Retired in 1991, began writing poetry a year later.
Has written more than six hundred poems, of over five hundred are sonnets. more »
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Eric Bult Poems
How shameful is the tragic count of those Who meet foul death whilst travelling by road: At any time of day or night who knows Whatever that dread presence may forebode?
How few of we mere mortals understand That every star we see a sun may be To planets in that distant wonderland Where few may now sustain life such as we.
How speedily our senses mend, it seems Those awful days that followed death's decree Were simply players in a cast of dreams. The play is ended and we are set free.
So do I now with pride at last begin My poem that forever shall be known As number five hundred of those within This crop of mostly sonnets I have sown.
I've been here before
The feeling that you've done this once before Is not unusual, that I'm sure you know, Perhaps it's something we should now explore: But one thing you must know before we go.
What causes this strange beating in my head Which seems to break up each thought into fives? It's like a copper's slow and stately tread As round his beat he checks upon our lives.
He first did name our Earth the pale blue dot. He wrote so movingly of humankind And our conceived future in this spot Within our galaxy where who might find?
Before my coffee's cold I've had to solve A dozen problems, each of minor set, But clearly posed to test a strong resolve That nothing should my indolence upset.
My days are lent the value of your smile As when from mental jousting you return To seek my full account of action while You were not here, such is your first concern.
The weaverbirds resolve to build their nest, As countless generations did before, Above some water in a spot that's best For safety over wide protective floor.
Obedience to unenforceable But good, authority can only prove Whether a people shall be governable, And forward thus together they can move.
Though certain of belief, yet doubt persists That my eternal spirit harbours now All knowledge of some lives that did exist, Since reason should determine why somehow.
Busines: then and now
I liked the old days, hardly used the word Frustrated. Even as a boy I knew In business inter-action the preferred Way was personal contact with the few.
On growing older
Now age's ruthless bonds ensnare my frame That once propelled me over hurdles high To gain a silver medal and a certain fame Within a service I no longer occupy.
Comments about Eric Bult
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
How shameful is the tragic count of those
Who meet foul death whilst travelling by road:
At any time of day or night who knows
Whatever that dread presence may forebode?
It waits at every turn and each road junction
That seemingly presents no sign at all
That that there a lack of care or concentration
Invites the reaper's sad and bleeding haul.
Without a driver trained to higher standards
Of 'advanced' who maintains those throughout
Each journey will present full many hazards
Lurking there just waiting to jump out!
Pay close attention to your driver. ...