Poetry

Last Bell

Ranting storm that sways the trees, I hear you call this cold night,
For in your breast I’ll have to walk, and that’s where sinners freeze.

That short lived merriment has closed its doors, and only thoughts are left within,
And now with you who chill the bones, I leave the fireside ring.

Yet should you take your wrath upon my soul, I’ll curse your ghostly cloak,
And wish you’d take your vengeance, on the cuddled in warm folks.

There’s no corner I can hide from you, or behind the walls of derelict barns,
It’s just the bards who think well of you, to call your cold heart charms.

So blow you devil, scour the land, take your pleasures well,
For I will have to fly with you, in spirit or in hell.

Robert Marshal


Who Needs Money

Just ten pennies have I got
And folks scream out for queenly note
For printed faces
And words nice wrote on bits of paper.

But be mine my head they’d chop
For joining in their caper
Though ten pence would phone Samaritans
Who might see me as charlatan
Yet for them a lot more numerals
Would cost the mint in princely funerals.

And those the Godly socialistic workers
Would be like us the work shy shirkers
Whose eyes go envy metal doors
That keep us from those paper stores.

Robert Marshal

 

One Dark Night

Trumpets sounded far in glade,
Silver owls made midnight raids,
Farmhouse doors of stoutest woods,
Were locked and barred from ghostly mood.
That seemed to flow down from the moon,
That’s candle glow made rabbits swoon.

Tramps tired rested for the night,
Hurried on from ghoulish sight,
That saw a thousand cloaked faces
Entered for the witches races.
Gnomes and warlocks elfs and snakes,
Were drinking wine at a demons pace.
And the starter satan the man from hell,
Held in his hand the the death toll bell,
That rang like cannons fired from shore,
You hear the sound, then hear no more.

His laughter made the heavens thunder,
The witches rose in bat like splendour,
To scour the streets and country lanes,
In search of those with red rich veins.
And those who cry to be set free,
Who wish to join the everlasting tree,
That’s branches grow downwards and touch hells hot coals,
Where hags sit knitting burial shawls,
That cover all those sightless faces,
Taking part in the devils races.

Again the trumpets sounded clear,
As children were snatched from loved ones dear,
Who cried for God to come and rescue,
Them away from sins that only heaven knew.
But only the wind that  howled and taunted,
Answered the plea’s of those lost daughters,
Whose tears made oceans rise in storm,
Where sailors cowered and prayed for morn.

Ten thousand souls were lost to satan,
For sins of hate and god forsaken,
Wicked hearts were made to feel,
That evilness that’s all to real,
And only gives away itself
When eyes are closed in health and wealth.

Then again the trumpets blow,
Bending trees in one long row,
To remind us of that dreaded feeling,
For when again old nick comes stealing,
Those who feel no shame in lying,
Or fools who talk not wrong in dying.
And yet the dreaded hooded faceless folk,
Are waiting there for he that strokes,
A golden bell that should you hear,
You’ve gone and lost some one whose dear.
For disbelieving in lifes races,
Theres some around with hidden faces.

Robert Marshal


A Soldiers Return

No more to battle gone
My armour now is rusted
And in your harbour my warships lay
Within your arms I’ve trusted.

For no deeper than a sword
Could enter in my breast
A wearied soldier from the wars
Found peace and lovingness.

No pain to feel, or afraid
The thoughts of darkness have gone
It was in the coming of the dawn
I found your golden throne.

Robert Marshal


Campfire

A breath of air caught the branches
Red hot flames went into dances
Accompanied with fire light cackle
Sweet pine scent from the sackful
The pan near bubbling over
Gave Jeanie thoughts for darkened hour
For none but those who knew the game
Know where all man’s the same
Blackened hands passed round the bottle
A dram too much could cause a throttle
For Ruby red and brazen spirit
Can see two selves assure you stir it
That make the chanters voice a treat
And make the tone deaf tap their feet
Many sighs and laughs of pleasure
Were given round in bottled treasure
Until again the fire was kindled
And only one o’ the company dwindled.

Robert Marshal


Untitled

Who with sight  so need of  specs
Can wander round so many wrecks
Of their own kind.
And turn around with smugly grin
To say all is fine
I’m sure it’s nice to know that life’s a game
One door shuts another lets us in
But  lets go and hope its the right one

Robert Marshal

 

To all Miners Everywhere

Can I see you father though the mine be dark as night

I can hear your heart beat as your inner feelings fight,

With the thoughts of the pit head, the freshness of the air,

I can feel you father and the other men down here.

Where its second air we breathe in and the coal dust bites the lungs,

I’m down here beside you a miners minor son.

Do you hear the birdies singing that tells us there’s no gas

Just two more hours to work in hell until this shift has passed,

Then some other poor miners will walk slowly to their line,

But then I’ll see you father and we will talk no more of time.

Robert Marshal

 

Tenements

 

Tenement lovers, single room love nests, a sleeping child whimpers,

dogs barks echo through paint flaked window panes,

Two checked capped protectors, search the alley for those who have

played their game.

A ancient couple sit discussing their worth’s, and stare blankly into

the white ash of the long cooled fire,

Outside in the rain a drunken spouse calls his crying wife liar, and

trips over a pile of discarded yesterdays newspapers,

Frightening away a long tailed night searcher, scavenging through

peoples litter,

Awakening a tramp huddled down against the damp stair wall, who

called out, if you had told me I shouldn’t, I’m sure to God I wouldn’t.

Robert Marshal

 

One Rainy Day

Today rain covered the asphalt of the streets, people shuddered in

the wet, hurrying in their duties,

As each raindrop portrayed its neighbor, a stationary policeman

vowed to mutiny,

Yet remained skulking in his rubber cape, watching in scrutiny.

Had the fish trapped within the safety of the water tank, seen so

many unhappy people, there would have been no pleasure, for our

enjoyment in making the water ripple,

Or the child splashing their freedom in the puddle, reprimanded by

a total stranger, who stared sullenly while that ogre passed, then

with a mighty splash laughed innocently with a smile straight from

the manger.

A mother wearied at the shop counter, worried about her missing

son, tomorrow if the sun shone she promised to remember,

Then as the rain stopped we carried on, forgetting that long rainy

day in September.

Robert Marshal

 

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2 responses to this post.

  1. Posted by Brock on January 24, 2013 at 3:56 pm

    You should try writing like the Dire Straits songs again instead of this garbage. You must have lost all your talent.

    Reply

    • If your real Brock Poetry is for the mind, its called visual writing giving a picture to the reader. lyric’s ARE WRITTEN TO BE PUT TO MUSIC, and doesn’t need that kind of vision as the musical part gives the expression to the words. That your head seems to lack, and its Microwaves,stop,Ovens singular, not microwave ovens. And if I’m a Faggot there were three of us in the house at Deptford London, awaiting the fourth. I don’t hear Mark Knopfler or John Illsley complaining about what I have written, and they can get the best Lawyers money can buy with my money. So whats your real grief Brock are you bored with life, or are you just needing the truth like us all from M.K and J.I..about who wrote what.

      Reply

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