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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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?
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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
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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?
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Combustion is a complex matter
Usually stopped by using water
There’s fuel and heat to mix right in
Add oxygen, completes the thing
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I stood on a warm wooden boat deck today,
soaking up sun, my mind trying to say
what emotions and feelings were stirred up inside,
at the thoughts that I’d thought, and the breath that I’d sighed.
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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.
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