Oh Captain Cong,what a poem,and one I cannot read without hearing the parodies that countless comedians have done on it over the years.Nevertheless,it stillhas the power to move one if read slowly and without distraction.
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Oh Captain Cong,what a poem,and one I cannot read without hearing the parodies that countless comedians have done on it over the years.Nevertheless,it stillhas the power to move one if read slowly and without distraction.
And ,whilst the Muse is now upon us ,let favour her with abit of Masefield.......
A Wanderers Song
A winds in the heart of me ,a fire's in my heels,
I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon wheels;
I hunger for the seas edge, the limit of the land,
Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand.
Oh I'll be going,leaving the noises of the street,
To where a lifting foresail -foot is yanking at the sheet;
To a windy,tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches ride,
Oh I'll be going ,going,until I meet the tide.
And first I'll hear the sea-wind, the mewing of the gulls,
The clucking ,sucking of the sea about the rusty hulls,
The songs at the capstan at the hooker warping out,
And then the heart of me'll know I'm there or thereabout.
Oh I am sick of brick and stone,the heart of me is sick,
For windy green, unquiet sea,the realm of Moby Dick;
And I'll be going, going, from the roaring of the wheels,
For a wind's in the heart of me , a fire's in my heels.
John Masefield
Just reading that again brings back the sound of the wind in the halyards and the steady thrumming of the engine as we head into a Nor'wester on the way to New York. White horses ride the wave tops and the sea is cobalt beneath a blue denim sky. 8 bells are ringing and it'll soon be time for breakfast, oh brother ,take me home ,take me back to sea.!!
BONZA BAY.
In December, 1953 on the New Zealand Star
In East London we did stay
but Ken Hignett and I
didn`t know he would die
on some beach called Bonza Bay.
The story began
when the Mission Man
said he would take us away for the day
so all of us went off on his bus
to a beach called Bonza Bay
When Ken jumped in
he just couldn`t swim
and the tide soon carried him away.
Though I struggled and tried
Ken drowned and then died
near a beach called Bonza Bay
Then I was seen on a wave
by a lad named Dave
who swam out to get me away
and through struggle and strife
that lad saved my life
on a beach called Bonza Bay
When Ken washed ashore
his life was no more
Five days since he got swept away
and he lay all alone
on the the sand and the stone
on a beach called Bonza Bay
So they buried Ken in a Sailors grave
at a place where the palm trees sway,
on a foreign strand
in a far off land
near a beach called Bonza Bay
It`s been 50 years
since the grief and the tears
and in the time that I was away
I found Ken`s Grave
and the man named Dave
near a beach called Bonza Bay
:)
The following was sent to me by the wife of a very good friend of mine,- a
Canadian Regimental Sergeant Major, who returned from a tour of duty in Egypt as RSM of the Multinational Peackeeping Force recently.
The Anzac on the Wall
I wandered thru a country town 'cos I had time to spare,
And went into an antique shop to see what was in there.
Old Bikes and pumps and kero lamps, but hidden by it all,
A photo of a soldier boy - an Anzac on the Wall.
"The Anzac have a name?" I asked. The old man answered "No,.
The ones who could have told me mate, have passed on long ago.
The old man kept on talking and, according to his tale,
The photo was unwanted junk bought from a clearance sale.
"I asked around," the old man said, "but no one knows his face,
He's been on that wall twenty years, deserves a better place.
For some one must have loved him so, it seems a shame somehow."
I nodded in agreement and then said, "I'll take him now."
My nameless digger's photo, well it was a sorry sight
A cracked glass pane and a broken frame - I had to make it right
To prise the photo from its frame I took care just in case,
"Cause only sticky paper held the cardboard back in place.
I peeled away the faded screed and much to my surprise,
Two letters and a telegram appeared before my eyes
The first reveals my Anzac's name, and regiment of course
John Mathew Francis Stuart - of Australia's own Light Horse.
