"NO WIND, NO RAIN, NO FOG...."

“NO WIND, NO RAIN, NO FOG....”

There’s a place that you must see,

A little Cornish village full of secrecy.

For years it was hidden without a road,

It’s oddities to tourists seldom bestowed.

Welcome to Warleggan, its mystery underpinned,

By the fictional Narnia, with whom it is twinned.

The somewhat isolated church of St Bartholomew,

Its little winding path, leading to empty pew.

The Reverend Densham his sermon echoes in exasperation,

“No wind, no rain, no fog, no congregation”

His parish absent, his words turned to dust,

Just faceless cut outs sat in the aisles with blind trust.

His death was as lonely as his mass,

His last breath on the bell tower steps did pass.

Arm stretched toward the twisted rope,

But, he expired before he could summon forlorn hope.

Two days he lay, with no one to care,

Now his ghost roams the grounds, chilling the air.

Warleggan, beautiful village, Bodmin wrapped around her,

“No wind, no rain, no fog, no vicar”

Phil Hall   November 2012

So breathtakingly Cornish. A haunted church, magical twin town and the mysterious writing in the visitors book. "No wind, no rain, no fog, no end"

ROCHE ROCK

ROCHE ROCK

When the good people of Cornwall are asleep,

The tears of long lost lovers weep.

A magical sword glistens in waters deep,

In the ethereal glow stands Roche rock, towering steep.

*

High upon the granite heights, grey and ghostly pale,

The hermit Ogrin still protects loves oldest tale.

The winds deathly moans stirred by Tregeagles wail,

The love of Tristan and Iseult was doomed to fail.

*

Huddled on the rock, concealed by an angels wing,

                                Hunted by the jealous Mark, Cornwall’s warrior King.

Their tragic love, of which the bards still sing,

Legend and lore this lonely rock can bring.

*

Roche rock, a holy place it’ll always be,

Where Gundred tended to her fathers leprosy.

Young girls drop pebbles in the spring, their future to see,

On shrouded Bodmin moor, the rock with ancient mystery.

Phil Hall         November 2012

Roche rock is another mysterious place, full of legend and lore. The love story of Tristan and Iseult is the basis for all love  stories. Tragic and awe inspiring. The spring and well where Gundred treated her fathers leprosy is still there.  

DOZMARY POOL

                                     

 DOZMARY POOL

No breath of wind disturbs the star filled night,

Joan the Wad and her mischievous piskies are nowhere in sight.

The dark, brooding pool is still as glass and silently cold,

Jan Tregeagle haunts here, his soul sold for the devils gold.

Sentenced for eternity to empty Dozmary pool,

With a cracked limpet shell, this tortured fool.

No owls ‘hoot’, no animals make a sound,

Not even a howl from the Bodmin hell hound.

Cornish wraiths glide over the lake in a miasmic glow,

The full moon floats heavy on the lonely stillness below.

A caress of death can be felt on the night air,

Shadowy granite monoliths, for millennia standing there.

They once watched Sir Bediveres dying outstretched arm,

Cast the protector of Britain ‘Escalibur’ far from harm.

The lady of the lake holds the sword to this day,

Waiting for Arthur to return from Avalon, eon’s away.

With his armoured Knights, lances piercing the fog,

Riding through boulder covered tor, swaying reeds and bog.

The mythical Dozmary pool on the cold, lonely moor,

Deathly quiet and mysterious, its secrets will be held for evermore.

Phil Hall              October 2012

These three poems hopefully illustrate the dark, brooding beauty of the wonderful county ( or country as the folk of Kernow like it known) of Cornwall. I've enjoyed lots of visits to the tip of England and it always inspires me.

WHY

WHY?

Why do we have little toes?

Why when they drive, do men pick their nose?

Why do police sound their sirens on empty roads?

Why do I get stuck, when in a hurry behind heavy loads?

Why do football pundits think they’re funny?

Why do we have an Easter bunny?

Why after a few days of sun does it have to rain?

Why so many empty first class carriages on a busy train?

Why do neighbours play their music so loud?

Why do people who dress the same, think they stand out from the crowd?

Why, just before Christmas do people buy so much bread?

Why do families only miss their parents when they’re dead?

Why do we need to eat five a day?

Why do bankers get so much pay?

Why do little men try to be tough?

Why didn’t England appoint Brian Clough?

Why does the Sun still have page three?

Why do I get pain from fluid on the knee?

Why is cows’ milk white, when the grass they eat is green?

Why does the tower of Pisa lean?

Why do men have nipples, but cannot suckle?

Why wrap cheese in wax and call it a truckle?

Why can’t children read at the age of five?

Why keep somebody who wants to die, alive?

Why do our troops die for people who don’t care?

Why do they bother? They don’t want us there.

Why is petrol so ridiculously dear?

Why do taxes go up year on year?

Why do we keep giving billions in foreign aid?

Why do we support military dictators with an arms trade?

Why? Is the question that’s never resolved?

Why do I bother? Why do I get involved?

Phil Hall   April 2012

All children ask why? Being a man I still like to ask the question. I've so many things to ask there may have to be a WHY? part 2.

ONE DAY I MAY CLIMB A SUNBEAM

 ONE DAY I MAY CLIMB A SUNBEAM

Here I stare through these cold prison walls,

All flaking and cracked and wrapped in warm shawls,

My mind drifts through life’s echoing halls.

