Head Over Heals

I’m hearing familiar sounds.
Now listen, here’s the thing.
A starling, dizzy, calling
head over heals in Spring

and yet the awesome speed of light
passed imagining, at this pace
still takes too long to speak to us
from farthest outer space.

The grass is growing faster
underneath my feet
and here we are once again
where two extremists meet.

It’s difficult to fathom how
those two imposters hail
from just one body, so opposite,
yet both conspire to fail

to nurture perfect, vibrant beauty,
when offspring promise doesn’t last.
But need such boundless hope and joy
deteriorate so fast?

Fewer shorter days remain
to save the obvious child
with a simple kind of radiant love
and wrest them from the wild.

How could we doubt a time that bursts
with all forms of life that sing
their seeds in the earth for us to reap,
head over heals in Spring.

© 2017 John Anstie
All rights reserved

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A Sonnet for Leila

The narrow path that sometimes seems too long,
dim crescent moon in deeply dark night sky
and have they ever made you feel the throng
of voices on your eardrum, ask you why,

but never seem to show the way to be;
the touch of fate that seems to threaten you
and blinds your inside eye so you can’t see
the little light that grows and burns as true

as any light could be; a voice that speaks,
that elevates your spirit, steals your fear,
reveals itself in unexpected weeks …
and drugs your senses ’till your vision’s clear.

Then Lucida was born to help us see
the all pervading light that helps us be.

© 2016 John N Anstie

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Comment for Kole

Never expecting too much of life
Is like preparing to be surprised.
When all it throws at you
is bad news, it comes good!

Then you popped your head
above the parapet to say
Hello, it’s me, I’m here!
Where’s the milk bar?

You, one of many young lives,
a second blessing in a year
so full of unhappy events;
loss and degradation …

… a parting of ways,
the work of a generation to
bring us together, gone west,
now adrift, like the Marie Celeste

I wonder what will be, for you
in the midst of sheep-clothed tyranny.
We may have messed up 
but must we leave you to fix it?

I wonder, in a house full of balls,
what genesis of talents and skills,
what genetics will course your veins;
mould your personality.

The perfect uniqueness you are,
will you keep them all in the air;
become a champion of …
peace and social justice?

What will light your fire;
what will bring you joy;
what will be your raison d’être?

Welcome to the World, my boy.

© 2016 John N Anstie

This poem is dedicated to my sixth grandchild, my fourth grandson, Kole George Nicholson. Born early in November 2016.

It is written in Free Verse. 
JNA December 2016

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do not make war, a poem

This carries with it, not only a poetic expression of love, but also a very special message … from the pen of Jamie Dedes

THE POET BY DAY

View of Cliff House from Ocean Beach View of Cliff House from Ocean Beach

1.

it must be painful for them to write, those poets in tough-times and hard places
where blood and tears and poverty contaminate the air, stain the sidewalks, and consume the people

the blood must be soul-sick and rusted and tasting of acid, not salt,
and the poems meant to heal the writer and stroke the cheeks of the wounded,
to dry their eyes and gently kiss their gray heads

to poem in such places must be like walking shoeless on glass shards

perhaps the most sacred thing in the dream-time meadow of poets’ desire is Light ~
can you awaken to meet the Divine on the battlefield, in the camps, in government housing or in the ghettos?

if so, you are a saint, not simply an artist

2.

in my small world, my civilized world, people fall asleep reading or after making love…

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A Ritual for Peace

If there were ever worthier cause than this,
then tell me please. To start and think how each
and every step we take will mark the ground.
Enduring footprints, howsoever small,
one day will rise in thousands, coalesce
into a hardened monument, that stands

… forever irresistible to all.

Each bastion will strengthen a resolve,
exposing the futility of war;
the rape of Mother Earth. To save her soul,
repeat again, unquestioning, the need
for all to find another way … for all;
and seek new social order; politic.

And might this be our greatest ever quest
that every day we do or be our best

ensuring love and kindness finds a place
in every breath we take, that gives us grace

to reconcile conflicting minds and cease
the fighting; search for everlasting peace.

