Poems
You are sad alone and full of fright.
Your tears flow freely throughout the night.
The pain is real but not in sight.
What can you do to make things right?
You toss and turn in this here fight.
Trying to battle with all you might.
But you are still confused and your chest feels tight
Do you give in ? there is no respite
Jesus says " I am here come to my light"
In you I shall delight, be you White Knight
And by my power, change your plight.
Make your future bright.
Told God man In Genesis One
Him He created
in form of His
Not when asked as how He did
Thought He fit in Genesis Two
To tell He used the dust for that
But to change tack after that,
So in time Muhammad told
Made Jibrail recite him
In the name of One who makes
Man on earth from clot of blood,
Failed as he then to enquire
Wherefrom He gets all that blood
And since God hath sealed His mouth
Knows not man the true roots of his.
I wasn’t poor, being not
rich
Life was fine, thanks to
hope
All that changed, owing to
muse,
With one ‘novel’ passion pure
Affairs I had, twelve of
them
Unknown to the lovers of books,
Cold-shouldered by publishing
folk
Manuscripts those twelve make
pillows
In my bed to cause nightmares,
With hope dead, I can’t dream
Now I’m poor, robbed of
hope.
----------------------------------------
This was penned before I placed
the 'twelve' in the public domain as free ebooks
AT THE FOOT OF A CASTLE
At the foot of a castle in the gilded, setting sun,
In the warm and fragrant air of a summerʼs belvedere,
Through a deep, dense forest a river did run
Winnowing through the trees, azure hued and clear.
And in the languorous night, when stars appeared like wines,
As harbingers of autumn, in the dusky, turquoise sky
A maiden of regalia, from epochs long gone by
Walked out upon the terrace, gazing at the pines.
Her flowing, black mane was lovely, long and fair
And her royal gaze was of the sacred night
When songbirds sang in the sad moonlight
Above the many fountains, rising in the square.
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Countless things put
together make us who we are
Perhaps what we’ve learned
or things seen near and far
True or false learned from
numerous varied sources
Or perhaps something seen
travelling many courses
It has been my great
pleasure to see some special lands
Majestic mountain vistas,
Alberta’s haunting badlands
The vastness of the
prairie with horizon never reached
The power of the ocean
from a shell strewn beach
I’ve crossed giant rivers,
walked beside the babbling brook
Seen the best and worst of
nature seldom pictured in a book
The crags of mountain
passes, topped by winter’s sparkling load
Miles and miles of wheat
the sun and rain has turned to gold.
Acres and acres of deep
green peas, topped by the pink of bloom.
Offset in midst of summer
with bright yellow canola bloom
A patch-work quilt from
nature and the work of many hands
Laid out in squares and
diamonds across a great productive land.
The history of Bedford
Basin, Louisbourg, Queenston Heights
Twenty four hours of
daylight, mysterious northern lights
Beaver pelts to England to
make all kinds of hats
And each spring the best
of sugar boiled from Maple sap.
A strong beautiful
stallion, head high, nostrils flared,
Eyes full of fire and
danger as he guards his heard of mares
Several hundred cattle
grazing the luscious grass
Or bedded in the shade to
let the hot day pass.
Hundreds of pictures we
catalogue as we go passing by
Let the good ones erase
the bad, or at least let them try
Some of it we saw and some
of it we learned.
Some good and some bad but
somehow always earned.
There’s always strife and
woe, you don’t need to hunt it up
Forget it, let it lay. You
know there’s the rub
You may hate this or that
but it’s all part of the way
You became who you are;
what you are today.
GIFTS
Things that make you
Stop and smile
Focus and pause
A little while
What captures your eye
And makes you look
What grabs your soul
And sets the hook
Passions we have
We can’t ignore
To what we’re driven
We must explore
Chef in the kitchen
Begins to cook
Feels like the bishop
That got the rook
A builder steps back
Admires the house
Proud as a cat
That caught the mouse
The musician plays
And performs the song
To which the crowds
Sing along
We all have gifts
It’s only fair
They benefit others
And we must share
Some are inherent
Others unique
Most take work
To hone technique
We live our lives
The way we must
It’s vital our compass
Collects no dust
...
