Frank Ian Bowen
Biography of Frank Ian Bowen
A nearly 60-something, going on 23 fella driven by life's emotions, and its ups and downs. 5 years at sea,30 more as a fire officer and now working on the safety side of things in the oil and gas industry. Most of my writings were done in the ealier part of the 21st Century when emotions were raw and the pen provided escape. Amazed myself by the variety of topics, all from every day life as I travelled, and searched my inner self.
Frank Ian Bowen Poems
Listen to that waterfall. It ripples along that old stone wall. A sound that can spell bind all those who hear. It’s a noise that will never be associated with fear That rippling sound conjures up mental views
As hips are bent with backs so low The world sees builders’ bums on show There’s lots of them both large and small Belonging to builders short and tall
Lancelot And Guinevere
When Guinevere was locked in cell She sounded off a MEGA-YELL! ‘Save me, save me’ she cried so hard. The king is cruel, he’s marked my card.
Ranks of cloud clothe hilltop’s crown, as the hot African sun slips slowly down, with reds, orange and purple tints. Who knows what tomorrow hints?
A Sailor's Dream
I gazed in awe at this beauty in wood, in the soft morning light she suited my mood, mellow in colour, soft browns and golds, and I wondered what stories about her are told.
Spirit And Soul
Human spirit’s a strange thing to see It lives deep within both you and in me You can’t go and buy one from a shop or a store Yet its often displayed and when seen you want more
Sat On The Sand
I sat on the sand, as the sun went down, I listened to the sea, white foam as her gown My mind was in neutral, my gaze far away, as I listened to the sound of the sea today
Large wet drops lose clouds firm grasp and fall on hills to which plants do clasp. The drops sink in, they’re gone so fast, Without the rain no plant would last.
Parting's So Hard
You woke with a tear that rolled down your cheek, As I opened my eyes, I just caught a peek of you trying to cover it, not wanting to show your sadness at parting. I know; I know.
Marina The Mermaid
There she lies in the cool winter sun, a sculpture in sand, uniquely just one. Her name is ‘Marina’, she has golden hair that flows out behind in spectacular flare.
Here Lies My Tigger
Here lies my Tigger, now safe and sound, His poor broken body beneath this ground, Hit by a vehicle it seems as he roamed Found on the footpath trying to get home
A Father And His Son
How does a father tell his son he loves him? That he’s number one? How does son see father now, when all that’s been could well be done? How do these two fellas mark the special things that each has felt? How will life turn out to be? Have all the cards been dealt?
Dreams And Smiles
You lie quite still in morning light, bathed so softly, eyes closed tight. Your hair cascades ‘cross soft white sheets. I see your neck; your slow pulse beats.
I look up from my writing and see such a sight bathed in warm sunshine, this African light. The hills in the distance are blue, purple, grey, their summits draw graph lines ‘gainst light of day.
A Sailor's Dream
I gazed in awe at this beauty in wood,
in the soft morning light she suited my mood,
mellow in colour, soft browns and golds,
and I wondered what stories about her are told.
Are there battles involved, or journeys afar?
Pirates and cut-throats from which she has scars?
Were there sailors and merchants at the foot of her masts?
Has she tasted the sea? Faced terrible draughts?
Or is she really just there as a sight?