Welcome to The Knaphillian

Elizabeth Arrow
Stephen Drury

Gary Fellows

Mal Foster

Elaine Hanham

Paul Martin

Alex Paterson

Marjorie Kiddle

A.P. Whittick

Anon (Name & Contact details supplied)

POEM OF LIFE

 

A young man called out to the midnight moon,

which shone through the night,

‘What is Life?’

The young man called out once more

Nobody had answers to his question,

The young man waited for half an hour

But there was no response.

 

As the sun rose,

The young man went up a big hill

And he tried again,

‘What is life?’

He called out

The by-passers who walked past him

Looked at him strangely.

 

The young man was about to say something

When suddenly an old man

Came up to him and he said,

‘So you want to know what life is then?’

The young man nodded:

The old man said

‘Come to this very spot tomorrow

and I will tell you everything’

 

So the young man went home,

With a big smile on his face

He was so pleased that someone was

Going to tell him

‘What life is all about?’

 

As he went to bed that night,

He still had a smile on his face,

The man was so pleased

With himself

 

The next morning the sun rose

The old man was sitting on the ground,

Meditating, he could the feel the young man coming towards him

Young man thought that the old man was strange,

A bit of a hippy

The strange man had spoken,

 

‘So you want to know what life is.’

 The young boy nodded

‘Life is something that you should care about’

‘Why?’

‘Why young sir… life is a simple thing’

‘How do you know?’

‘I can tell you… you can learn from the mistakes or run from them’

‘How do you know all this’

‘I’ve been watching you since you were born

and your partner has changed everything’

‘So I know what life is about already after what I have seen already’

‘Yes you do’

 

The old man disappeared without trace

The young man was confused.

The old man knew about his past,

So the young man decided to go home

And explain it to his partner 

LOVE'S WRATH

The world hadst betrayed my loyalty,

It like a poison arrowhead in my inner sanctuary,

My guarded temple doth see the approaching storm and trembles,

Its shaky, rotten foundation on which it was years back laid,

Hadst caused it to tumble and bury itself away in horror and shame,

For this world as I know it hadst not protected me,

But hadst wounded me and against it I cannot stand.

Shall I the light of my golden sphere in beauty see

Or must I linger in the shadows till the day awakens,

To be clothed in tender silks and soft robes?

Lift those bandages from your hollow eyes,

See the world in its mangled state and proclaim,

This wretched core shall yet see the sunrise,

For those wounded the bell shall toll,

But for you, my world and my death song,

Shall my love remain and grow ever strong.

INFINITY AND DUST 

 

What a wonderful world
But how many of us really know
Or understand the magnitude
Of time and of change
To arrive where we are

Of concepts so strange

 

The blink of an eye
Compares to many a year
Analogous of the time
That we have been around
We small blind entities
The odds against abound

 

So tiny this planet
Within a small star
Of a galaxy we float
Of billions there are
In such a massive space
Even time is too far

 

Inconceivable to those
Without a free mind
Who cannot see our place
Of we, the human race
Where we fit in with time
Where we sit within space

 

Is there anyone out there?
Are we here all alone?
This we may not know
Possibilities so vast
But could we ever meet up
Ever travel that fast

 

 

ALONE AGAIN

 

Like lots of tomorrows
We beat at this world
Pent up, wrenched up
With time we’re all spent up

 

Blind in thought
Lost in drapes
Drooping down within our minds
Reality escapes

 

Life’s a gas
Breathe the gas
A butterfly’s life
Such ethereal paradise

 

Wasted and tasted
Wasting up time
Like Lots of tomorrows
Silent thoughts in empty sorrows

 

 

ANTHROPOMORPHIC DISCURSIVE IRONY

 

I feel such a swine
As I ponder these words
This richly stained pigment
Sometimes dogmatic
Pawing over these letters
Embarking on creativity
Some poem Bearly written
Fragmented Ursine verses
Erudite prose beyond bearable
Clawing this literary maze
Searching for a catalyst
A Felicitous conclusion
For an idea original
Not following sheep-like
With bad ramifications
Scurrying around my mind
In an erratic way
Until finally ratified
Until I pride myself
In the details of my verse
And Lionise my finished work

PRECONCEPTION

My children are nameless

they are mere souls

waiting to be born

they are numberless

and divided

they are sexless

and have yet no form

they wander in obscurity

time's passages

awaiting years

for the nine month countdown

to emerge

with faces and with names

into the hands

of the unknown mother

who yet knows nothing

of this conception.

