Freedom carries chains,
restrictions on the will.
Enveloped in this enigma,
even apparent improv,
defined by choice,
once made, its power
manifests in slavery.
Fair Death come claim your feeble prize
no longer fit to haunt the earth
I’ll not resist, nor shall I tarry
’tis been my aim since ‘fore my birth
He stops mid-trunk with much to say
in taunting reach of dogs below,
perhaps disgruntled by their play
amused at how they move so slow.
is a small small place
unshared by lovers, friends
We cross the bounds
as we make our rounds
on our way to our own ends.
As the Kettle Wolf-Whistled A brilliant anthology of the poetry of MWC –
eclectic, imaginative, sometimes stunning – these poetic works track a wide variety of subjects, styles, points of view. Whatever your bent may be – humour, drama, tragedy, sharp and witty observations, meditations, these and more await you.
All net proceeds go to Unicorns for Addy for the benefit of a dear young girl fighting t-cell lymphoma. Details can be found at:
The paperback version is available online through all of the major retailers at the suggested retail price of $19.50, but may be ordered through Lulu.com, our printer, for the discounted price of $9.75
The ebook version is available for $2.99. Currently available only in PDF format, we anticipate offering the ebook version in epub format in the fullness of time.
Click here to order online:
paperback version: http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/as-the-kettle-wolf-whistled/14460933
Ebook version: http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/as-the-kettle-wolf-whistled/14552857
There is a reception going on right now at http://mywriterscircle.com/index.php?topic=53384.0 Please stop in, pull up a chair, and say, “Hello”.
We appreciate the support.
Next time perhaps or never,
surely any time but now
to say the things we need to,
but never quite know how.
These are your words, my words
I took them every one
To heart, to task, to my own purpose
In earnest and in fun
I’ve spoken vows and made confession
I’ve teased my newborn sons
My daughters sing an island song
Their grand-folks never sung
When Alfred set the Danelaw
Or came William from the east
When the plague killed foreign clerics
and promoted peasant speech
Could anyone imagine
Or would anyone have dreamt
This rock-born bloody bastard
Would around the world be sent
I know some French and Spanish
A little Hebrew, and some Greek
I read old verse in Latin
But it’s English that I speak.
I had a hard time
till I took time
and made time
and rudder firm
I set a course for home.
(for Mark T)
The cool forest is my cathedral.
Autumn leaves fall,
abandoning bough and branch
they stain the glassy pond below
each a sermon, a story of bud and bloom,
of green springs and the rich colors of decay.
Birds bear witness to the falling,
harmonies and hymnals, sung in a round,
an ambient concert, a day song,
testimony to breezes and the unseen hand,
the shaker of trees.