God is laughing at their missing conscience...
They’ll pray and speak their good intentions
They’ll eat your soul with their knife and vengeance
And we need a miracle to get out of this war
His conscience gone and they called him soldier
He pushed them out beyond their borders
He gave his love for lustful murder
He won their lives saved his confessions
And we need a miracle to get out of this one
He spoke to devils in tall buildings
They praised him high for all his winnings
Their lives had drained into his laughter
His graves are foolish for his collection
There is no miracle to get out of this one
On their graves lies their discretion
Their souls are chained and lost direction
He collects their bones with good intention
And he lives on without detection
And he trusts a miracle will get him out of this one
He'll dig your grave if it makes a difference....
He is life, A great, mystical tree, Symbolic in nature, Eternally free. She is root, Hidden, deep below, With a foundation enduring, She is a mystery to know. Combined is the essence of Him. Revealed is the depth of love Divine, Captured, perfectly, over a history of time. Good and bad, Back to their own identity. As it was in the garden, The One tree of serenity....
Alice in Wonderland is a popular much-read fable
A novel, written in 1865 about a seven-year-old girl
One maniacal scene is a tea party with a large table
Some misfits seated sipping tea in the underworld
Who came up with the idea to name the girl Alice?
Does her name symbolize the innocence of a child?
Although she was curiously devoid of guile or malice
There’s hate, violence, and cruelty wantonly profiled
A story of schizophrenic behavior full of poppycock
Supposedly interpreted from a child’s point of view
We perceive sweet Alice as the new kid on the block
They are receptive, and Wonderland is a pass-through
Abused birds, a drug-addicted larva, and a fast-talking rabbit
The oddest of human-acting creatures one could ever imagine
Queen of Hearts, obsessed with beheadings, an annoying habit
Reveals her sociopathic behavior, mental state, and lack of
decorum
The novel Alice in Wonderland’s set of rules is hard to
expound
Alice is the heroine in the earth’s underbelly among deviants
That the adventure unfolds in the controversial underground
Exposing a child to twisted behavior is ludicrous and militant
Willow
by the Bay (For beautiful, Lucy, lost to breast cancer) by D.B. Coulson
Once upon a glorious day in the deepest part of Spring, I, Mother Earth, gave birth to a precious, tiny thing.
Upon
the banks of the gentle river flowing the
young willow grew, and I, well knowing, began
with all my heart to sing.
The slender beauty of my daughter with grace and charm as she grew taller, brightened each day in the world I love.
She
danced and played through so many years, as my
heart filled with love, my eyes with tears, as my
lovely willow danced with the wind above.
“Do you always churn, leap and travel, as a mystery to unravel?” She asked of the river one day.
“Oh
yes, Ms. Willow, I must keep moving. my
gentle sounds I hope are soothing to you, Ms.
Willow, so graceful, above the bay.”
“Ms. Willow, I wish to let you know that as I gently toss and flow I tell of the stately willow by the bay.
From forests
deep, to raging rivers, the
song I simply must deliver is of
the lovely willow by the bay.”
My modest Willow seemed so flattered, again my heart pitter pattered at these words spoken to her by the river that day.
Her
gentle, sweet, flowing motion in the
wind purveyed the notion of the
most stately creature by the bay.
I do my best to be a mother to tend to and try to hover to keep my children out of harm’s way. But alas the soulless scourge of night brings horrid storms and vengeful blight and spreads its wrath in a vile and cunning way.
Many times, a child of life is victim to this vengeful strife and so, the fate of my willow by the bay.
The scorn unleashed by this devil was so dire and at such a level my strong but gentle willow was taken from the bay.