STRIPPER

Your existence re-invented
life renewed

laid out bare
for anyone new to see

that's the order
its all in now

gently severed
from an excruciating past

given up
to these strobes of light

where I see you dancing
on attention's stage

your body smashed
by middle-aged principles 

IN QALA

 

In Qala (pronounced Ala)

I stopped opposite the steps

of the ancient church.

 

Time to chill, relax

take in some sun,

some local beer.

 

The smell of Gozitan cuisine

wafting on the promise

of a reasonably priced menu.

 

The lady who runs the place

leaning thru the hatch in the door

explaining her purpose.

            ODE TO KNAPHILL

 

            Cars always speeding
            Past The Crown
            But for 'The Rock'
            It would grind you down
  
            The whiff of pizza
            Or kebab
            But for the taste
            It would drive you mad

            Green oasis can be found
            You can even kick a ball around
            But spare the locals a little thought
            And bin the rubbish that you brought

            Should you wish the Senses to appease
            A line or two of poetry please
            Care of Mal the local Bard
            It needn't tax your brain cells all that hard

ON THE MARKET

 

Our house is on the market,

And it's such an awful bore

When noisy, tiresome people

Make their way to our front door.

 

They barge into my kitchen,

With their beady eyes on stalks

Which penetrate all corners,

I've hidden my silver forks!

 

They say this room's not big enough

To swing their precious cat,

Though Jim and I can't figure out

The need for doing that!

 

Our sitting-room is painted mauve,

And folk don't seem too keen.

One said it made her feel quite sick,

I saw her gills turn green!

 

The bedroom windows are too small,

The bathroom is too large,

The garden's not the size they want,

And we haven't a garage.

 

They look up to the roof to see

If we have got a dish,

And when they see there's not one there,

Kids say, 'We can't have this!'

 

So Jim and I've decided

When folk ask at our door,

'Is your house on the market?'

We'll shout, 'Not any more!'

 

 

A CELEBRATION OF SPRING

 

Dark days of winter gloom have gone,

The blackbird sings his joyful song,

And life takes on a rosy hue,

For Spring has come, and all is new.

 

The hedgerows burst with fresh new green,

And welcome wild flowers can be seen,

Primroses, violets, meadow-rue,

For Spring has come, and all is new.

 

The dormouse rubs his sleepy eyes

And sniffs the air - it's time to rise!

The cows have lush green grass to chew,

For Spring has come, and all is new.

 

And now it's apple blossom time,

And buds will burst on beech and lime,

On oak and ash and elder too,

For Spring has come, and all is new.

 

Candles bedeck the chestnut trees,

Their pollen makes some people sneeze.

And skudding clouds are white and blue,

For Spring has come, and all is new.

 

And there's a deal of life to watch

On river banks and busy locks,

Ducklings and cygnets, mayflies too,

For Spring has come, and all is new.

 

So lift your voices, raise a cheer,

The prime time of the year is here,

For birds and beasts and people too,

For Spring has come, and all is new.

 

 

LEISURE DAYS

 

Have you strolled in leafy Surrey,

And revelled in the trees

That clothe the quiet countryside

In north, south, west and east?

 

Have you tramped in greening beechwoods

When April days are here?

A great canopy of beauty

In Friday Street and Shere.

 

Have you heard the breezes whisper

Through weeping willow trees,

Or shuffled feet with merry glee

Through carpets of dead leaves?

 

To enjoy the best of Surrey

Just take a woodland walk

With two wise words to guide you -

No hurry - and no talk!

THE HOUDINI

Nails gnawed to their roots

And battle scars are their gravestones

Like paint cans on a canvass of skin

With colours bleeding and breathing new life

Into a broken-down piece of meat

 

The stifling voices and noises pelt against

My body. A condensation of rage wets my face

Antagonising the screams that tear and rip through

The leather of my skin. My veins constrict

And tether me to the seat

 

Silently screaming to outshout those

Who care to listen and deafened by the awareness

Of sightlessness I’ve seen in people. I lay mummified

Inside a fleshy tomb of thoughts and ideas that

Pain me to hide there

 

Flesh and bones with the tissue creasing

Over the edges. Comfortably constricting

Like in some homemade straightjacket

Plunged into the depths of a water torture cell

An inescapable hell for entertainment

 

