Little feet

Little feet
One socked
One sock less
Dance over leather sofa
I must reach that book
A tiny voice cries
To place it from that pile
Into this one
And so the world is born

New Shoots

In the darkness of the earth
None shall see the sun,
And yet it is there:
Waiting, wondering when growth will come.
In the pitch of night,
Nothing is more certain
Than light will crack the dark,
A pendulum that must swing up
As surely as down,
A child that must grow
As surely as we must die,
And if the seed of death is carried by life,
Then death must usher in new life;
A potential bursting into being,
Rocks tumbling down a hill.
Let us not rejoice in the hidden acorn,
Nor the mighty oak we may one day be,
But the first green shoots of morning,
The dew not yet trampled,
By the Kingdom of the dawn.

No A for Astronaut

The boy who never learned
The folly of his childhood dream,
Is the boy who never grew.
If only that sacred youth could have kept his eyes shut tight,
His mind bound up on dreams that shone,
Without need for sun or sky,
But the boy who in his mind
Wielded an epee and travelled to Paris,
To be a musketeer,
Was one day told the musketeers were all dead,
Dust and bones
In the grave of history.
 
And the boy who put down his sword,
In the inventiveness of the desperate
Looked outwards to the furthest shore of space,
And longed to be an astronaut,
To place his feet on land so high
He’d never be the same again,
And yet the careers computer
Had no A for Astronaut.
 
There is nothing sacred in human life,
Nature abhors dreams that do not change with circumstance,
Only the pen can wield a power that does not dim,
Breaking through the barriers of birth,
Going were no man or boy can imagine,
Tapping the well within that never dries,
But spurts higher with every gulp,
An artery cut under the skin of life,
It hints at depths we will never know,
Drink up my life force as I perish, It says
There is no such thing as rationing life,
Drink deep, dream deep
And as your heart is sundered once again,
Drink deeper still your grief,
And pen another world with your tears,
Until it too ends,
Even then the pen will never stop.
 

Heartstring Towns

Image:waymarking.com
Let us play this game of Kings,
In this homely and humble room,
That holds the magic
Of half adult, half childhood time,
It’s been too long,
Do not think I will not travel,
The cobbled streets and heartstring towns
Of the past to find you,
And pull you back to the place you never left,
My true and oldest friend

(C) Copyright Mark B Williams 2014
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