tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72146048828614453892024-03-06T04:51:16.088+00:00All About What: Poetry?This is the poetic section of my bloggery.Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-9094313456248057172015-07-23T00:54:00.000+01:002018-10-18T00:47:49.589+01:00SommeThousands lost<br />
For no point or purpose,<br />
Sent to their deaths <br />
By pompous fools kept<br />
Out of harm's way.<br />
<br />
Enlisted men,<br />
expendable, commodities,<br />
Spent to purchase <br />
A few yards of mud – worth<br />
More than so many?<br />
<br />
Each still corpse:<br />
A future vanished, <br />
A family ravaged,<br />
And dreams undreamt;<br />
Lost generations . . .<br />
<br />
Each who survived:<br />
A future blighted, <br />
A family crippled, <br />
A nightmare lived<br />
For all their lifetime.<br />
<br />
Remember those <br />
Who gave their whole being<br />
And think of all<br />
Who may have been<br />
Had they not died.<br />
<br />
Think of conflict,<br />
Weigh its inglorious cost,<br />
Its pitiful gain.<br />
In the name of all pity,<br />
Find a better way.<br />
<br />
<b>Copyright © 2015 Desmond Hilary</b> Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-29633646269991057282015-04-20T20:36:00.000+01:002015-07-23T00:55:35.530+01:00The Road to Emmaus<div style="text-align: center;">
To walk with a Friend –<br />
Yet not know him. <br />
To hear him speak – <br />
Yet not hear the voice. <br />
To have our hearts ablaze – <br />
Yet not discern the source. <br />
To thrill at truth revealed – <br />
Yet not see The Truth. <br />
<br />
Yet, we would delay his journey, <br />
Keep his company longer; <br />
Extend our fellowship with him gladly; <br />
Share the little we have <br />
In return for the much he has given. <br />
<br />
Familiar movements lift the bread aloft. <br />
Familiar words give thanks and bless. <br />
Familiar actions break the loaf apart, <br />
Familiar hands with unfamiliar nail-prints <br />
Pass the bread—and all is Light! <br />
And he is gone!<br />
<br />
It was Jesus! <br />
He it was who walked with us; <br />
He it was who talked with us; <br />
He it was who set us on fire; <br />
He it was who showed us truth. <br />
He it was who died and lives again! <br />
Come, we must tell the news! <br />
<br />
Still it is Jesus who <br />
Walks with us, <br />
Talks with us, <br />
Kindles our hearts, <br />
Fills them with Truth. <br />
Jesus lives! <br />
Come, we must tell the news!<br />
<br />
<b>Copyright © 2015 Desmond Hilary</b> </div>
Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-62755752817099884922015-03-31T00:31:00.000+01:002016-03-20T16:39:30.714+00:00A Quiet Night in Bethany<p dir="ltr">Well, this is it, the main event!<br>
A thunderous welcome:<br>
The cheering crowd,<br>
The waving palms, <br>
The strewn clothes.<br>
“Hosanna,” they shouted:<br>
“Save now!” their cry.<br>
Ah, yes... <br>
But not in the way they think.</p>
<p dir="ltr">For thirty years I've learnt my trade;<br>
Wielded the tools,<br>
Driven in nails,<br>
Cherished the wood, <br>
Worked with the grain;<br>
Earned a reputation,<br>
Lived a different life.<br>
Ah, yes...<br>
But not in the way they think.</p>
<p dir="ltr">For three years more I've shown the way;<br>
Wielded the words,<br>
Driven home points,<br>
Cherished their substance, <br>
Worked through their pain;<br>
Earned a certain notoriety,<br>
Marked out a different path.<br>
Ah, yes...<br>
But not in the way they think.</p>
<p dir="ltr">And now, we have but five days more.<br>
Still they are frail,<br>
Missing the point;<br>
Sensing the moment,<br>
Yet not working it out;<br>
Feeling somewhat emboldened, <br>
Set up for the decisive fray.<br>
Ah, yes...<br>
But not in the way they think.</p>
<p dir="ltr">In five days more shall all be done:<br>
The Tyrant shall fall,<br>
Shackles be broken,<br>
Freedom break out;<br>
A new world begin,<br>
Lives be transformed,<br>
And love rule the day.<br>
Ah, yes...<br>
But not in the way they think.</p>
<p dir="ltr">For soldier-boys will ply my trade;<br>
Wielding the tools,<br>
Driving in nails.<br>
I'll cherish the wood, <br>
Hang against the grain<br>
Beneath a reputation;<br>
Die a different death.<br>
Ah, yes...<br>
But not in the way they think.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><b>Copyright © 2015 Desmond Hilary</b> </p>
Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-15691181652270950452014-04-19T01:30:00.000+01:002015-07-23T00:56:28.217+01:00Sabbath WrestHope lies cold and dead entombed,<br />
Deep despair grasps for its loss,<br />
