Owain Glyn

Owain Glyn Poems

I am sat on a bench, on the seafront, alone,
Just me, and the sea, and the old weathered stone.
Of course, there are tourists, who wander on by,
And silver winged gulls, as they dissect the sky.

Would you give a gnome a home?
Sit him down on sculpted foam?
Find a pleasant shaded spot,
Not too cold, and not to hot.

Oh, this green and pleasant land,
Its clear blue seas and golden sands.
Its rolling hills and wooded vales,
Its constant rain and howling gales.

Christmas comes but once each year
I beg from each of you a tear;

A tear for the homeless whose bed is the floor

The night was clear, and still, and silent, air like razor-blades
The naked trees stood sentry, limbs outstretched, in dark charades
The ground, a pure white wilderness, sends out no invitation
But the traveler has need of none, he knows his destination.

In 1966, in a small village in South Wales, on the 21st. of October, Pantglas Junior School was engulfed by a slide of mud and coal slag. One hundred and forty four souls lost their lives, including one hundred and sixteen children.

The sky was grey and sullen

How do I find the words
To say how much I love you?

When you are near

The mist hung low, above the moors
A gentle breeze, caressed the tors.
Ancient boulders, lost in sleep
Buried secrets they would keep.

We sit by the stream
On this soft summer's day
Entranced by the dance
As the dragonflies play.

When I have gone, please do not cry,
Shed not a single tear.
Do not ask the question, why?
Or harbor any fear.

The Poet lives within his word
Some erudite, and some absurd
Some meaningful, and some obscure
Some insightful, some unsure.

I think of all the things I've said,
Then thought of different things, instead.
I think of all that I have done,
When moons were cheese, and life was fun.

Ethelred had toasted bread
Each night before he went to bed.
And every day when he got up
Hot Chocolate filled his morning cup.

Lost in loneliness, bathed in guilt,
The dark road stretches out,
The black wind swirls around my soul,
And fills my heart with doubt.

The circus toured the local towns
With dancing dogs, and painted clowns,
Behind them marched the King's Dragoons
To harvest men, for their platoons.

As I approach the dark, almost threatening, house
I feel the prescience of impending doom.
While I walk the silent pathway,
I notice that the previously lush lawn

I am Death!
Your nemesis.
I shall kiss
Each and every one of you!

I saw that Cat the other day,
Where he was going who could say?
He strode along his head held high, his tail erect to brush the sky.

He gazed at me with pure disdain,


Every day, when I awake,
I think of you,
Every night, before I sleep,
I think of you.

Let your thin and claw like fingers grasp and clutch this life of yours.
Remembering the peaks that briefly forced themselves above the spreading gloom.
The fetus of success, within the mass of your existence, proved to be stillborn.
Go back! go back and drink the pleasure of that dark and succored womb

Owain Glyn Biography

I live in Penzance, Cornwall, a place steeped in legend and myth and possibly the home of King Arthur's Camelot. I love words, the sound of them and the look of them, for me they paint pictures of depth and substance. I am irreverent and cynical, but at the same time romantic and full of mischief. I love writing and creating, but I read avidly as well.)

The Best Poem Of Owain Glyn


I am sat on a bench, on the seafront, alone,
Just me, and the sea, and the old weathered stone.
Of course, there are tourists, who wander on by,
And silver winged gulls, as they dissect the sky.

There are fishing boats, plying their trade in the bay,
Whilst pleasure craft hoist up their sails for the day.
I can see the face painters and bead makers too,
As I watch pale-faced addicts who head for the loo.

A solitary policeman, whose aspect is stern,
As he dreams of promotion and what he might earn.
A parking attendant comes slithering by,
Making sure nothing misses his keen gimlet eye.

Young men on their skateboards come thundering past,
Looking sideways at anglers whose lines have been cast.
I am sat on a bench, on the seafront, alone,
It's a solitary life, but I don't think I'll moan! !
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Owain Glyn Comments

Karen Sinclair 13 March 2013

Owain Glyn is a great poet and his whumpleflump series is a wonderful humorous stories in poem form. Great fun and uplifting.

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