On the surface it’s a calm sea but below this

The ocean floor, is crawling with the nets of old trawlers

They grab me. Bind my arms and eyes and ears

Puppeteering. The inertia is broken

The oxygen squeezed from my lungs

And wheezed out till my chest clenches like a fist

The final bubble scampers away from my throat

Like a balloon ascending into the sky. I look on

Until the sun blinds my view. The bubble surfaces

It exhales for me

THE CELLIST

 

The lined and sallow score lay in his hand,

His Red-rimmed eyes cast downwards, flames caress

Flickers by a once constant friend who, resting, and

Disappointed in awkward silence, distressed,

Defamed, shameful of gnarled, sinewy caress,

That drags a bow feebly ‘cross aging frame,

Absent of a melodic reclaim.

 

He ponders and, stands up, decision made

Takes vinyl Brahms and with affection sets

The track, takes pause, and with willowy sweep of suede

Musters courage to hear his requiem played.

But oh! Melodious beauty lifts his soul from grey

Into swirling, chaotic strands of a vermillion fray,

A violet viola played by an amber bow

And a vibrating, supporting crimson gold below.

 

He waltzes round the room in complete glee,

Stopping, coughing, laying on his side

His palms are moist, the record increasingly

Skips, the record fades but like a wide eyed

Rodent jumps, and slows weary and tired,

My lord, he thought, if only I could play

Orchestral for another blissful, perfect day,

 

‘All is not lost’! to he a voice cried out,

A gentle soul, alone, appeared from naught,

And was soon joined by thousands in his shout,

‘come to us, hold high your bow, you’ve sought

Us and old Apollo! Feel not distraught!

Ascend! here is your everlasting prize

Climb through the white and join us in the orchestra of the skies!’

REFLECTIONS

 

I feel so blessed

To glimpse this view

Of Knaphill to the west

When at St Johns through

Kiln Bridge metal struts

Observed the wooing swans

Beneath a sunset at its best

 

And in my wondering I ask

How many other eyes

Have recognised this bliss

Throughout the decades past

Before their die was cast

And they were laid to rest

 

Then on the newly gravelled

Track I trudge my feet

And view the mallards as

They dip their lustrous heads

Then small-talk with a quack

As trees begin their new life

Growth above my crown

And I with nature wed

 

Then heading to the ‘hill’

Not yet replete I hear a

Warbler’s springtime trill

And see the funeral pyres

Of last year’s garden leaves

As smoke drifts idly to

The ridge-top bank

Where in the quiet hours

Those south west trains

Emit a ghostly clank

 

 

SNOWFALLS

 

Somehow in this economic downturn

Things seemed at an all-time low

And afterwards that heavy fall of snow

That had us yomping round slippery

Streets in short uncertain steps and

Just when most of us began to think

Oh what the hell it can’t get any worse

Guess what it didn’t don’t you know

For through a few brief glints of sun and

Clouded sky I saw a beckoning rainbow

Poking through the awesome firmament

 

By now of course the rain had washed

Away that snow or most of it at least

But in the Borough’s byways

I was suddenly attuned to nature

Displaying signs of spring to treat the eye

And soothe the savage breast then

I saw the busy blue tits snack their

Dainty way through offerings on the wires

Ah mine the richness of a soul inspired

 

 

SEVEN BRIDGES TOUR

 

Fifteen souls aboard canal

Boat Maggie G an outing from

St Paul’s church and company

This themed sight-seeing tour

Of nature in the raw setting

Our summer senses flowing

 

Anglers tug their rods from

Near our bows as two bright

Asiatic kids beam smiles

From gleeful eyes and faces

 

Through Woking and tall

Reed banks where bulrushes

Could conceal a Moses basket

That’s for sure we see the

Pepsi bottles bobbing and

Butane cans and think such

Shameful acts of sacrilege

 

Heaven was present too I feel

As aqua-flora mimicked lotus

Blossoms on some sacred oriental

Lake and if allowed I’d pen

A thank you note to God

Upon the lush green velum

Of a lily pad

ANTI SOCIAL?

Deprived or depraved
Which are we
Nowhere to go
Nowhere to be

Out in the cold
Out in the rain
'Oh those bloody kids'
Is the usual refrain

Give us a hall
Give us a space
It needn't be
Such a pukka place

Somewhere to go
Somewhere to be
Somewhere to sit
For my mates and me

Out of the dark
Out of the rain
Out of earshot
Of the usual refrain

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