This letter written from the front, my interest now was keen
This note was dated August seventh 1917
"Dear Mum, I'm at Khalasa Springs not far from the Red Sea
They say it's in the Bible - looks like Billabong to me.
"My Kathy wrote I'm in her prayers she's still my bride to be
I just cant wait to see you both you're all the world to me
And Mum you'll soon meet Bluey, last month they shipped him out
I told him to call on you when he's up and about."
"That bluey is a larrikin, and we all thought it funny
He lobbed a Turkish hand grenade into the Co's dunny.
I told you how he dragged me wounded in from no man's land
He stopped the bleeding closed the wound with only his bare hand."
"Then he copped it at the front from some stray shrapnel blast
It was my turn to drag him in and I thought he wouldn't last
He woke up in hospital, and nearly lost his mind
Cause out there on the battlefield he'd left one leg behind."
"He's been in a bad way mum, he knows he'll ride no more
Like me he loves a horse's back he was a champ before.
So Please Mum can you take him in, he's been like my brother
Raised in a Queensland orphanage he' s never known a mother."
But Struth, I miss Australia mum, and in my mind each day
I am a mountain cattleman on high plains far away
I'm mustering white-faced cattle, with no camel's hump in sight
And I waltz my Matilda by a campfire every night
I wonder who rides Billy, I heard the pub burnt down
I'll always love you and please say hooroo to all in town".
The second letter I could see was in a lady's hand
An answer to her soldier son there in a foreign land
Her copperplate was perfect, the pages neat and clean
It bore the date November 3rd 1917.
"T'was hard enough to lose your Dad, without you at the war
I'd hoped you would be home by now - each day I miss you more"
"Your Kathy calls around a lot since you have been away
To share with me her hopes and dreams about your wedding day
And Bluey has arrived - and what a godsend he has been
We talked and laughed for days about the things you've done and seen"
"He really is a comfort, and works hard around the farm,
I read the same hope in his eyes that you wont come to harm.
Mc Connell's kids rode Billy, but suddenly that changed
We had a violent lightning storm, and it was really strange."
"Last Wednesday just on midnight, not a single cloud in sight
It raged for several minutes, it gave us all a fright
It really spooked your Billy - and he screamed and bucked and reared
And then he rushed the sliprail fence, which by a foot he cleared"
"They brought him back next afternoon, but something's changed I fear
It's like the day you brought him home, for no one can get near
Remember when you caught him with his black and flowing mane?
Now Horse breakers fear the beast that only you can tame,"
"That's why we need you home son" - then the flow of ink went dry-
This letter was unfinished, and I couldn't work out why.
Until I started reading the letter number three
A yellow telegram delivered news of tragedy
Her son killed in action - oh - what pain that must have been
The Same date as her letter - 3rd November 17
This letter which was never sent, became then one of three
She sealed behind the photo's face - the face she longed to see.
And John's home town's old timers -children when he went to war
Would say no greater cattleman had left the town before.
They knew his widowed mother well - and with respect did tell
How when she lost her only boy she lost her mind as well.
She could not face the awful truth, to strangers she would speak
"My Johnny's at the war you know , he's coming home next week."
They all remembered Bluey he stayed on to the end
A younger man with wooden leg became her closest friend
And he would go and find her when she wandered old and weak
And always softly say "yes dear - John will be home next week."
Then when she died Bluey moved on, to Queensland some did say
I tried to find out where he went, but dont know to this day
And Kathy never wed - a lonely spinster some found odd
She wouldn't set foot in a church - she'd turned her back on God
John's mother left no will I learned on my detective trail
This explains my photo's journey, that clearance sale
So I continued digging cause I wanted to know more
I found John's name with thousands in the records of the war
His last ride proved his courage - a ride you will acclaim
The Light Horse Charge at Beersheba of everlasting fame
That last day in October back in 1917
At 4pm our brave boys fell - that sad fact I did glean
That's when John's life was sacrificed, the record's crystal clear
But 4pm in Beersheba is midnight over here.......