Brokenness in shadows hides.<br />
Much expected—nothing came.<br />
<br />
Haunted by the sounds and sights—<br />
Soldiers, priests and shouting crowd;<br />
Questions by the flick'ring fire.<br />
Courage needed—nothing came.<br />
<br />
Haunted by that fireside look,<br />
Crowing rooster's mocking cry;<br />
Dismal failure wracks the mind.<br />
Love was needed—nothing came.<br />
<br />
Hide away, for cringing shame.<br />
Hide away, in fear and dread.<br />
Hide away, to weep and mourn.<br />
Much was promised—nothing came.<br />
<br />
<b>Copyright © 2014 Desmond Hilary</b> Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-35228016359770128652012-02-17T14:25:00.002+00:002015-07-23T00:56:39.654+01:00Winter WalkA winter's day of pure delights:<br />
The crisp, cold air on nose and cheeks;<br />
In clear blue skies, the brilliant sun<br />
Hangs low against the treetops bare;<br />
See frost-white vistas, frozen streams,<br />
And smoke like rods from chimney pots;<br />
The wintry-pink of evening light,<br />
The glass-still river sliding by. <br />
Keen walkers, layered from the chill,<br />
A welcome warm, a wholesome meal<br />
Find at the inn at close of day.<br />
Such joys as these no equal find.<br />
<br />
<b>Copyright © 2012 Desmond Hilary</b>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-89269051112210215202011-08-23T20:06:00.002+01:002014-03-21T23:45:26.053+00:00Nothing<p dir=ltr><i>Actually, this is one I wrote ages ago, when life was very different.  I found it in the loft this week and thought it worth publishing here.</i></p>
<p dir=ltr>A man alone<br>
Soon finds time<br>
To question his being —<br>
And why life finds him so entrancing<br>
As to share him with<br>
No-one.</p>
<p dir=ltr>Company gone,<br>
Solitude returns<br>
Bringing only grief <br>
Like a jealous friend<br>
Grieved that he can love<br>
Another.</p>
<p dir=ltr>She has nought to say —<br>
Save that awsome silence<br>
That cries out<br>
In pitiable anguish,<br>
Why can you not cherish<br>
Me?</p>
<p dir=ltr>How can he love<br>
One who gives him nothing<br>
But, constant, reminds him of<br>
What might be<br>
If only there were<br>
She...</p>
<p dir=ltr>She who is warm,<br>
She who is tender,<br>
She whose love throbs and thrills.<br>
She whose beauty dazzles<br>
The noon-day sun and stills<br>
All.</p>
<p dir=ltr>Yet here there is pain<br>
At wasted love<br>
In endless time soon over.<br>
Having smashed us on its reefs<br>
It casts us on its shore to die<br>
Alone.</p>
<p dir=ltr><b>Copyright © 1980 Desmond Hilary</b></p>
Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-77038771534384784692010-11-05T13:30:00.002+00:002011-01-12T23:33:52.047+00:00On the Passing of a Friend<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">So vital, so large,<br />
Full of energy and fun;<br />
So fierce, so gentle,<br />
Intelligent and strong;<br />
You knew how to live.<br />
We wanted you to stay<br />
But your suffering was<br />
Unacceptable;<br />
And so you had to leave...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Copyright © 2010 Desmond Hilary</span></div>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-39239659948521394222010-02-10T11:51:00.001+00:002010-02-10T15:40:40.863+00:00Ode to Beer<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">The day's oppressive heat gives way to beer,<br />
A cool, refreshing pint drawn from the cask.<br />
The dew-bejewelled glass of liquid cheer<br />
Shall answer every question Thirst can ask.<br />
<br />
The golden brew prepared for action stands.<br />
It waits, so still beneath its snowy cap,<br />
To spend itself in drowning Thirst's demands;<br />
The end for which it gladly left the tap.<br />
<br />
He too, who watches on, anticipates<br />
With licking tongue through parted teeth and lips,<br />
Then lifts the full-charged glass aloft and waits<br />
To kiss the vessel's rim with savouring sips.<br />
<br />
He pours and draws his succour from the flow.<br />
The tumbling torrent cools his dust-dry throat,<br />
Its flavours bright and lively set aglow<br />
His tongue and flood his mouth with fulsome note.<br />
<br />
The liquid's new-found host thus sated sighs <br />
And sets upon the bar the emptied glass,<br />
And wipes his smile, and winks with sparkling eyes<br />
All new-enamoured at the tavern's lass!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Copyright © 2010 Desmond Hilary</span><br />
