I claim my right to wander through each field,
To be the sum of all my parts and more,
With every breath, a new song revealed;
A human truth that names ignore.
Though tempting it is to group me with the rest,
To render me a simple, static thing,
Such boundaries leave truth suppressed,
For I’ve the right to be myself and sing.
In quiet chambers of my brooding heart,
A lurking guilt murmurs, undefined;
Though I inquire, it does not depart,
A spectral woe that upon me dines.
To pathos drawn, like fungus to a tree,
Yet why this grief exists, I scarcely know;
Enshrouded in a self-made mystery,
I dwell imprisoned by an unjust glow.
But the key to lift this heavy veil
Resides not in the solace of my mind;
It is when for others’ joy my efforts hail,
The fetid chains are left behind.
Thus, in the living for the spirit of thee,
I find the path that sets my soul free.
Though distanced from your grace, your laughter’s vivid hue,
Still in my secret heart, a fire’s lit, and it’s all for you.
Yet, even as the dark descends, and moonlight takes its toll,
Your smile illuminates the hidden chambers of my soul.
What a cruel joke, that fates have drawn their line,
And placed us worlds apart, in different points of time.
Yet in each stolen glance, there’s something more I find,
A beauty underneath, the outer attraction of your kind.
I see the care you give, the simple joys you share,
The way you make a moment sweet, just by being there.
But, like a moth too close to light, I fear I can’t come near,
For what could such as I offer, to one I hold so dear?
And so, I hide away, in dim-lit corners where,
The brilliance of your smile can’t quite so fully glare.
Yet know that in the dark, a secret fire’s alight,
Fanned by your distant grace, it warms my lonely night.
The Silent Monks taught him secrets long kept,
Of light’s true essence and where shadows slept.
“Child of prophecy, in these halls, secrets you’ll unlock,
Train among us, become steadfast as the mountain rock.”
Marble pillars, tall and proud, bore witness to him strive,
As Lysander’s spirit, among the Silent, came alive.
Under their tutelage, he learned to harness the storm,
Finding strength in silence, and in meditation, form.
The pendant, reinvigorated, began to shine bright,
Reflecting his growth, the increasing inner light.
There once was a man from Peru,
Who dreamt he was eating his shoe.
He woke with a fright,
In the middle of the night,
To find that his dream had come true.
…..
A mathematical man, with hair quite neat,
Counted steps of cats and people he’d meet.
On King’s Parade, he’d stand,
With notebook in hand,
Staring hard at each passerby’s feet.
The night was silent, yet radiant and profound,
As rare celestial bodies in alignment were found.
Comets streaked, and the auroras danced with glee,
For a child of legend had come to be.
In the kingdom’s heart, where rivers meet the sea,
The oracle, with eyes of eternity, spoke the decree:
“This child bears a weight, a fate yet unwound,
To save or to shatter, to heal or confound.”
With golden locks, and eyes deep as the night,
Lysander’s presence was both concern and delight.
In his laughter, there was the music of the spheres,
Yet in his silence, the weight of unspoken dark fears.
As the kingdom celebrated, shadows began to churn,
For the wheels of destiny had started to turn.
At the kingdom’s edge, where light met obsidian hue,
Lay the Forbidden Forest, a realm few dare knew.
Its legends whispered of spirits, ancient and vast,
Holding tales of the future and echoes of the past.
Little Lysander, his heart of wanderlust,
Ventured into the woods, with a child’s bright trust.
Beyond the thorns, the canopy’s protective embrace,
He met an ancient spirit, devoid of time or place.
With eyes like the cosmos, and a voice soft as mist,
The spirit offered a token, impossible to resist:
A pendant, shimmering, reflecting the spirit’s grace,
Glowing with truth but darkening at a liar’s face.
“Little one,” it proclaimed, “you are destined to see,
The many facets of truth, what is and what might be.
This pendant shall be your guide, both night and day,
Illuminating the just path, keeping shadows at bay.”
Returning home, his adventure no soul did he tell,
Yet the pendant’s luminescence some could foretell.
It became his compass, his heart’s resolute guide,
As Lysander grew with destiny by his side.
From the eastern lands, where no sunlight would tread,
The Shadow Warlock, a tyrant of darkness and dread,
With eyes of ember and a heart forged from cold,
Sought Lysander for the prophecy he’d been told.
His legions, like a storm, surged forth with intent,
Their shadows blurring the lines where light once went.
The kingdom, unprepared, could barely resist,
As night’s chilling fingers began to persist.
Lysander’s pendant, amidst the bleak, foul air,
Dimmed to a flicker, like breath beneath despair.
Yet within its wearer’s heart, a flame began to grow,
A courage unyielding, a defiant, fiery glow.
The city’s walls trembled, its defences nearly breached,
The hope of its people seemed beyond truth’s reach.
But as darkness encroached, and all seemed lost,
A rallying cry was heard, and valour was its thirst.
In the garden where our love began to grow,
Amongst the seeds of hope we dared to sow,
The roses bloomed red, as did our desire,
Each petal unfolding, revealing love’s fire.
Our breathing, nurturing the ground,
In the rhythm of our heartbeats, love was found.
The garden flutters tales of our affection,
In each bloom, it mirrors our reflection.
Our breathing, the wind, stirring the chime,
As our love grows, through the annals of time.
Forever rooted, forever we’ll grow,
In this sacred place, only we two know.
With a quill for a sword, a parchment for a steed,
Bill galloped through words at breakneck speed.
He dreamed of fair maidens, of kings, and of fools,
While bound by the weight of Tudor tax rules.
In Verona and Venice, he scribed of great tales,
All the while chasing his messenger for mails.
Letters of tax, they came in a swarm,
“Oh, blast these rules!” he howled in a storm.
Crying havoc, he let slip the dogs of war,
Spilling ink on his ledger, “oh what a chore!”
He penned of tempests, of love’s labour’s lost,
While tallying the Queen’s most taxing costs.
He bartered in sonnets to settle his dues,
And mused if the Crown might accept tragic news.
“If all the world’s players must pay for their part,
Then tax me,” said Bill, “but not matters of heart!”
Compassion is the soothing whisper in a troubled ear,
A steady presence when the path’s unclear.
It’s the hand extended when one might fall,
A light that shines down the darkest hall.
Through understanding eyes, it softly peers,
In a warm embrace, it calms our fears.
It’s the fabric connecting me and you,
A silent promise forever true;
For in each act of compassion we bestow,
We cultivate a world where love can grow.
In a room where silence takes its toll,
I find companionship with an empty wall;
A monologue unbroken, where secrets fall,
The wall, impassive, stands and hears it all.
With ears of mortar, eyes of faded paint,
My friend to confide in, without restraint;
No criticism or interruptions it lends,
Just quiet strength on which I can depend.
Its surface is cool, yet warmth it does provide,
A stable presence, there for me, by my side.
It shares my laughter, and knows my pain,
In that quiet room, sanity I regain.
Robert Walker 