On the Death of a Politician
Here richly, with ridiculous display,
The Politician’s corpse was laid away.
While all of his acquaintance sneered and slanged
I wept : for I had longed to see him hanged.
~ Hilaire Belloc
Old England
Man looks up on a yellow sky
And the rain turns to rust in his eye
Rumours of his health are lies
Old England is dying
His clothes are a dirty shade of blue
And his ancient shoes worn through
He steals from me and he lies to you
Old England is dying
Still he sings an Empire song
Still he keeps his Navy strong
And he sticks his flag where it ill belongs
Old England is dying
- Mike Scott, of The Waterboys.
Dreaming - A Sonnet
This has a similar theme to my last poem, but is in the form of a sonnet.
If dreaming of you leads to naught but pain
At chance foregone and juncture yet unknown,
Still dream I shall, to be with you again,
For opened eyes might see that I’m alone.
A dream contains the essence of the real,
A mirror holds the scene intact, pristine,
And dreaming of you surely could reveal
Our love, which, waking, you so oft demean.
But dreams are like the surface of a lake,
A crystal pane, a hanging spider’s web,
And so, once touched, with shards and splinters break,
No more to glisten, only now to ebb.
And now I hope my dreams will clamber from my head,
If not, I fear, I’ll give up life instead.
- Oliver Schofield
Dreaming - A new poem
If dreaming’s just like waking,
The image in the lake,
Then may I choose which world I want
As real, and which as fake?
And when you say you love me,
Does Cupid clap with glee?
Or does he laugh and shake his head,
At foolish, dreaming, me.
If dreaming’s just like waking,
The mirror to our lives,
Then who am I to demonize
The fire in your eyes?
But when you glare with steel brow,
Then smile with golden lips,
My head knows what my heart does not,
The dream world slowly slips.
No, dreaming’s not like waking,
The pillow’s not the muse,
The eyes betray, the lips belie,
The air that I abuse.
But real life’s without you,
Not hair nor hide nor heart,
And in my dreams, that sacred world,
We’ll never be apart.
- Oliver Schofield
No Greater Tempest Ever Rocks the Shore
No greater tempest ever rocks the shore,
Than that which in my heart doth rage away,
My love will not obey a higher law,
Nor listen to that which my mind may say.
If love is harsh then how can it be kind?
The ropes between us are so tightly bound,
Just as the ones between a man and hind,
Yet as your silken slave myself I found.
But how can I so flawed lie next to you,
When my resolve cannot withstand the thought,
That you might realise my status too,
And I should lose the prize for which I fought.
But if you quench the raging fires of doubt,
I shall to you always remain devout.
- Oliver Schofield
The Generals
The Generals sit not far apart,
They sit and wait; for soon the start
Of worthy war.
The breathing slows, and so the heart,
The fingers twitch, the eyeballs dart
Their quaint rapport.
If morals bide they ne’er implore,
Perchance these Titans them ignore,
But still they fear.
They know not what they’re fighting for,
Content to merely watch the score,
Lead from the rear.
A hand outstretched, the mask sincere,
To certain rules they both adhere,
The game begins.
The pawns move first to the frontier,
Their dying screams doth no-one hear,
The Reaper wins.
How can they now, content, wear grins,
When black and white both fall like pins,
And fight no more.
The Generals sit and bear their sins,
Across the board they could be twins.
Lone, caged, they roar.
- Oliver Schofield