<div class="zemanta-pixie"><img alt="" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/pixy.gif?x-id=6cb10015-c9a2-81db-b7c9-6221fc614d02" /></div></div>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-20787938327381055072009-10-21T23:31:00.004+01:002009-10-22T22:21:09.242+01:00Fallen<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Fallen, and for what?<br />
To save a continent<br />
From the jack-booted heel.<br />
<div style="margin-left: 4ex;"><i>For the lands of their allies<br />
To be hammered and <br />
Reaped by a blood-red Star? </i><br />
</div><br />
Fallen, and for what?<br />
To defend our liberty,<br />
Our freedom from tyranny.<br />
<div style="margin-left: 4ex;"><i>For their children to treat<br />
Liberty as license, or embrace <br />
Tyranny in the name of tolerance? </i><br />
</div><br />
Fallen, and for what?<br />
They fought for our lives,<br />
By laying down their own.<br />
<div style="margin-left: 4ex;"><i>They fought not for their world <br />
But that we might build a better one: <br />
What did we build? </i><br />
</div><br />
Fallen, and for what?<br />
Remember the Fallen and ask, <br />
Are we worthy of their Sacrifice?<br />
<div style="margin-left: 4ex;"><i>Could they but see what we became, <br />
Would they, bemused, ask themselves, <br />
Fallen, and for what?</i><br />
</div><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Copyright © 2009 Desmond Hilary</span><br />
<br />
<i>For Remembrance Day, 11 November 2009</i><br />
<div class="zemanta-pixie"><img alt="" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/pixy.gif?x-id=b4a46de8-9c09-842b-835c-fc9a5c5f2413" /><br />
</div></div>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-35169069927449437842009-06-26T13:39:00.004+01:002009-07-16T22:15:02.897+01:00Too Much To Do<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Too much to do<br />And not enough me.<br />One me is all I have,<br />One day at a time.<br />It's all good stuff<br />But hard to stomach,<br />Like over-salted food<br />On an overloaded plate.<br /><br />I'm swimming in treacle,<br />Dark and sticky,<br />That resists all effort<br />At forward motion.<br />Or I'm treading water<br />In a stagnant pond<br />At midnight - nothing to see,<br />There's just a bad smell.<br /><br />There's a beached whale<br />To heave into the sea.<br />I don't know what's best:<br />Push it, or pull?<br />Dolphins frolic<br />In that limitless sea.<br />I watch, and wish<br />I could play like them...<br /><br />Yet, each day brings progress.<br />Put enough days together<br />And the job is done.<br />One day at a time.<br />Each day, a new start.<br />Each day, the next step.<br />I'm moving the mountain,<br />One rock at a time.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Copyright © 2009 Desmond Hilary</span><br /><br /></div>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-60062222280090016022009-05-26T12:54:00.007+01:002009-05-28T13:24:51.241+01:00A Dog's Life<div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbf0JLIVgNp2L9xA2RBZYbu3L0SZRqRwMLf8-IN_ASavkak0HXhODQrz3RVgVtEucufMSpkeSij9UqJ8TwtYdc3zwKxIlhNGXGwXwDMyWp2wIkgf7uL-jMex27qnwb5jnVooDjX7A3Cw/s144/%5BUNSET%5D.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 108px; height: 144px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbf0JLIVgNp2L9xA2RBZYbu3L0SZRqRwMLf8-IN_ASavkak0HXhODQrz3RVgVtEucufMSpkeSij9UqJ8TwtYdc3zwKxIlhNGXGwXwDMyWp2wIkgf7uL-jMex27qnwb5jnVooDjX7A3Cw/s144/%5BUNSET%5D.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div>The sea! The sea! I love the sea,<br />With waves that slosh about.<br />Its salty water beckons me,<br />‘Come in, please don’t stay out.’<br />Although it’s freezing, I am bold;<br />I’ll gladly take the chance<br />To plunge into those waters cold<br />And splash and swim and prance.<br /><br />The sand! The sand! I love the sand<br />That lies so flat and wide.<br />There’s lots of room upon the strand,<br />Depending on the tide.<br />I’d gladly stay here all the day<br />To splash and chase the brine<br />And run to fetch my ball and play<br />And dig the sand so fine.<br /><br />The car! The car! I love the car<br />That brings me to this place<br />And takes me home to fields afar<br />With wind blown in my face.<br />I love to have the window down<br />And roll upon the seat,<br />And smell the smells of field and town,<br />And wipe my dirty feet.<br /><br />My food! My food! I love my food<br />Served in my shiny dish;<br />Leftovers fried or boiled or stewed,<br />Or even some fresh fish,<br />Are what I like the best to eat<br />But kibble smells all right.<br />I’ll gobble ‘til I’m quite replete<br />Then fart for half the night!