One day I may climb a sunbeam.

       ****

The building started life as a receptacle,

Full of wonder, all in front of me a spectacle,

After a lifetime of viewing I’m sceptical.

One day I may climb a sunbeam.

      ****

Bricks of muscle, full of power in sport,

Strong and true on field, pitch and court,

Now the foundations are crumbling, come to nought.

One day I may climb a sunbeam.

   ****

Not anymore will I try to live so fast,

I’m a museum, filled with treasures from the past.

Not sure quite how long this building will last.

One day I may climb a sunbeam.

  ****

It has been so long since the warmth of the womb,

Schooldays and summers to mausoleum and tomb.

This building’s light destined for infinite gloom.

One day I may climb a sunbeam.

****

As I prepare for my end long denied,

To spend eternity, free of life’s bricks on the other side.

God will light the path for the final ride.

So, I may climb my own personal sunbeam.

Phil Hall    October 2012
Copyright: Philthepoet61.blogspot.com

Age catches up with all of us, I may still think I'm 18 in my head but in reality I'm crumbling. Getting older doesn't worry me though, I just find I enjoy the little things in life a bit more. 

FROM THE OCEAN

             FROM THE OCEAN

The timeless waves crash against the desolate beach,

Haunted cries of the gulls, hanging in a lonely wind.

As sand whips around my feet plumes of reeds guide my eyes.

The pink horizon holding memories of an ancient mariner’s tale.

Each breath invigorates my soul with peace from this world,

The muffled applause of sea and shingle, constant and steady.

                                    ************

With no one to share this feast of spindrift and salty spray,

Stinging my face and eyes with each playful stroke.

My face is raised to the life giving spume of Hyperion’s breath.,

Then hand circling on the carpet of glistening sand.

Dunlin and Knot race to and fro’ before the surf,

The trial of life gives play for a taste of the oceans fruit.

                                    *************

Lonely sea, cold sea, steely resolute friend and foe,

Thought invoking, soul refreshing, invigorating sea.

The much travelled winds arms wrapped around me,

I roam past boats long since abandoned.

Their paint ageing pastel by sea and sun, flaking slowly.

With bones of crab pots stacked in disarray,

                                    *************

Where bladder wrack dried black, lies tangled in nets.

Sand dunes flow like a dry sea in a world of secretive shallow.

They stretch along the coast, giving echo to the surf.

As I stand with an ear to the curlews impassioned cry,

Eons have passed since man first stepped from the ocean.

But, like the gull and the wave, I’ll be drawn back evermore,

Phil Hall    may 2012 

There is nothing I love more than walking along deserted beaches. The cry of the gulls, the feel of the salty air and the taste of the sea really refreshes ones mind and soul. 

BATTLE OF PEMAQUID BAY

BATTLE OF PEMAQUID BAY

All over the world the dead quietly lie,

Moss and lichen lend freckled scars, chipped letters fading by.

The inscriptions flaking from granite stones, stories turned to dust,

Time and distance, ancient tears turn not just nails to rust.

In a quiet, peaceful cemetery, a tablet tells a story,

Combatants who died for their cause, not for honour and glory.

A dual grave from years gone by in Portland USA,

Longfellow once wrote “I remember a sea fight, far, far away”

On the fifth of September 1813, two ships met in Pemaquid Bay,

Captain Samuel Blyth of the ‘Boxer’ didn’t see out the day.

This brave hero nailed his colours to the mast,

“This ship will never surrender” those words his last.

The first blast of cannon from ‘Enterprise’ shot him through,

The reapers flaming scythe harvested others from his crew.

Some seamen deserted their posts in a terrible manner,

Refusing to bear arms against the ‘star spangled banner’.

Outgunned and outmanned, ‘Boxer’ staggered in pain,

Masts shattered, with sails whipped free from the strain.

Lieutenant William Burrows moved in to capture his prize,

But, that was a mistake; a musket ball sealed his demise.

The ‘Jack’ was torn down from ‘Boxer’, all scarred and gored,

As the dying Burrows was presented Blyth’s’ ceremonial sword.

Though mortally wounded, he waved it away and said

“I am satisfied, I can die contented.”

Enterprise and Boxer limped to the quayside,

The quiet crowds gathered around all those who had died.

The glory of battle displayed in all its awful, bloody truth,

Captains so brave, lying dead, torn from their youth.

So now there they lie, in a cemetery in Portland, Maine,

Two hundred years since the battle and the pain.

Blyth and Burrows once foe on sea and land

Entered Heaven as comrades in death hand in hand.

Captain Samuel Blyth, once of Boxer, his Majesty’s brig,

Re-united with his sword and his proud Captains rig.

These lonely words carved on the memorial rolls

“His country will long deplore the loss of one of her bravest souls”.

Phil Hall            June 2012

This poem was inspired by a walk in a cemetery one day and reading the inscriptions on the tombstones. Every stone had a tale to tell. 

           

I researched the short life of Captain Samuel Blyth after reading about him in a superb book called 'JackTar'. I was moved by his story and it reminded me of my favourite poem 'The Soldier' by Rupert Brooke (1887-1915) 

If I should die, think only this of me:

That there'e some corner of a foreign field

That is forever England. There shall be 

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed......

May all our sons of England lay in far off ground, rest in peace.