Night flight...

Luna’s shadow glides over the globe, silent and black as a phantom panther. The silver bird thunders along the runway and leaps, roaring, at the glow where conquering night swallows embers of the deposed sun.

Engines scream as the jet spins, full throttle, into the Great Circle, ripping up charted miles in a desperate dash to escape the terrors of the night. Darkness, black as Satan’s lum, rolls over the wild Atlantic, enshrouding all in a raven cloak. The plane, racing for the retreating light, forever butts into the relentless headwind.

The old man in 3c ponders, dozing, over his brief-role in the unending earthly drama. Sensing the unstoppable shadow speeding over the vast Americas, casting its sleep-spell over the wilting ground, he shivers at the chill of the unknown.

Suddenly the man is aware of a dazzling light stirring the hordes of Asia, infusing all with energy and life. Brilliant brightness illuminates the earth, searing away the tar-black stain and banishing the fears of night.

At peace now, the man drifts, smiling, into slumber...

                              Empires

Triremes of Claudius go speeding out of Gaul,
charged with taming Albion, enigmatic queen,
then civilise and modernise
with unity and roads,
to leave a lasting legacy where Rome has been.

Bold privateers of Devon, harnessing the wind:
Buccaneers with cutlasses plunder Spanish pelf
then bequeath the world a language,
democracy and law,
bonding scattered people in a vast Commonwealth.

Bureaucrats of Brussels, inept scions of Rome,
with bloated pay and pension cosseting a life
of bumbledom and jargon
in quangos that cascade
unedifying orders, sowing seeds of strife.

Charlie Gregory
Cardiff 2014

Mood Swings

Christmas is over and done.
The past belongs to the dead.
A bright new age has begun.
Fresh plans evolve in my head.
I’ll do what the hell I choose.
Then... damn! January Blues.

The wind blows chill off the sea.
So what? For the year is mine.
Mud in the pool on the lea;
gold in the lake down the line;
solace is found in the muse.
Then... damn! January Blues.

News is all chaos and hell;
buffeting gale in the streets,
winter is casting a spell.
Rain covers the town in sheets,
but hey, I’ll go on a cruise.
Then... damn! January Blues.

Next year, things could look better;
future is bright, so they say.
Plan, then play by the letter.
Like wise men, live for the day.
Positive folk never lose.
Then... damn! January Blues.

AW

Memories of an old army friend, recently called to the Last Post

Gary and Me

There’s marching and shouting and crunching of boots,
with men slapping rifles and cursing recruits;
we’re running and drilling from morning ‘til night,
go like a mad goat and get fit for the fight.
Now down to the pub for a laugh and a shout,
for a lark with your mates is what it’s about.
We soldier together, do Gary and me.

They teach us to shoot and to eavesdrop and spy,
and then send us abroad to give it a try.
They shut us in camp for long months at a time,
attempts at escape are a locking-up crime.
We crawl through the wire in the black of the night,
and leg into town for the Turkish delight.
We buck it together, do Gary and me.

Now, sleepless and angry, the boss does his rounds.
A voice in his head tells him, “Two out of bounds!”
But we’ve shuffled our beds with some of the crew...
He sees someone there but he doesn’t know who.
Come fire or come water, we both find a way
of having a laugh at the end of the day.
Always one-step ahead, that’s Gary and me.

EOKA and Suez drift in with the tide,
but Gary and me take it all in our stride.
For I-corps and Signals and GCHQ,
we track Arab kings and the Gypo aircrew;
get a grunt from the boss and, “Thank you,” from Ike,
who waves a big stick from an invalid trike.
We work hard and play hard, do Gary and me.

No matter how precious, all stories must end,
but the gift in the theme is finding a friend.
Now Gary’s moved on to the misty Last Post
I’ll bring up the rear while he’s clearing the coast.
Then, heads put together, we’ll suss the place out;
if we don’t like the vibes, then be in no doubt,
we’ll just crawl through the wire, will Gary and me.

Charlie Gregory
December 2013

                          Death Spell

Icy mists of shame enshroud my blackened-soul.
Harsh klaxons, blaring from my heart, proclaim all
squalid thoughts. Flares, illuminating caverns
full of nightmare-fiends, reveal a frightened child
lying sobbing in the dark. Metamorphose
walls flash me naked at the world. Pride deserts
as gutting-scalpels fling self-loathing-roots and
innards to the judging, scornful mocking mob.

Flee this terror of exposure; flee your dear
though unearned-love; bolt rabbit-scared through black-night
woods on menace-ridden hills. Run, forever-
banished in misery's driving-rain; stumble
bleeding on the flint-hard nettled-fields of pain.

Reality dissolving, sombre-brooding
roots. Zombie-float through mirage-days of chilling
vapour-dreams; curled up tight in flimsy-veil of
shielding-shell; tried; condemned; exiled within a
self-made cell; impotent to melt the fangs that
freeze the bonds that bind the death-wish in the spell.

Poison-seeds rain soft on fertile gardens of
a troubled-mind. Flowers bloom, in whats? and whys?
and awful rows of fearful hows? Answers ring –
crystal bells – from secret-lakes of tear-blood dew.

Help-cries garble; sane outside... death-mad within.
Talk ‘morrow-talk with me ten-million-miles
from you, engrossed, obsessed, cocooned within a
dreadful plan. In here, there is no coming-dawn;
no more, no us, no anything. Who loves you
so; would go, and leave you with this mist of shame.

You found my shame, and beamed into my soul with
rays of healing-truth; dispelling mist and vile
veiling-shell, while thawing out the frigid-spell.
Charlie Gregory
Samaritan Days

AW

                                      Sam.
            Poky dingy café;
         workmen shout and curse;
      she floats among the tables,
      tending like a nurse.
       She pauses when she sees me;
         breaks into a smile;
      skips behind the counter,
  lingers for a while.
     chatting while she's serving,
      shedding all her pain …
         then, when
                    I am leaving,
                     becomes
                    a nurse again.

AW

Tenerife

 

AW

TENERIFE

Teide, volcano: rhymes with lady

TENERIFE

Two lovers by the ragged strand once trod
the sooty sand; slender maid with raven
hair, fisher boy of bronze; the dazzling sun
a gold doubloon, the moon a silver coin.
From rocks, ink-black as witches' cats, they saw
the teeming sea; for Paraiso Beach was
cast for them by Teide's fiery blast, 'neath
Milky Way in wind-blown spray where whale and
dolphin play... Faceless fools from far-off lands
soon found their paradise. "Commercialise
then urbanize, the mountains are for sale.
Bulldoze, landfill, then jerry-build; sewage
on the surf. Roll out roads for traffic roar;
monoxide in the breeze. Machinery tear
at prickly pear and green banana trees.
Throw up bars and apartment blocks; bedim
the stars with flashing lights; fill the nights with
keyboard beat and dancing feet to drown the
ocean's anguished cries..." Her sculpture scorned, her
flanks defiled, the lady Teide broods with
hissing sulphur in her breath, inferno
for a heart. Such feelings pent, her rage must
vent to blast the curse and re-create a
silent land, where lizards laze and prey birds
ride the balmy breeze, while a ghostly girl
and fisher lad go gathering wild herbs.

Charlie Gregory

AW