<br /><br />My bed! My bed! I love my bed<br />With stuffing soft and deep.<br />I’m quite worn out and nicely fed,<br />So, time to go to sleep.<br />I’ll dream of cars and sea and sand<br />And other pleasant spots,<br />And food that fills my tummy, and<br />My folks, who love me lots.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Copyright © 2009 Desmond Hilary (with help from Maximus Flatus Rex)</span>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-69255157701904394042009-05-25T19:05:00.006+01:002009-05-31T20:20:03.998+01:00A Summer Reverie<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">When summer kisses England<br />There is no lovelier place.<br />See the green meadows<br />With wild flowers festooned:<br />Brazen buttercups hoist high their heads<br />In mimicry of the sun;<br />Subtle speedwells, spread carpet-like,<br />Reflect the firmament;<br />Dazzling daisies’ pristine petals<br />Resolutely face the light;<br />Campions blush, embarrassed<br />By their own beauty.<br />Bees, in lazy haste,<br />Unbiased, visit each bloom<br />With diligent care.<br /><br />The river, no more rushing<br />From wintry ravages to salty oblivion,<br />Now languid, slides slowly by,<br />Playing among the rocks,<br />Basking in warm sunlight.<br />Swallows swoop and dart<br />And twist and dive,<br />Beneath the open sky.<br />Multifarious birdsong breaks<br />Upon the listener’s ear,<br />Instilling awe and wonder.<br />The riotous greens that surround,<br />Of tree and field, of vale and hill,<br />Fill the eye and its owner<br />With rest and joy of living.<br /><br />No, in all the world,<br />There is no fairer place<br />Than England’s countryside<br />Caressed by summer’s kiss.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Copyright © 2009 Desmond Hilary</span><br /><br /></div>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-44812111825051565932009-05-11T13:23:00.001+01:002009-05-12T22:50:56.553+01:00The Ornamental Garden<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'>Here, Nature's marvels orchestrated<br/>Play, the human eye to please,<br/>With rich new colours variegated<br/>Set beneath great, ancient trees;<br/>Warm sunlight bathing open spaces,<br/>Shapes and patterns, shades of green,<br/>And greens in shade in sheltered places;<br/>Birdsong urgent, now serene.<br/><br/>The paths that guide the eye's direction<br/>Lead our weary, wand'ring feet<br/>To find a place of contemplation<br/>At some beauteous vista's seat.<br/>In view, in watery reflection<br/>Muted, Nature's song still clear<br/>Can melt away our disaffection,<br/>Quell our darkest, inmost fear.<br/><br/>For here, all Nature's gathered treasures<br/>Ordered by the craftsman's skill<br/>Can clouded minds transform with pleasures,<br/>Anxious hearts by respite still.<br/>This peaceful place, its moments tranquil,<br/>Bars all turmoil from its ground,<br/>Reminds us that our lives are special,<br/>Tunes us to a deeper sound.<br/><br/><span style='font-weight: bold;'>Copyright © 2009 Desmond Hilary</span><br/><br/><i>Inspired by Samares Gardens, Jersey</i></div>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-49635327268921944332009-04-26T22:34:00.003+01:002013-10-27T17:03:41.761+00:00The Making of Me<span style="font-style: italic;">One life is all I have.<br />What will I do with it?</span><br />
<br />
I could make the most of it:<br />
Indulge myself and seek out pleasure,<br />
Take what I want wherever I can get it,<br />
Give nothing out except to my advantage,<br />
Use whoever and whatever,<br />
Every appetite to gratify;<br />
Then, at the end, look back<br />
And revel in the making of <b>ME!</b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">One life is all I have.<br />What will I do with it?</span><br />
<br />
I could make the best of it:<br />
Deny myself and lay up treasure,<br />
Give all I can to those who truly need it,<br />
Take nothing to another’s disadvantage,<br />
Use myself and all I am,<br />
Others’ real needs to satisfy;<br />
Then, past the end, look back<br />
And marvel at the <i>making</i> of me.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 4ex;">
One life, two ways<br />
To spend my days,<br />
When fullness means empty<br />
Or nothing means all,<br />
Where one ends in silence,<br />
The other shouts loud.</div>
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">One life is all I have.<br />What will I do with it...?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Copyright © 2009 Desmond Hilary</span>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-86704644775408001572009-04-12T06:00:00.004+01:002015-03-26T13:20:01.402+00:00Son’s-day MorningBrilliant, burning light<br />
