My gentler poems.

Although this is not strictly a poem I thought I might include it to see what you think of it. It is part fictional, part fact.

A Letter to a Penfriend.

Dear friend,
Thank you for your letter, I'm sorry that it has taken a long time to get back to you, I have been very busy. By the time you get this the Easter celebrations will almost be a memory of the past, however I did try my best to fast during the Lenten period, not because my work is all that physically demanding, it is just draining trying to fast. In the end I managed it and what a glorious festival Easter was, full of colour and light, and yes you are quite right the resurrection sequence does remind me of the beautiful butterfly pictures you sent me, thank you. I'll have to get out and take some photographs of the wonderful wildlife we have here, the birds, insects, otters, foxes and deer we have in this area.
I'm glad you liked the book I sent, I wasn't sure if a Graham Greene was your cup of tea, I like the mystery that surrounds his stories, and the one I sent you is full of exotic countries. Of course you live in country with a tropical climate, wet and intense heat, how do you cope with that? Give me England any day, I know one day it is hot and then cold, then wet and windy. Today and the last few days it has been hot and sticky so I have a rough idea of what it is like to live in your country. I suppose this humidity will end in a climatic and dramatic thunderstorm, lightning and thunder, flashing and crashing through the night keeping me awake.
As you know I can only read English, so the newspaper cutting you sent me made no sense until I used a translator on the internet, then everything made sense. So your country is undergoing a Malaria epidemic, I hope you haven't got it; of course if you have there is plenty of treatment for Malaria. I suppose it is to do with the mosquitos that frequent your tropical climate. Anyway I'll pray for you and your family that they may escape the worst, or get treated quickly.
On the subject of religion, a few years ago I discovered a book by Thomas Merton, called, "The Seven Storey Mountain," it is a sort of confessional autobiography of a man who becomes a Trappist monk. (A Trappist monk is a part of the Cistercian and Benedictine tradition of monasticism.) Anyway this monk died in Bangkok in Thailand, which, if my geography is correct, is not far from your country. At the time he was trying to integrate his ideas of Catholicism with Buddhism as well as other eastern religions. So now I know that me as a Catholic and you as a Buddhist our ideals are not so different. Thank you for being able accept me as I accept you.
Well I'll draw this letter to a close, yes I am reasonably well myself, hoping and praying this letter will find you in good health.
All the best from your friend.

I'm not sure what you are asking for, Ian.

Here is another poem:

The Abandoned Teddy-Bear.

I lay here wondering of the days gone by,
of how I was owned by loving child,
who looked after me lovingly,
one day he took me on a picnic,
feeding me honey and marmalade,
unlike the empty crisp packet,
with one of those new fangled
flavours of honey and marmalade.

Once I was brushed clean with a lovingness,
unlike today with bits of stuffing poking out,
one eye missing and my nose hanging on,
what has happened to my loving child,
has he grown too old for me,
or has he just chucked me here,
unremembered, unloved and discarded.

Ian ....somewhat

Unfortunately I have come to the end of my gentler poems apart from these three:

Sunrise Sunset.

The splendour of the sunrise,
is only surpassed by the alluring grandeur,
of the setting red-rimmed sun.

__________________________________________________

Salmon Coming Home.

Silver shimmering
rivers ascending
searching for its
golden source
high up a mountain.

Drip drip dripping
splash splash splashing
gurgle gurgle gurgling
swirling upwards
not noting
all is impossible.

_________________________________________________

The Book.

I am a book that sits snuggly on the shelf between many other books,
I am a large book and contain many words and so I think to myself
I am a wise book full of wisdom. However I am not a happy book for I want to escape
and see what lies beyond the shelf. I think to myself, 'if I can just move I'll see around.'
I try to move but nothing happens. Now I am annoyed, 'why can't I move,
there must be a way.' So I think of all the moving words contained inside myself,
'walk,' not a murmur, 'run,' no that won't do, 'canter,' surely that'll that will do it; no.
I think, 'surely there must be more moving words,' so I look further
into my depths and think of many words, but still no movement.
Then right in the hidden depths of me a word springs forward, 'shove.'
So I try it out and me 'shoves,' and 'shoves,' and, 'shoves.'
I move; it is not very far, for my spine now protrudes just a little bit,
yet I think to myself, 'I still can't see much.'

Just then a man comes into the room and walks towards to shelves, I wait
in anticipation, so I think, 'will he choose me or will he push me back,
so I will have to go through it all again,' the man stops and looks at each spine,
his hand hovers despairingly close, the man hesitates waits;
I scream, 'me, me, me, please, I want to see beyond here.'

The man again again hovers his hand teasingly close looking and then;
he picks me out and lovingly caresses me out into the world.

Ian...'The Book' is my favourite. I also enjoyed your other poems. You have a talent and you should continue to write as you do, from deep within the heart.

Thankyou Soop,

I actually found one more:

A View from a Rock.

I sit on a rock
on a mountain
contemplating
what I can see
an ocean is visible
cool and inviting
a sandy desert
hot and uninviting
various trees
a roaring river
to waterfalls cascading.

Fervent musing
all very amusing
as the rock becomes
uncomfortably hard
as I focus on
the landscape
surrounding all
I observe. Fascinated
deliberately
meandering
over the open spaces.

Night falls
the sunsets
I can hardly see now
all that I saw
earlier in the day;
better move on
before I lose my
way. Home from
this rock where
pondering and
not wandering
from all that I
surveyed.

Ian Your words are very expressive. I really do appreciate your gentler poetry. Thank you for sharing it with us.

Poetry and dance Makes me think of the Pied Piper.
Wonder if Ian would like to pipe and dance all the disapproving Gransnet people into the mountain?

Just joined. I didn't realise there were such interesting ways to be bores. Here's my contribution:

A four-legged spider named Harry
decided he just couldn't carry
the burden he bore,
being short of the four,
so he swallowed his twin sister, Carrie.