So as John's gallant sprit rose to cross the great divide
Were lightning bolts back home a signal from the other side?
Is that why Billy bolted and went racing as in pain?
Because he'd never feel his master on his back again?
Was it coincidental? same time - same day - same date?
Some proof of numerology, or just a quirk of fate?
I think it's more than that, you know, as I've heard wiser men,
Acknowledge there are many things that go beyond our ken
Where craggy peaks guard secrets neath dark skies torn asunder
Where hoofbeats are companions to the rolling waves of thunder
Where lightning cracks like 303's and ricochets again
Where howling moaning gusts of wind sound just like dying men
Some Mountain cattlemen have sworn on lonely alpine track
They've glimpsed a huge black stallion - Light Horseman on his back.
Yes Sceptics say, it's swirling clouds just forming apparitions
Oh no, my friend you cant dismiss all this as superstition
The desert of Beersheba - or windswept Aussie range
John Stuart rides forever there - Now I dont find that strange.
Now some gaze at this photo, and they often question me
And I tell them a small white lie, and say he's family.
"You must be proud of him." they say - I tell them, one and all,
That's why he takes the pride of place - my Anzac on the Wall
Author unknown.
Bob F :002::PDT_Xtremez_12:
Bob,...........that was so moving, the words went right to my heart. I can see that sepia photograph hanging on the wall, and all the broken dreams that lay behind it. thank you for sharing it with us.
Bob,
That brought a tear to my eyes. so sad.and so inspiring.
I feel I knew John.
How moving was Bobs' poem. It reminded me of one that I came across years ago by a Flt Lt. J.N. Wortley RAFVR. It comes to mind, as an aviator, every time I look up at aircraft vapour trails in the sky. It relates to the Battle of Britain fighter pilots.
'Vapour Trails'
Mischevious, laughing boys, who grew
To quick manhood, to be 'The Few
Who flew above all human call
Through Summer's height to Autumn's fall,
Infring'd the sanctity of space
In freedom's name- and died in grace;
Falling like leaves upon the Weald
To russet-spot an English field,
Their brief gay valiant season spent
For us. Our task, their Monument,
Nature herself has taken o'er
And has decreed for evermore,
'The Few shall be remembered by
White chalk marks in a Summer sky.
ANOTHER GOOD ONE jEFF
HERE IS THE FILM OF THE lIGHT HORSE CHARGE AT BEERSHEBA, WHERE JOHN WAS KILLED.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vvjE3h0Ahz8
Also this is a good one
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1grNs_U7oT0
:)
>From The Queen's Royal Lancers Website:
Goodbye to my England, So long my old friend
Your days are numbered, being brought to an end
To be Scottish, Irish or Welsh that's fine
But don't say you're English, that's way out of line.
The French and the Germans may call themselves such
So may Norwegians, the Swedes and the Dutch
You can say you are Russian or maybe a Dane
But don't say you're English ever again.
At Broadcasting House the word is taboo
In Brussels it's scrapped, in Parliament too
Even schools are affected, staff do as they're told
They must not teach children about England of old.
Writers like Shakespeare, Milton and Shaw
The pupils don't learn about them anymore
How about Agincourt, Hastings , Arnhem or Mons ?
When England lost hosts of her very brave sons.
We are not Europeans, how can we be?
Europe is miles away over the sea
We're the English from England, let's all be proud
Stand up and be counted - Shout it out loud !
Let's tell our Government and Brussels too
We're proud of our heritage and the Red, White and Blue
Fly the flag of Saint George or the Union Jack
Let the world know - WE WANT OUR ENGLAND BACK !!!!
If you are English pass it on please
Bob F :handclap: :handclap: :handclap: :PDT_Aliboronz_24:
How sad, how true.
Hav'nt returned to this thread for a few days as I did'nt tick the e-mail notification bit. doh!