Floods the tomb.<br />
Darkness flees the flame<br />
For sanctuary in the shadows<br />
But finds they are gone:<br />
For here, there is light<br />
And no darkness.<br />
<br />
Brilliant, burning light<br />
Banishes darkness.<br />
Death’s grip slips away,<br />
A broken body breathes –<br />
Breathes, and lives again:<br />
For here, there is life<br />
And no death.<br />
<br />
Brilliant, burning light<br />
Restores and heals<br />
The True Light of the World,<br />
Who stands and laughs loud,<br />
Delights in life itself;<br />
For here, there is wholeness<br />
And no pain.<br />
<br />
Brilliant, burning light!<br />
Angelic beings<br />
Fold the remnants of defeat,<br />
Bow low before their Maker,<br />
Gaze up at his face, and smile;<br />
For here, there is triumph<br />
And no defeat.<br />
<br />
Brilliant, burning light<br />
Proclaims resurrection,<br />
That He who lives and was dead<br />
Is now alive for ever<br />
And, with Him, all who are His;<br />
For here, there is eternity<br />
And no ending.<br />
<br />
Brilliant, burning light<br />
Spills past the moving stone<br />
And presages the age<br />
Of new-hearted people<br />
Who can lift their heads:<br />
For here, there is favour<br />
And no shame.<br />
<br />
Brilliant, burning light<br />
For all the world to see.<br />
The Light of Life and All People<br />
Wrought in one act on one day<br />
Everlasting peace:<br />
For here, there is shalom,<br />
And full salvation.<br />
<br />
<b>Copyright © 2009 Desmond Hilary</b>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-68198710626348852312009-04-10T06:00:00.001+01:002016-08-11T00:50:46.300+01:00God’s Friday<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
Darkness rolls in.<br />
A man weeps in a garden,<br />
Pleading for release but<br />
There is no escape.<br />
<br />
Darkness rolls in.<br />
Liberty, now captured,<br />
Is carried away,<br />
Betrayed by a kiss.<br />
<br />
Darkness rolls in.<br />
Witnesses lie on oath.<br />
The Guardians of Justice<br />
Condemn the Innocent.<br />
<br />
Darkness rolls in.<br />
The first beating is dealt.<br />
Mockery and Humiliation<br />
Pluck at his beard.<br />
<br />
Darkness rolls in.<br />
The Roman finds no fault<br />
But condemns him still; soldiers<br />
Flense him with whips.<br />
<br />
Darkness rolls in.<br />
The troops have their sport:<br />
He is known as a king, so they<br />
Crown him with thorns.<br />
<br />
Darkness rolls in.<br />
He is lead out to die<br />
Like a common criminal,<br />
Carrying his end.<br />
<br />
Darkness rolls in.<br />
Nails are driven home,<br />
The hammering drowned by<br />
An agony of cries.<br />
<br />
Darkness rolls in.<br />
The sun hides its face.<br />
The man breathes his last.<br />
His broken mother weeps.<br />
<br />
Darkness rolls in.<br />
Splattering in the dust,<br />
The final drops of blood<br />
Carry all our deaths.<br />
<br />
Darkness rolls in.<br />
Remains, wrapped in linen,<br />
Lifeless, still, grown cold, are<br />
Sealed in a tomb.<br />
<br />
Darkness rolls in<br />
And laughs in its triumph,<br />
Then gasps and trembles, for<br />
The Light is coming…<br />
<br />
<b>Copyright © 2008 Desmond Hilary</b></div>
Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-65888918311467628982009-03-28T23:54:00.004+00:002009-05-27T13:29:39.524+01:00A 40th Birthday Poem<span style="font-style: italic;">It is my friend's 40th birthday, a special event. I marked it with this poem.</span><br /><br />Birthdays come and birthdays go<br />But this one is a special kind<br />That ends with zero just to show<br />Another decade lies behind.<br />Moustaches from your nose will grow<br />From this day forward, you will find;<br />To show the wisdom of your years,<br />Grey tufts shall sprout out from your ears.