Kevin Hulme

I said goodbye to the fields of the Summertime, The loud cries of the village fair. The mist in the vale by the rising sun, To the Girl with the Titian Hair. I said farewell to the Brooks and the Cottage near, To the birds and the songs they do share. The walks in the dusk after long sultry days, To the Girl with the Titian Hair. A lasting look to the Larkspur and the Rose, And the scent that give all to the air, The Oak by the lane where I spoke of the Heart, To the Girl with the Titian Hair. I said goodbye to the Sun setting far in the West, For the Eve's were all burnished and rare. Where she told of her Love for another in wait, For the Girl with the Titian Hair. Now when the frost and the snow of the wintertime come, To strip the dress of the Countryside bare, I will think of a love one Summer Time past. To the Girl with the Titian Hair.
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To the phone users lift up your heads;
For you appear as mourners in prayer for the dead.
Look all around where Nature is shown;
Where Colour and Scent are by Gaia once Sown.
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Amongst the row upon row of polished shelf's,
The Books all patiently stand in file.
Their stories and facts make up their wealth,
And whatever else their leaves compile.
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Porcelain face, clear eyes set in blue,
The hair no barber could tame.
In love with a girl in the gamine kind of style,
Oh I wish I was Eighteen once again.
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The Dormer Windows open wide,
And views the yawning countryside.
For beyond the glare of the familiar pane,
A Tableau spread of life in train.
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So this is Love and the Rich Vein it applied,
The Byronic Verse and Blue April skies.
All thoughts of you are maddeningly hectic,
Thoroughly charged like ‘Dylan' gone electric.
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Would for a peculiar single lone day
As if by chance all time confused,
You looked at me in a Loving way
Now such laws of fate removed.
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What; I wonder is this Poem about,
As I'm climbing the walls in working it out.
A few nice words are here and there,
The Odd Choice Rhyme that we all could bare.
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And so it was in early May; where the Season's Fancies brightly played.
There were shards of light throughout the lane, For the Sun had found its youth again.
To play among the Oak and Yew, and entomb it's light in Meadow dew.
In the layered mist about the glade;
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For so it is when I cannot sleep,
I set myself to counting Sheep.
My eyes grow heavy around Eighty Eight,
But by the time I get home I'm wide awake.
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The bold fact is the Wars continuous;
It's the same fight that's been boiling for years.
One Country knocked over another Country's drink, or stared at the others girlfriend.
There's been the odd lull for Tea and Biscuits,
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When Love came it took hold of me completely,
Like a thousand cry's of ‘YES' it just ran up to greet me.
Out of all the Hearts in all the World she had to walk into mine,
It's the Oh I don't think we're in Kansas anymore kind.
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So here I am waiting for the damn bus,
A perfect portrait depicting my life up to date.
And throughout the world people are creating such wonderful things,
But it appears wasting my time was to be my just fate.
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Friday comes around once more,
Like a faithful dog with a ball again.
So I'll lock the front door and draw the blinds,
Upload all cares thereby unwind.
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How I wish I was born the Heroic Man, And travel the Globe To foil the odd plan. Of World domination by a mad Doctor or two, Then bloody his nose and blow up his H.Q. But when fate dealt the cards it was never my lot, So I amble along with the life that I got. No Femme Fatale Or Russian Spy to entrap me with all her charms, My other half is The 'Fish Shop' Girl,
All Tattoos and Wrestlers arms. No Aston Martin awaits outside,
For the tables at 'Royale' with Le Chiffre, As I place my bet, with the Bingo Set, All Grannies and National Health teeth. No Savile Row Suits That are elegantly cut, The Shoes the finest made.
I am what you see, a pity full sight, An advert for Christian Aid. No U.N.C.L.E. agent or 'Saint' am I, Nor partner to the divine Mrs Peel. Never travel afar to some exotic locale, Or punch ups to bring Villains to heel. A life of intrigue would be my plan,
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Just a few lines to clear the air, from your eraser of prospects and dreams. Since the annulment now is pending in court from a marriage that's torn at the seams, I'll assume she was ecstatically happy, when divorce was breathed to your Mum, I was never the one for her best ' Blue Eyed Girl', that rinsed haired Attila the Hun. No Prius parked in the driveway or Audi with performance to trust, for we both traveled so, Waiting for ' Godot' to show, that which is known as the Regional Bus. No holidays to Mauritius or Bali, Ibiza, Malta, Hong Kong, for we pitched up our tent where we usually went, in a field near the Scenic A1. Once hope was a thing with feathers, now our lives a ever widening gulf, with shades of 'Taylor and Burton' and the script of 'Virginia Woolf'. Oh I was never the Worlds Greatest Lover, No fine romance had ever been payed, no 'Savile Row Suits or style 'Al La Mode' my choice look was more 'Christian Aid'. So it's Mea Culpa my dear, I was never your true 'Mister Right', the engagement the Montgolfier wonder, the Marriage The Hindenburg flight. Then forgive me so for I have sinned, for saying ' I Do ' to the chaste Miss Lynd. And should I die before I wake, it's just desserts for my mistake.
