The Maternal Convoy

I have just rediscovered this poem from April 2010. I hope you enjoy it.
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Whilst sitting in a park, of which I am fond,
I saw a vast convoy of mothers, rounding the pond.
Each was armed with a resplendent pram or two:
A gaggle of parents and infants with nothing to do.

They marched two-by-two, as animals to the ark,
Apart from a loner, whose singularity was stark.
Had she been ostracised from a trio, or the group entire,
Or was she dreaming of joining the flock to which she aspired?

They pit-stopped round the corner, taking advantage of the shade,
A place which lesser mothers were forced to evade.
These had their prams, their parasols and their housewife's sunglasses too,
But the convoy stared at each one, to say "We are better than you."

Pity the young mother, who pushes her child alone,
Whose day is empty each time she leaves her home.
For she does not delight in the simple comfort and joy
Of parading in glory with the maternal convoy.

© Jack Blackburn, 12th January 2010

Poems from the Last Eight Weeks

I

Because I would not dull you with my song,

I shyly meet this paper with my pen,

And quietly pray my rhyming goes not long,

Nor makes me small next to some other men.

I miss your eyes and their dear diamond gleam

Set deep in brown and rounded perfectly,

And thy dear laugh which makes all sadness seem

Unburdened by thy sweet infinity.

That mirth will sooth my bruised and aching heart

When next I hear it sounding in my ear,

And such dear thoughts in each and every part

Maintains my joy until you next are near.

I wake to see thee clearly in my skies

And sleep to dream so sweetly of your eyes.

II

I saw her step with grace into the street,

Adorned in blue cascading like her hair.

How nimbly she did skip on her bare feet:

The very incarnation of what’s fair.

She took me breathless in her gentle gaze,

And my young heart heard a cacoph’nous peace.

It found out love in numerous different ways,

And ne’er in adoration did it cease.

How true that moment was: both fierce and raw.

That youthful quickness did not dare to lie.

Elder eyes do disbelieve what they saw,

But faith in it will let the memory fly.

The truth of youth within us doth remain.

Its ecstasy will e’er be ours to claim.

III

I wonder, if we’d known what time we had,

Would we have treated those last days the same?

Would we have strived to make each other glad,

Not left grim misery to make its name?

If we with love had fought for happiness,

Knowing that our dear time was painful brief,

Perhaps we would have ‘scaped this tearfulness

And still possess our joy, and not our grief.

Now all such thoughts and dreams are in our past,

And nought but endless questions can remain.

Toward our future must we hurry fast

And lend past hopes reluctant, sad disdain?

Though in my past you were complete delight,

Now, I must leave thee from my tear-stained sight.

© Jack Blackburn, 12th January 2013

In "Honour" of Shirley Bassey's Oscar Appearance…

Old singers!

They're the ones, the ones that we all know,

Who can't let go.

Once were bold singers

Now they sing, and their crooning leaves us cold:

They're just too old.

Paul McCartney gave you joy for years,

But his Hey Jude now leaves you in tears,

And an old singer's siren-song lingers.

It's the song of death from our dear…

Old Singers!

Producers - beware of their past of gold.

They're just too old.

Elton John's back-catalogue still thrills

But his laryngitis gives us chills.

And Keith Richards' haunting face lingers,

But he's technically dead, unlike most…

Old Singers!

Producers - beware of their past of gold.

They're just too old.

An End of Week Lament

Oh, weariness, thy Friday's trudge at hand,
Waging against the workings of my head;
Your aged rages 'gainst me must not stand.
I'll beat thee soon, but first I must to bed.

© Jack Blackburn, 18th January 2013

Mount Caburn

O, to be here on the clearest day

And see as far as eye can see
For haze does bar my vision’s wanted way

So limiting this grand infinity.

For what I see defies the scope of men:

All sky, all blue, all heights, all earth, all green.

This vista, inspiration to my pen,

Calls forth the life of things unseen.

Dig into the verdant earth.

Exhume the history below.

We stand on memories of utter worth,

On what is lost that we do wish to know.

© Jack Blackburn 12th January 2013

New Sonnet

I

This glorious sunrise is our reward,
Coldly blazing across Jan’ry sky.
Its light pierces as t’were a silver sword
But, in reflection, cheers and warms the eye.
The canopy above is burnt from grey
Red flames awake and colour the morning.
The heart is quicken’d by this break of day
Both tremulous and stirred by its dawning.
Come the end, when sun and fire diminish,
We sigh, and bid the ember’d orb farewell;
For, out of light, our hopes travails must finish
And in out rest their burg’ning bloom must dwell.
But new days sparked under that greatest fire
Rekindle us so that we ne’er may tire.

© Jack Blackburn, 12th January 2013

Upon the Bow

A breath of wind on the air,

Caressing canvas and cooling sun.

Beautiful peace, tremulous on the edge of the horizon.

That light of total, unmarked clarity.

A young man’s eyes, piercing blue mirrors of the sky,

Gaze upon a beautiful nothing –

A nothing that holds everything in its emptiness.

For one day he shall see the clear void break.

And before that, all that is still and rhythmic

Will change and, in torrent and gale and thunder,

Youth will discover itself anew,

In fear and fascination; in sadness and serenity.

Even in that manchild there –

Whose goal is an undiscovered fear –

Even with eyes fixed on the horizon,

He silently says “Don’t look back”.

© Jack Blackburn, 2^nd January 2013