<br /><br /><b>Copyright © 2009 Desmond Hilary</b>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-90350794076257957162008-12-03T19:38:00.002+00:002021-05-04T23:42:16.165+01:00Piercing the Darkness<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">A star appears and shines on high, </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Intrigues wise men and draws them nigh </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">By light gone forth across the sky </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">And piercing the darkness. </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Strange beings in the air appear </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">With stunning news that thrills the ear, </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">That sends poor shepherds to revere </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">The light that shines in darkness. </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Who suckles at this mother’s breast, </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">This cuckoo in another’s nest? </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">This man-child, God made manifest, </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Brings light into the darkness. </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">High over all and robed in light, </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Almighty God perceived our plight, </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Removed his garb and, on that night, </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Stepped down into our darkness. </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">With his appearance – long foretold </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">In puzzles penned by men of old – </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Begins the battle to unfold </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">To rescue us from darkness. </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">This fragile and audacious plan, </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Cast in the confines of a man, </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">By enigmatic forfeit can </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Forever banish darkness. </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">So pause a while to look, and see </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">This reckless love for you and me, </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">This sense-defying mystery, </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">That saves us from the darkness. </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Come, bow in awe before your King, </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Who stripped Himself of everything </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">For us eternal life to bring – </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">All light and naught of darkness. </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> </div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><b>Copyright © 2008 Desmond Hilary</b>
</div>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-52745434272235084982008-11-29T16:37:00.002+00:002009-05-12T22:49:24.792+01:00Hope<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">A thin wish that something might turn up?<br />A vague feeling that it may be all right in the end?<br /><br />A baby who will change the world.<br />A man raised from the dead.<br /><br />The eager expectation of things that are certain.<br />Knowing that, come what may, all shall be well.<br /><br />An inner resilience.<br />An anchor in Heaven.<br /><br /><b>Copyright © 2008 Desmond Hilary</b></div>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-62648030728806957732008-11-16T23:26:00.003+00:002009-10-21T23:33:28.627+01:00Remembrance<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">I’m glad I’ve never been to war,<br />
To face the foe and try to kill<br />
A man I’ve never met before<br />
Who never yet has done me ill,<br />
Whose only crime was done at birth:<br />
Born in the wrong part of God’s Earth.<br />
<br />
I’m glad I’ve never been to war,<br />
To feed on rats, and lice sustain,<br />
And scrape my flesh until it’s raw;<br />
My guts of dysentery to drain;<br />
To fear the crump of falling shells<br />
And live in dread of man-made hells.<br />
<br />
I’m glad I’ve never been to war,<br />
Sent out against the enemy<br />
By orders that are likely more<br />
To be my end, to finish me:<br />
To charge through mud with laboured breath,<br />
Weighed down to stop me dodging death.<br />
<br />
I’m glad I’ve never been to war,<br />
To know the love of comrades dear<br />
Who, borne on by esprit de corps,<br />
Would give their lives to end my fear,<br />
Or sing to lift my spirits high<br />
When terrors brought the Reaper nigh.<br />
<br />
I’m glad I’ve never been to war,<br />
To watch my comrade’s final breath<br />
Come bubbling through his blood-stained jaw;<br />
To hear his pleading words at death<br />
His mother call his hand to take<br />
