kennybhoy1 Poetry (8)

Life is like digging a mine,
The further you go,
The more precious the stones you find.

The sheep are lambing
and snowdrops flower
spring is in the air
and early morning dew is moist in my hair

the march hares leap
running wild and free
the old oak tree stands
looking full of glee
its young new branches reaching out
as if to touch me

i'm like an angel in eden
the skys so clear and blue
i thought of you when i was on the hill
ill take you there another time
for its such a perfect way
to spend such a perfect day
in spring on a hill far away.

Many of the learned
Who have thought much,
And especially
Who have written much,
Have weakened and obscured
yea have destroyed
Their common perception,
While the simple
See more clearly
What is good and true
Than those who think themselves
Their superiors in wisdom.

the merlin hawk mesmorized me
as he flew and perched upon a tree
his size his strength and worm wood rue
i stood in regard with envious eyes
in a time honoured place
the rumour did say
he hunted his prey
and a mischief maker snake in the grass
wriggled about and worked his way past
still mesmorised i closed my eyes
a fragrant bouquet blew my way
swirling up and all around
i thought here i'll never be found
so i plucked a few flowers to remember those hours
the zippy dragonflies whizzed and hoverred
and there was me my reflection in the water
i was part of this little order....................Kennybhoy1

A man who reads the Word
Not under the Lords auspices
But under the auspices of his own intelligence
Thinks himself a lynx
And better sighted than Argus

And yet he inwardly
Sees not a shred of truth But only what is false
And under self persuasion
This falsity seems to him
Like a polar star
Towards which he directs
All the sails of his thought
And then he no more sees truth
Than a mole.

His hands his face and that laugh
they are his epitaph.

I've been down long dusty roads
Travelling most of the time
Hiding away, to find a way
To find my way
Handed no instrutions when given this device

legends are made of vulnerable men
Back on my feet, no hint of bitterness
I'll have my deliverance

They dance in plumes
when the thistle blooms
on sunny weather
in the purple heather
reminiscing and wishing
on an island in the sea
they are you and they are me
the lords of our land and not yet departed
its our turn to play

they dance in plumes
when the thistle blooms
on sunny weather
in the purple heather reminiscing and wishing
on an island in the sea
they are you and they are me
the lords of our land
and not yet departed
its our turn to play.