The Greenland Whale Fishery - folksong
this version 1906, there are many versions that differ in details and order of verses
'Twas eighteen hundred and twenty four,
On March the eighteenth day,
We hoist our colours to the top of the mast,
And to Greenland bore away, brave boys,
And to Greenland bore away.
Oh, the look-out up on the mainmast stood
With a spy-glass in his hand.
'There's a whale, there's a whale, and a whale-fish,' he cried.
And she blows at every span, brave boys,
And she blows at every span.'
The captain stood on the quarterdeck,
And the ice was in his eye.
'Overhaul, overhaul, let your jib-sheet fall,
And put your boats to sea, brave boys,
And put your boats to sea!'
Oh, the boats got down and the men aboard,
And the whale was full in view.
Resolved, resolved was each whalerman bold
To steer where the whale-fish blew, brave boys,
To steer where the whale-fish blew.
Now the harpoon struck and the lines played out,
But she gave such a flourish with her tail,
She capsized our boat and we lost five men,
And we could not catch that whale, brave boys,
And we could not catch that whale.
Oh, the losing of that sperm-whale fish
It grieved our captain sore,
But the losing of those five jolly tars,
Oh, it grieved him ten times more, brave boys,
Oh, it grieved him ten times more.
'Up anchor now,' the captain cried,
'For the winter's star do appear,
It is time for to leave this cold country,
And for England we will steer, brave boys,
And for England we will steer.'
Oh, Greenland is a barren place,
It's a place that bears no green,
Where there's ice and snow, and the whale-
And the daylight's seldom seen, brave boys,
And the daylight's seldom seen.
from the Cool Antarctica site.
What an excellent poem Ken, I could feel the atmosphere, it brings the picture of the convoys right into the home. hard times and brave men,
most of todays younger generation and the polititions just dont care, very sad.
I will save this to my collection.
"A destroyer dashing down the line like a sheepdog with its flock."
I especially like this 'picture'.
Good on ye Ken. :)
Thanks again Ken,
I could realy feel the deck move, the sounds of the sea as it smashes against the bow, taste the salt on my lips as I tried to get off the focsle head to the bridge at 2.30 am as she started to ship green ones over whilst on look out. Thanks for the memory.
Hi Ken
Your poems capture the feel and the sights of life at sea. Well done. Enjoyed.
Chris
Hi Ken
your "In The Stokehold" reminded me of when I was Fireman on a coal burner, one of Savages, Zillah Steamship Co, the "BEACHFIELD".
A great Poem brought it all back, I could taste the ash and coal dust, feel the heat and sweat.
Here is a piece from the account of the voyage in `Ships and the Sea` thread..........................
..........Then he got rid of the Mad Irish Fireman, he was in the focsle and started an argument with the coal bogey and because it would not stand up and fight he kicked the crap out of it, flaming coals and hot ash and smoke was all over the focsle, fire was burning every where. We had to leap up on deck and throw a heaving line with a bucket attached over the side and the pass the bucket of water down the hatch to pour on the flames. After a few of these the focsle was full of smoke and steam.
"That`ll teach the ba5tard not to fight wid me". said Paddy
The Captain kicked him down the gangway. I was going to follow, `I`ll promote you to Fireman` said Captain Marshall, `it is a good experience`.
It sure was, four hours on and four hours off, two furnaces, do your own trimming. Feed `em, throw a pitch on, a little twist of the wrist and jerk and spread the coal evenly across the fires, rake and slice, dump your own ashes at the end of the four hour watch, keep her on the blood, 180 psi, and watch the water level, I got myself a belt with the buckle at the back. A buckle at the front could blister your belly with heat of the furnace on the metal. No lights down there, just the light from the flames in the furnace, like something out of Dante. After dumping the ashes and handing over with a load of coal on the plates for the next man it would be twenty minutes later, then fight my way forard between the waves and then crash on my filthy mattress still covered in ash and coal dust, at seven bells, three hours later, get down to the galley have a bacon butty and then stagger down the fiddly to the furnaces...................
