An introverted individual, his poetry, as with his life, varies and swings, but always shines with his traditional care and approach. Born and raised in England, he holds dear the traditional values that stereotype the gentlemen of this country. Adoring the English art of understatement. Bought up in a very traditional and literate family, perhaps feeling torn between two worlds, the old and the new, caused him to relate to the timeless art of poetry. |
I was sat in my cottage when
The sun went down and then...
A blue rose enclosed,
Both petal and thorn still betrothed...
A statement of my intent,
Maybe even a brief entry of a journal...
Behold the river as day breaks.
Ebbing its way to mountain lakes...
The snow does not fall like apples from a tree,
It rather enjoys gliding and floating...
These words to secrecy one was sworn,
For denied is the truth from where they were born...
Melting rays upon a soothing sea,
As a star sinks once more...
Fabrication it would be
If a yellow rose be found with me...
Oh creature most mannered mild,
In my image styled...
Daisy, Daisies, why do thou
Occupy the bank beneath the bough...
My friend, we have become old men, and I fear that we have let opportunity and dream pass us by. Let us, in our regret, teach our young not to chase, but to capture their dreams. |
My life is but a flee from the reaper. |
My girl, |