And lead him home, for Mercy’s sake.<br />
<br />
I’m glad I’ve never been to war,<br />
To see my friend, robbed of his sense,<br />
A firing squad to stand before<br />
His ‘cowardice’ to recompense.<br />
No coward, he, whose mind was shot<br />
By horrors that are best forgot.<br />
<br />
I’m glad I’ll never go to war<br />
And wish that none that path need take,<br />
But those who must, who leave our shore,<br />
Our peace to keep, for our Land’s sake,<br />
They all a place of honour find,<br />
Close to my heart, and in my mind.<br />
<br />
<b>Copyright © 2008 Desmond Hilary</b><br />
</div>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-23220124917425142702008-10-16T19:46:00.003+01:002009-05-12T22:52:12.720+01:00The Fear of Not Having Enough<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'>The bread is stale,<br/>Its few remaining slices<br/>Green with mould;<br/>Its dankness fills the air.<br/>A bitter, empty wind<br/>Threads through a tottering fence.<br/>Pharaoh’s last, wizened cow<br/>Would bellow its woe<br/>Had it strength enough.<br/><br/>The eagle soars,<br/>Oblivious to dearth, <br/>Its vision attuned <br/>To its realm’s bounty.<br/><br/>O, to be that monarch of the skies;<br/>To fly away and beyond<br/>To Cornucopia’s shore<br/>Where lack alone is wanting…<br/>One day, my child, you shall fly<br/>Far beyond the eagle’s range.<br/>One day, my child, riches will abound<br/>But, until then, I Am with you<br/>And enough is enough.<br/><br/><b>Copyright © 2008 Desmond Hilary</b></div>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-75581180151306489472008-07-12T22:22:00.002+01:002009-05-12T22:51:57.725+01:00Notes on 'An Anniversary Poem'<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">You will note from the copyright date that this was actually written much earlier than most of the stuff on this blog. I thought, nonetheless, that it should be here along with everything else. You may also note that I began my relationship with the iambic pentameter many years ago.<br /><br />I wrote the poem for my wife on the occasion of our fourth wedding anniversary. Make sure you have a bucket ready before you read the next sentence. Apart from the fact that the idealistic concept of first stanza is impossible - since neither of us will live that long, at least in this life - the rest of it still holds good. <br /></div>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-49546239897189157942008-07-12T22:07:00.001+01:002009-05-12T22:51:15.010+01:00An Anniversary Poem<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'>The love which drew us close and made us one<br/>Shall last as long as earth, drawn by the sun,<br/>Pursues its endless course among the spheres,<br/>Undaunted by the passing of the years.<br/><br/>And as the moon unceasing turns its face<br/>To gaze upon fair earth's effulgent grace,<br/>E'en so my heart is turned to yours alone<br/>And casts its light to bid your darkness gone.<br/><br/>As seasons change, our lives inconstant stream -<br/>Spring's hopes give way to summer's fleeting dream,<br/>The autumn's leaves with vivid colours glow,<br/>And winter has the beauty of the snow.<br/><br/>Though many things in life may bring us pain<br/>The many more shall yield us joy again,<br/>And passing time shall prove these things are true:<br/>God's grace, companion hearts, my love for you.<br/><br/><b>Copyright © 1994 Desmond Hilary</b></div>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-50481243348716418462008-07-02T13:43:00.004+01:002009-05-12T22:51:57.726+01:00Notes on 'On Writer's Block'Probably all writers have days - maybe weeks, months, years - when the Muse forsakes them. I am no exception. The important thing is to write something, <span style="font-style: italic;">anything!</span><span> I wrote the poem below as an attempt to express the frustration of it but, unfortunately, was headed off at the pass by the complaint itself. Anyway, despite the malevolent little monkey's best efforts, I think I achieved my goal.<br /></span>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7214604882861445389.post-7307096792773346752008-07-02T13:40:00.008+01:002009-05-12T22:48:36.882+01:00On Writer's BlockWriter's Block<br />Is like a clock<br />That's stopped and winder's lost.<br /><br />Mmmm...<br /><br />Writer's Block<br />Is like a sock<br />With holes at toe and heel.<br /><br />Oh, stuff it...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Copyright © 2008 Desmond Hilary</span>Desmond Hilaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16239750875463354380noreply@blogger.com1