There is ever a sense of the beast about steam. I always looked upon Waverley station Edinburgh as a stable for dragons. But, to have control of such a beast on the wide sea that must be something indeed.
By the by, I have been reading lately in the papers about the 'unsinkable', with learned seafarers expounding on matters of the helm. They talk of confusion between tiller and wheel steering, the development of sonar after the iceberg and of the many lives saved because of those many lives lost.
Hi Brian and Ken,
Poetry and prose, some marvellous pieces there, you each, in your own way, captured the the moments as ancient amber captured those creatures so long ago. I was there with you both, could feel the heat as you fed the fires, feel the gentle rise and fall of the ship as she made progress through the lazy swells.
thank you
BrianD
Another good one Ken.
Isnt Seafaring a wonderful profession, Men can write stories, poems, books and films all about it.
Imagine being a plasterer, a plumber, or bricky or stood behind a machine in a factory. We never hear poems of those jobs,
Sorry for any of those trades people , no wish to offend but are there any yarns, books, poems etc of those trades?
The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists! Saturday Night and Sunday Morning,
How Green was my Valley,The Stars looked Down
BrianD
A prize on the docks.
Kitty's Amelia, a cable fastened to the quayside,
A rope, rough-fibred, and arched to a mooring post,
The strain 'eaved through the yellow stone copings,
golden they sat regally over the dock's kiln-fired bricks,
Factory mills spun cotton shirts for African princes,
glass beads, cuttlasses, fine wines, spirits and guns,
Weeks of provisioning, water line rising over copper,
Commodities themselves innocent until next port,
Sun sets starboard, misery beyond the bow spirit,
Inequitable imbalance, a market sale of humanity,
White castles, white sands, white sails, black ivory,
A dark, rolling prison, dusty shafts of light, stench,
The passage, groaning, sickness, death, salt spray,
The West Indies, a paradise, yes...but sadly lost,
Fear the hold, tis a dreaded place, cargo for a cargo,
Homeward bound, privateer's clear, profits in sight.
[The Kitty's Amelia was the last slave ship to leave Liverpool on 27th July, 1807. She was also a 'prize ship' ie: captured by another. In this case by the ship Kitty. The Amelia was then renamed Kitty's Amelia as part of her new owners claim.]
Here is one I found in the magazine, Ships, author unknown.
"I shall acknowledge old age
when the call of the far wild seas
no longer stir my blood.
When I shall not see as a boy would see
the beauty of a homeward bound ship
harbouring on the flood.
Only then will I sit in the lee of the Harbour wall
conjuring up dreams from the River`s mist.
Only then will I weep an old man`s tears
for times that I have known,
and for lips that I have left unkissed,
Dazza,
Stunning,each word crafted wih lapidarian skill;a shining jewel of a poem with a very barbed message. I read this at an opportune moment;just started to read The Book of Negroes by Lawrence Hill. It opens with this clerihew by Jonathan Swift :-
So geographers, in Afric maps,
With savage-pictures fill their gaps;
And o'er uninhabitable downs
Place elephants for want of towns.
--- Jonathan Swift
BrianD
Talking of Africa here is a poem about a young lady in Apapa Nigeria who some of us have actually met, Miss Tombo Mary.
unfortunately I cant remebmer who wrote it
On the coast of Africa where tourists never tour,
The bar was Tombo Mary's where she ruled the roost all day,
Customers were seafarers - keen to spend their pay.
In this one-roomed shanty, with hard mud for a floor,
(Palm fronds on the thatched roof and canvas for a door),
Our black mama Mary - a wondrous female sight,
Would choose a handy sailor for her carnal joys at night.
Raised up on a dias just behind the bar,
(The centre of attention from here to Calabar),
Was a huge four poster bed with linen and fine lace,
Imported from some far off land and taking pride of place.