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As I descend on another day, I've seen the Boys and Girls at play. They play at War, sometimes at Peace, For the Booms and Bangs they never cease. In the century gone i saw of two, The Bloodiest fights I ever knew. Don't get me wrong it's not all War, The Children's Hearts can sometimes soar. With Music, Poetry, the Artist's skill, To every Heart it's pleasure fills. And Books by Authors Heaven blessed, All Prose as such time does attest. I've seen them come and the Centuries go, The Toys they make and the difference show. They sometimes are an unruly crowd, Their habits strange and their fashions loud. For the Playground is a boisterous place, With every Belief, Colour and Race. And so at Night when all is said, The Children get sleepy and off to bed. And then in the Morning i'll rise again, To witness once more the Children's games. Their exploits i'll view from land to sea, All triumphs and woes and more skinned knees.
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If they had lived, Those young daisy beings. That road is now hushed, Where they would roam and find dreams. That futures thrown down, in dust and in shade, No branches for them, Who's offspring now fade. No holding of hands, No Chapel Banns read. Such rice will now fall by a new Bridal bed. If talents to have and Genius to give, It's lost to this world, When no hope was to live. Their laughter and joy stands mute through the years, Thou sound there is heard, And loud are the tears. For To the Human Heart there is no more Sorrowful sight, A Casket laid, It's colour White.
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That's not me lying there, In the Chapel of Rest in a Strangers care. Who in youthful days of Summers gone, My childhood friends and I, Would cast our plays of righting wrong, And all Villainous deeds decry.
Who grazed young arms and scraped young knees, In games we daily played. And God was in his Heaven and sat right with the World, By sweet Sherbet and warm Lemonade. That's not me who laughed and danced, And flattered girls to a brief Romance.
To whispered vows and early nights, There by our future planned. And all but few, as if by some law they do, were build on shifting sand. That's not the man who traveled wide, Through foreign lands and rolling tides. There learned of man, as he of me, All cultures to embrace. I was the sum of all my days, A Testament to my race. And all to soon, weariness and age, weariness and age,
Those Craftsman on the payroll of time. Did torment as the years passed along, And tell of the loved ones that I'd known. The Dear and Departed that the Heart does possess, And so missed and the Love that was shown. That's not me in my Sunday Best, The light has gone, the Spirit undressed. What is left is an empty Home, The Essence of which, has Risen and flown.
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There's a Blackened Old pile that sits away from my Home, That's stranger than strange if I may be ever so bold. For the reason is down to the Horror within, And the occurrence of such now this tale to behold. It's a desolation of a home where no Soul does reside, No flicker of life can be seen Day or Night. No matter how long your vigil is kept, The grave is more silent and lively a sight. But once in a while when the Moons at the full, Some voices of violence ring out.
A slam of the door and a thud to the floor, And a terrible cry with a bloodcurdling shout.
Then from room to room glides a infant of light, A candle in search of a corpse you would say. How the creaking of stairs tell the weight that is death, To be buried at once in the cold morning clay. Then all is calm and still as can be, But the wind with its lonely refrain. The smothering trees that look down on the scene, A mute witness to the culprit and slain. And I find later on in the cool light of day, As I peer through the grime on the pane. It's just an old house that's going to seed, No trace of disturbance remain. Now I dread the wan Moon when the month travels on, As it's there when the nightmare begins. Again voices of hate and violence ring out, The cycle of death and it's portrait of sin. It's then once more as i glance at the door, to the face of that blackened old pile. I wonder what devils can roam the damp halls, What Madness their works still defile. But strike me all cold as I look to the House, From my window when midnight does chime. It's a face looking back through the yellowing drapes, The lost victim I'm sure of the crime. It seems resigned by its look to its continuing fate, By eyes cast in death and the face of decay. With hands clasped in prayer for his Soul then I plead, And thank God for the dawn with the breaking of day.
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