My forest creatures felt the darkness brought by this devil, so vile and heartless, who takes the most beautiful of life away.
Through heat of summer to deep December the thought of her shall greatly linger as our cherished thoughts begin to play.
The rivers flow seems never ending yet the dream my mind keeps sending is of the beautiful willow by the bay.
My
loving and cherished willow by the bay.
d.b. coulson (May of 1999)
My window looks at a fairy tree.
Its branches bend and twist.
Its leaves are whispering with glee,
Its hоllow makes
a whistle.
A little river under the tree
Is running through the fog.
And a marvelous song amazes me
Performed by a tiny frog.
...
IN THE POEM THERE IS THE SOUL
I
love the poem and the rhymes
anyone
who knows how to write beautifully
all
poets and their poems
all
the verses in the poem are worded
all
the love poured into them.
The
one who knows how to write a verse
his
soul breathes with love
he
knows to love from the bottom of his soul,
and
the one who knows how to read, to listen
he
knows well that in the poem there is the soul.
The
one who does not have a soul, he can't,
doesn't
know, he is not able to understand
the
poem and its rhyme, that soul in the verse.
The
one doesn't know either to kiss or to love,
he
only knows how to inflict pain.
Each
poet is a special character
he
is the owner of sincere love.
He
writes a poem in the air with his soul,
with
the verses embraces tenderly and kindly
and
sends messages boldly and quietly.
If
each of us knows
to
awaken in himself the poet of one
it
would be better for everyone in the world
everyone
would live life with a poem
they
would never hate anyone.
I WISH TO BE A BIRD
I wish often to have wings
to be free as a bird
to fly somewhere far, far away
that I bathe in the clouds for a long time
before landing in various fields
before I fall so I crash.
There are borders to everyone
but not for birds, especially migratory
birds.
Wherever the bird wishes and goes
its wings are a symbol of freedom.
And bird feathers long for the flight
so the bird travels the world.
It knows well that on earth
many of them are its danger
that's why it flies and flies.
The bird is happy only while flying
either alone or with a flock.
It doesn’t matter if it’s winter or summer
all it cares about is flying.
That's why I would be a bird
that there are no limits for me,
to enjoy freedom, to be high up
that I'm not within reach to those down
who would catch and break me.
I dream this often and I forget
that I have no wings, that I'm not a bird,
that I'm an ordinary man nailed to the
ground
and that is why I flee to my dreams and
fantasize to my heart's content.
When I finally wake up,
when a new day appears in front of my eyes
I know that I have no wings,
that in my heart I am a traveler
but I need someone else to be my
companion.
HABIT
You get used to breathing as soon as you're born,
you get used to your mother, your
father...
You get used to being loved and you
love,
and later you pray for a handful of
attention,
for a sweet look and nothing more.
Out of habit, almost every
morning,
that no one hears, you suffer and pray:
Stop by sometimes in the days of youth
surprise me and love me as tenderly as
ever,
look at me caress at least sometimes!
Let this
love become a habit
this
morning, today, and tomorrow
get used to
it, loneliness is both mine and yours
we have not
been one for a long time
and we could
be together again!
...
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I sat so merry in my abode
Loving hands around me
I dreamt of such glorious days
One day i would see
I remember the day I left
My room
I closed the door behind me
One quick look again
Then walked away
The room which would always remind me
The glorious days I had dreamt
I did merrily spent
How little did I then know
Life turns on a dime
My room is now not as it was
When I closed the door
Behind me
My room now is a prison
But not how one would invision
It is one of sorrow and grief
Sadness burns into the bare walls
I catch my breath
And weep
Why did thou'st doth betray?
The room which once embraced me
I ask with riddled heart
Jagged and torn
Which wicked riddles have I thus sought?
I sit still
I am now my room
No dreams as once before
I age before my open door
In my room long ago
I sat merrily in my loving abode
Loving hands did hold me
All gone
My room and myself
Now one
Two thrust to be together
Forever
Alone