It`s where Mary held her lover-boy for a torrid night of fun.
Piccaninnies and the bar staff - at the setting of the sun -
Would sleep below this raft of love,with tassels hanging red,
While the sailor did his duty - in Tombo Mary's bed.
Thanks Brian, great encouragement. I haven't read Hill's The Book of Negroes yet. Another to add to my wish list of must read classics.
I love Swift's first two lines:
"So geographers, in Afric maps,
With savage-pictures fill their gaps"
...which goes to prove that the greatest fears live in unchartered places.
Well done Ken, excellent work. I too was in the water after reading that. It has to be the greatest fear of most people - to die by drowning. And not only that...
A black night, with icy waters, abandoned...what could be worse? And to think so many sailors must have suffered this fate.
Thanks for posting,
Daz
Another excellent poem, Ken.
I experienced drowning once.
We were in East London, in the Eastern Cape in South Africa in 1953 on the New Zealand Star.
Sunday 13 December 1953. The Mission Man took us and some of the Mission girls to Bonza Bay for a picnic.
Ken Hignet SOS aged 20,of Mill Cottage, 1, Mill Road, Birkenhead couldnt swim and got into difficulties with the strong current and was swept away. I went to assist him and we were both swept out to sea.
The big Cape rollers got bigger and bigger,I was hanging on to him trying to get back to the beach, it was like being inside a washing machine, We were gulping water down and coughing our lungs up as we tried to surface before the next big sea hit us and forced us under again. It was a battle for survival, then Ken died and I lost his body, His last words were just "Help, Help, Help." then he was gone.The cramps started to go into my legs and then my arms, I was in a no survive situation as my vision started to go, just being swirled around in the raging sea.and then blackness.
Meanwhile a South African lad, David Brinton had seen it happening and he swam out with a life buoy on a line, he got me and I was towed unconcious, back to the beach.they gave me some rescusitation and the mission man took me to hospital where I was put to bed to recover. I came out two days later and taken back to the ship, we sailed to Durban and then to New Zealand. I never knew who had saved my life. Ken was washed up five days later and buried in the East Cemetery in East London.
48 years later as I was getting older I decided to find the lad who saved me to thank him before it was too late. In 2001, I went to East London to try and find him and also Kens grave. I found the grave, that was another experience, for a later date. he was there.
I had asked to Salvation Army if they could help to trace David Brinton,
When I got home The Salvation Army phoned me to say they had found him, He was living in Stranraer in Scotland after living in the Cape then Rhodesia and then Zimbabwe. Then one day the phone rang and it was Esther Rantzen of the BBC, TV, asking me to go on her show. So on 14 February, 2002, I went on the show at the TV Studio in London and she introduced me to David Brinton, what a wonderful feeling it was to be able to thank him after more than 48 years. We still keep in touch, what a brave lad he was.
I wrote a poem about it, not very good but the best I could do.
BONZA BAY.
In December, 1953 on the New Zealand Star
In East London we did stay
but Ken Hignett and I
didn`t know he would die
on some beach called Bonza Bay.
The story began
when the Mission Man
said he would take us away for the day
so all of us went off on his bus
to a beach called Bonza Bay
When Ken jumped in
he just couldn`t swim
and the tide soon carried him away.
Though I struggled and tried
Ken drowned and then died
near a beach called Bonza Bay
Then I was seen on a wave
by a lad named Dave
who swam out to get me away
and through struggle and strife
that lad saved my life
on a beach called Bonza Bay
When Ken washed ashore
his life was no more
Five days since he got swept away
and he lay all alone
on the the sand and the stone
on a beach called Bonza Bay
So they buried Ken in a Sailors grave
at a place where the palm trees sway,
on a foreign strand
in a far off land
near a beach called Bonza Bay
It`s been 50 years
since the grief and the tears
and in the time that I was away
I found Ken`s Grave
and the man named Dave
near a beach called Bonza Bay
.
