"Memories"

Memories 

Hidden in the forest
Where the trees grow thick and strong,
There's a cottage, small and humble, 
Where I lived when I was young.

There's a yellow roof of thatch,
And a rough red chimney there,
With diamond latticed windows
Letting in the cool fresh air.

When work was finished for the day
In peace I hurried home;
Through the trees so thick and handsome,
Where as a child I'd roam.

A smiling face would greet me;
Hot dinner on the grate:
But one day all was lonely,
'Twas so early, yet so late.

No smoke came from the chimney,
No whispers filled the air;
But the memories still haunt me
Of my mother smiling there.

Now many years have crept along,
I sadly realise
That never shall I see again
The love-light in her eyes.

Till I walk down the cobbled path,
And lift that rusty latch;
Till memory brings back once more
My home with the yellow thatch.
© Colin Gordon-Farleigh 

Old Flame

Old Flame

My memory plays the tricks

of age, making the lines

and shadows disappear

from your face.

I catch your eye and,

turning half away,

you beckon with a look

for me to follow.

Your hand slips

comfortably into mine

and we move off into the night,

there to live our

shared fantasies:

and then my head jerks,

lolling, half asleep in

my chair,

dreaming

half-remembered dreams,

I wake,

seeing you there

across the room,

and then

I light the flame once more

a thousand times.

© 2006 : Colin Gordon-Farleigh

I'm Interviewed At Poets United

I was honored to be interviewed as part of Poets United "Life of a Poet" series. It's fairly comprehensive and includes some fun photos and limericks. So if you'd like to know some of my deep, dark secrets, here it is. :)

Maybe you'd be happier with the T-4

Being sent spanking back to poverty, we expected scenes like this. One feels that the windy neighborhoods are more exposed to the way the planet spins. We may have used this cutting edge pool robot for two seasons. It needs a little tightening of screws. Come and see us in our new location: Mountain Hill Wheeled Estate Homes for Those who Can't Get a Loan. You know the route.

haiku

listening

to the sonorous... read more

Pursuit

I was irresponsible
almost obsessively so
I watched the grass grow green on the back porch
then turn gray with the stone

Can I injure my eyes by crying?

crying and traumatic globe luxation? precursors for tears during sex?

Ulysses Ossuary

I am Ulysses Ossuary, also known
as Barton Bone, part-time professional
ventriloquist. I throw my voice around
the house afraid of getting hollowed out.
I’m wary of the basement water
rising through the kitchen linoleum and
rivering out my open door. When thick
necked hardhats and the cracked
landlord inspect the suspect pipes I play
a sad croquet of wickets with impossible lips
and wonder about the broken hinges
on the box of shoes I don’t wear anymore.

read more

the sound of

the ash...

The Loss of a Dream

Floorboards creak.

She creeps to me where I lie asleep,

tears on her cheeks, voice cracked with sleep.

"Nightmare?" I ask, sweeping the sheet...

Decay and Fall

Is a mouthful of crumbling concrete
a sign for a cleaning and check-up
asked our professor Doctor English about

a simple operation on my upper lip
to make it plumper, a little stitch at the corner
by a white-coated girl in the barbershop’s

read more

Bathtime

Hundreds of fleeting bubbles pop

with the sweep of an arm,

the splash

of a foot.

Punctuated with little girl voices:

"Pretend we're princesses."

"Pretend we're getting married."

Mounds of luminous bubbles

pile high on their heads--

delicate, ephemeral crowns.

Hundreds of fleeting bubbles pop,

autumn haiku

curled up

in the hollow of the night ....

Ride

The engine won’t turn over
by turning a key in the trunk.
Rocco my favorite actor
takes the wheel to get it going.
Straight out, the guy’s a respectable mess.
It’s like he lives in the trees.

read more

Salute to Returning Heroes

Returning Hero
Who will be there to remember,
when all has been said and done,
in the cold grey dawn of November,
with a flag and the sound of a gun?
When our heroes return in their coffins
to the bugler’s lonesome call;
and the wives and mothers are weeping
― for they have lost most of all.
Did they give their all in battle
for a brush with the news-hour fame;
for a medal and commendation,
of their soon forgotten name?
Was there purpose in their fighting
or did they die in vain?
Were they sent to war for no reason,
a pointless cause in the main?
When the day comes dawning,
and the final result is zero,
we will recall the brothers and sons,
who were named as returning hero.
We will stand and we'll remember,
and salute their forgotten youth;
each year, in the dawn of November,
as we consider the bitterest truth.
© 2010 : Colin Gordon-Farleigh

Playing For Keeps

I listen to your old songs

and for the first time

your words strike a chord

and touch me deep

never realized before

just ... entire poem

Worst Summer Ever

Everyone said so or
everyone who had no
place to go which was
anyone we cared to know.

Digital church bells tolled the hours
of sun roasted office towers.

The water was too shallow for laps.
A big blue tarp kept us circling the edge.

read more

War Trench

I feel good in this bed. I want to pay for it, pay the charges. I owe it to Sears, feeling this good; I want to pay them everything I owe. I want to pay my debt.

Sunset Reverie

I have a cigarette on the fire escape

while I wait for you to stop by

Jimmy’s ‘Castles made of sand’

coming down from the roof

takes me back to better days

like summers in Grand Isle

-

Hasty cars rush by on the avenue below

while their fumes climb up the stairs

The sun slowly sinking

behind the skyline

entire poem

Hut O' Saints

Clear in the middle of the preserve sits a Hut of Saints...