet near to the church,
and I was naturally flying by that way…
Clean upright types pleasant in their ways,
here on reconnaissance and Ariel research.
You see them in Sainsbury’s and the Co-op,
choosing the bargains while every one shops.
They always look so clean and scrubbed…
You’ll see them in two’s as they go their way,
always cheerful and smiling with little to say.
What ever they do I haven’t a clue.
Always moving as though on a mission,
kindness of countenance an obvious disposition.
Where do they hail from and what do they want?
Obviously high up with a distinctive commission…
They pass amongst the towns people to all accord,
and obviously live and keep well to afford.
One little thing that really troubles the rest of us…
It is evident that they really are most clever,
but why keep dropping all those beautiful feathers?
Kevin Bewley
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