1, The Rescue, 2, Ken`s grave in East London 2001. and 3, Ken, Me and below Mo Riley AB. 7 days before on Sunday 6 December 1953 in Cape Town.
Attached Thumbnails
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What a traumatic experience to have lived through Brian. You're lucky to come out of the other side of it, thanks to your rescuer. Something like this, I imagine, must change your life, or at least make you question your life's purpose? It was good that you got an opportunity to see his grave in East London and pay your respects.
Thanks for the poem and photos.
Daz
Terrific, Ken. I am glad I decided to check in again. I will hang around a little longer (with Father Time's cooperation.)
Poem...`Heed me boy` !
Heed me boy !
Here`s a boy, face full of hope,
first time away to a sea.
Eyes shining with wonder and pride,
heart bursting with ecstacy.
Home far behind, folks out of mind,
since this ship sailed away from a quay.
Head filled up with a great wide world,
eyes filled up with a sea.
Look hard boy, take it all in,
dream while you have the chance.
Before you`re through with this sea of yours,
she`ll lead you a merry dance.
Gaze at your far horizons,
feel like a lord of the earth.
Before you`re done, this sea you crave,
will make you prove your worth.
See your visions, dream your dreams,
feel high and free and fine.
Steer your ship `cross oceans wide,
take her `across a line`.
But heed me boy and know for sure,
you will not dream for long.
This sea you`re on has varied ways,
and can sing many a different song.
Just now she`s quiet and gentle,
and weaves around you her spell.
But give her time, she`ll change her tune,
and you`ll think you`ve arrived at Hell.
Wait for shrieking storm and raging sea`s,
wait for tumult all around.
A violent heaving pitching world,
mind battered with thunderous sound.
Wait `till you`re picked up by a sea
and carried hard against a rail.
Or swept struggling along a heaving deck,
when all your efforts fail.
Wait `till you know touch of scorching steel,
wait `till you feel searing cold.
There`ll be times when you melt in sweltering heat,
and times when the ice takes hold.
You`ll taste fear, you`ll know despair,
you`ll feel you`re on your own.
A lonely speck upon an endless sea,
a boy far away from home.
See your visions, dream your dreams,
take it easy while you can.
Take a long hard look at this sea of yours,
for she`ll make a boy a man.
So heed me boy, listen hard,
and take in what I say.
Know for sure these things will come,
so dream now whilst you may.
Copyright !
Excellent, that says it as it is, very true.
Thanks for the memory.
Brian Jacques:
Once upon a time, back in those sweltering days before the flood
When children's ideas of fun and games were shaped by Hollywood
A ragged band of Cowboys and Indians crossed the great divide
From Lambeth Road they swaggered and strode and soon were safe inside
Stanley Park, the home of bowling greens, orderly gardens, lakes and ducks and mud
A young boy stood and looked up at the red sandstone wall
And from somewhere far away a siren voice began to call
A world of creatures great and small began to form in his imagination
An artist's palette of colours gave him an inspiration
And a talent to amuse and educate became his life's vocation
I wrote this for my old friend 'Jake' a few years back. Cheers, Brian Okie
:handclap: Thanks for your post. It's a very nice poem.
Brian Jacques is missed.
Very nice, Brian. Thanks for sharing this with us. Brian Jacques is new to me as a writer. I am glad to learn about him and his writing.Quote:
Originally Posted by Brian Okie
Chris
Thanks lindylou and Chris. Here's another one:
Fate:
My dad came to Liverpool when he was just a lad
On the boat from Ireland escaping from what was bad
So it's him I have to thank for all I am today
But still the nagging doubt remains
That I'd have been a Yank if he'd sailed the other way....
Brian Jacques was a great Liverpool character - very entertaining to listen to him when he was on the radio every Sunday afternoon. He loved music as well as the written word, he had typical Liverpool wit. :) He used to visit schools for readings and poetry sessions. A really nice man.
As I say, he is greatly missed.