© 2016 John N Anstie

This poem was first published in the October 2016 edition of the The BeZine, whose theme for the month was ‘Rituals for Peace, Healing and Unity’.
This poem is written in Blank Verse, concluding with three rhyming couplets. 

Posted in Blank Verse, Death, Hope, Love, poetry, Preachy, Religious, War | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments

Incidental music for ‘Sheffield PALS’

Last night at the New Barrack Tavern in Sheffield, a tribute was paid to a group of local young men, who fought for our country but never came home. To mark the 100th anniversary of the Batt…

Source: Incidental music for ‘Sheffield PALS’

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May 2016, Vol.2/Issue 8; Books That Changed Our Lives

Another special issue of the BeZine, by the remarkable Jamie Dedes …

BE inspired…BE creative…BE peace…Be

Source: May 2016, Vol.2/Issue 8; Books That Changed Our Lives

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Little Big Man

(for Samuel Leon Anstie)

This fragile earth, on which we so depend
is strewn with evidence that life portends
a choreography of happenstance.
Your shoes were made for your own special dance.

When you appeared and shone the warmest light,
you were the star that lit our empty night
with hope and joy … ’till nature’s wayward rhyme
decided you’d arrived before your time.

Now you are held in safe and powerful hands
and, even after rock is ground to sand,
the echoes of your brave, brave heart are free
to resonate for all eternity …

carrying all our love, our grief, our pain
until we hold you in our arms again.

© 2015 John Anstie

[Samuel Leon Anstie, my third grandson, was born prematurely at 24 weeks gestation, on Sunday, 14th June 2015; lived to fight for his life – and he was a fighter – until his little big heart ran out of strength, in the early hours of Friday, 10th July 2015. We mourn his loss more than if he had lived to ripe old age having contributed to the wellbeing of this world, as he surely would have done; all the more so because, if we, his grandparents feel like this, then my son and his wife will feel it with so much greater magnitude …]

Posted in children, family, Love, melancholy, poetry, Religious, sadness | Tagged , , , | 8 Comments

The Major

(for Arthur Rowley Heyland*)

There is no glory in death.
This is no feature film.
Dying is death … is dying
in muddied boots and pain.

Where is the justice then,
to help us reckon with those
who would put out the light
that always shines bright.

It is here …

And the years shall not dim
a vision of him in gold and red,
on the battlefields of Europe,
the pride of the Fighting Fortieth,
the honour of his men,
the depth of his loyalty,
the colour of his blood …
unswerving from the truth,
the kind of truth revealed
in poverty and poetry … and death,
whose messenger, a musket ball,
cut short his breath, but not his words;
words that give meaning to his life:

On the night before the battle,
a letter to his wife still wets the eyes
and we shed tears two hundred years on.

Brightest of all, his words set fair
to illuminate his love and care

for ‘my Mary’ and ‘my children’,
whose future changed forever, when

the bugler’s victory fanfare blew,
and tyranny met its Waterloo.

© 2015 John Anstie

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*At the time of his death, Major Heyland was Commander of the 40th Regiment of Foot at The Battle of Waterloo, on the 18th June 1815. The author is the Major’s GGG Grandson.

Posted in courage, Death, family, poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Beginnings and Endings

(for Kath)

Your words, those words
you found so readily,
that bound more hearts
than we can count,
that longed to procreate,
transforming stress
and suffering
into new-born life
and unbound joy;
a baby girl or baby boy,
maybe both (who cares),
were made believable with
compassion unalloyed

and you explained,
with measured care
and parallel respect,
the medical complexity,
procedures and advice,
with sympathy and empathy,
more than they’d expect,
but when it ends with
a lonely box of tissues
that cries a thousand
sad and tragic poems
in languages unknown,
in response, you know …
there are no words.

Yet out of screaming silence,
a soft and gentle voice
calms the stormiest sea,
that brings this thing,
this search for meaning
of life, both new and old,
that will either give it back
or offer consolation,
to soften the heavy blow,
this crushing weight,
defying all description,
belying all you know
of life’s great force,
this utter desolation.

Words are like life,
defined by yearnings,
by hope and plans
by pain and tragedy,
beginnings and endings.

But, when words
fail to fill the void,
just one prevails
and this is Love.

© 2015 John Anstie

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