CYNWYD CASTLE BOOKS

 

LIBRARY - POETRY

Page updated 10-15-06

Contents

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 God Speed- Richard I. Thorman 11-08-04.    

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 Avalon Anon- Richard I. Thorman 03-12-01.    

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 haiku fog- Richard I. Thorman 26-12-04.                                                  

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 High Tech In Babylon- Richard I. Thorman 05-12-03.                                                  

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 Christmas Eve First published in Echoes in the Wind.

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 Eternal Dances First published in From Cynwyd Castle.

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Crazy Annie First published in Echoes in the Wind.

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Autumnal Solitudes - First published in From Cynwyd Castle.

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The Bard's Malediction - First published in From Cynwyd Castle.

           

    ( Richard I. Thorman 11-08-04)

GOD SPEED by Richard I. Thorman.

 

Mists of early morning

yet greyed the sky

as the sober-faced youth

stood motionless

and contemplated

the broad Atlantic

with its restless currents

and resistless undertow.

 

Like many a mariner

on the brink of a voyage

of self discovery

the youth prayed

for strength and courage

to face whatever

gale force adversity

he might encounter.

 

His ambitious goal

was to run from

sea to far-off sea

soliciting donations

and persuading

ordinary Canadians

to join with him

in the war on cancier.

 

On that grey dawn

so many years ago

and with a smile on his face

Terry Fox balanced

on his muscular left leg

to dip his artificial one

in the Atlantic Ocean

then pivoted and was off.

 

With a hop/stride

hop/stride, hop/stride

this determined young man

with wind-rippled curly hair

started a quest for a cure

which millions around

the world would join.

God Speed Terry Fox's Dream.

 

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    ( Richard I. Thorman 03-12-01)

AVALON ANON by Richard I. Thorman.

 

mounting each a stallion wide

    and steadied by a mane

these young relive their final space

    warm flesh explodes again

 

minds savouring cry and scream

    as thunder flashes fears

steed and rider sharing hell

    dust channels sharing tears

 

in high meadows bright in sun

    wait innocents of old

hearts of friends and foe to cleanse

    and waiting arms enfold

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    ( Richard I. Thorman 26-12-04)

haiku fog by Richard I. Thorman.

 

fog with breath of Spring

is visitor unwelcome

to lurking grey snow

 

fog stirs memories

of familiar places

painting in pastels

 

fog spreads like white smoke

gently settling in lowlands

pierced by dead tree stumps

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( Richard I. Thorman 26-12-04)

HIGH TECH IN BABYLON by Richard I. Thorman.

 

Part # USxxxxx Night Goggles

Moon and men

play dangerous games

of hide and seek

in shades of green,

contradicting memory

of cerebral pools

of familiar colours.

 

Part # USxxxxx Head-mounted Computer Display

 

Alpha-numeric shadows

flit like bats at nightfall

in some surreal space

where once butterflies

in colours of party balloons

frolicked and nourished

innocence of childhood.

 

Part # USxxxxx Rugged Laptop Computer

 

A lone lizard squats

in shade of smoking tank

and rests, its half-lidded

eyes on guard should

discarded beeping notebook

awaken to the danger

of drifting sand.

 

Part # USxxxxx G.I. Joe

 

Soldier in desert camouflage

with sweaty finger on warm trigger

ready to deliver instant death

thinks of his young family

while dust-covered Arab children

run along side his armoured

vehicle with thin arms outstretched

and soprano voices pleading for

some water please, some water . . .

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  (First published in "Echoes in the Wind")

CHRISTMAS EVE by Richard I. Thorman.

 

As night descends round the earth

            and the light show of the heavens

                        signals Christmas Eve,

 

thoughts of children and some adults

            transcend barriers of language,

                        religion, race and wealth,

 

enjoined in a fervent wish

            that all humankind may find

                        peace and freedom from fear.

 

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(First published in "From Cynwyd Castle")

ETERNAL DANCES by Richard I. Thorman.

  

Excited by irresistible fragrances

of delicate summer wildflowers,

humming bees instinctively lust after

golden globes of sweet nectar

cloaked in mysterious depths.

 

Slender young stocks sway gently

as humming birds in colorful best

intimately probe with softest touch

the secrets of translucent blooms.

 

Seasons and generations of man

in ecstatic heydays of sensuality,

in fever heats of deep mouthed passion,

in flaming raptures of the eternal dance,

rise to the primeval urge to procreate.

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(First published in "Echoes in the Wind")

CRAZY ANNIE by Richard I. Thorman.

 

She is called Crazy Annie

      in the streets and alleys

               where she lives.   

 

She speaks to herself and often everyone about her

understanding babble of babies and young children

when often rapport with adults seems unnecessary.

 

She dines in the company of pigeons, squirrels, gulls

and sparrows; hugs trees and park sculptures; plays

with old treasures and waltzes with shadows of dawn.

 

She revels in the uncertain humors of seasonality,

tasting rain, watching pussy willows, tracing sunsets,

humming to fragrant winds and dancing snowflakes.

 

She shuffles along through harsh realities of living,

knowing she is not alone with pain and adversity,

playing out a unique role in some greater unknown. 

 

She is Crazy Annie

      but she is someone else

               someone special.

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(First published in "From Cynwyd Castle")

AUTUMNAL SOLITUDES  by  Richard I. Thorman.

 My walk around the farm perimeter

this rare blue-sky day in late autumn

is shrouded in melancholic musings.

Even the antics and bubbling enthusiasm

of Major engrossed in canine pursuits

of wispy trails of shadowy creatures

who have dared to trespass in his realm

fails to divert from deeper reflections.

 

Crisp leaves crackle and complain underfoot.

Hardened lumps of earth wobble the soles,

ankle musculature conjuring up past sprains.

Fragranceless, sanitized whiffs of cool air

tingle the nostrils and cheeks, reminding

that soon the grey faded greenery will be

snuggled under a plump duvet of white on white.

 

Wands of grey colourless golden rod

stand poised ready to strike when spring

signals the annual competition of rebirth.

Evergreens stand reassuringly like sentinels

reaffirming continuity, chromatic colour

mid the somber pigments of the fall canvas.

 

Sounds of a barking dog echo hauntingly

across the hills and stubbled fields

as if scolding a master who has deprived him

of summer diversions and friends.

Major freezes and listens.

 

All is dearly familiar

like cherished memorabilia,

family albums with fading images,

reruns of old movie favorites

and old recordings recalling

memories of love and romance.

 

After twenty-one years of symbiosis

twixt mortal being and living earth,

the last thread of substance

is waiting to be broken.

 

Tractors, machinery and sundries

which inhabited the now deserted

century buildings departed reluctantly

by auction on September 26,1992.

 

Ere long, this familiar path I trod

will pass to the hands of a stranger

by the simple act of signing a paper.

Time has a way of overtaking all.

 

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(First published in "From Cynwyd Castle")

THE BARD'S MALEDICTION by Richard I. Thorman

There are times the SVGA screen stares back

Like a chilled grey corpse in a morgue in a sack

When brain storms and stimuli usually here

Are as flat in the noggin as yesterday's beer

 

A writer must write every day so they say

Or face never making the damned career pay

Doubts and rejections swirl round in my head

As the bank balance stubbornly hovers at red

 

Non comforting are editors hopelessly blind

Unappreciative of genius and brilliance like mine

The exceptions of course are the limited few

Who purchase my works to them merci beaucoup

 

What's wrong with the doctors prescribing the pills

Who claim to know oodles about everyone's ills

Never acknowledging black funk which writers' minds block

It's not just imagined, don't hand us that schlock

 

Time to shut down computer and printer and screen

Before I go bonkers and getting obscene

Maybe a hot bath, a tumbler of scotch on the rocks

A toast to myself and to hell with the blocks

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