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Stanmore Hill: august morning villanelle

http://stanmorehill.blogspot.com/2015/08/august-morning-villanelle.html

Odd ravings, comments, and other wastes of time. Some are in plain prose, yet others are in rhyme. So long a silence covers up much pain. We can rejoice but we must still recall. This sun of freedom rises through the rain. Why they were taken we need not explain. For weight of shadows on us casts a pall. So long a silence covers up much pain. Of those who suffered for other folks’ gain. Whose battered bodies hung against the wall. This sun of freedom rises through the rain. Follow me on Twitter.

stanmorehill.blogspot.com

Stanmore Hill: mastery

http://stanmorehill.blogspot.com/2015/06/mastery.html

Odd ravings, comments, and other wastes of time. Some are in plain prose, yet others are in rhyme. To travel takes us back to where we start. All journeys have good learning as their end. But no one can go further than their heart. We seek a place from which pain must depart. Leaving us healthier and with a friend. To travel takes us back to where we start. Where all our bags are piled upon the cart. Yet we can see those folk who will not bend. But no one can go further than their heart.

stanmorehill.blogspot.com

Stanmore Hill: August 2014

http://stanmorehill.blogspot.com/2014_08_01_archive.html

Odd ravings, comments, and other wastes of time. Some are in plain prose, yet others are in rhyme. There are deep echoes across the dry wall. So sky seems brassy and bereft of cloud. While goat is nimble and tempts you to fall. To stony death where no one will recall. How once you were so youthful and so proud. There are deep echoes across the dry wall. Where the old vultures circle seeing all. The land below them forested or ploughed. While goat is nimble and tempts you to fall. Links to this post.

stanmorehill.blogspot.com

Stanmore Hill: come wind or weather

http://stanmorehill.blogspot.com/2015/05/come-wind-or-weather.html

Odd ravings, comments, and other wastes of time. Some are in plain prose, yet others are in rhyme. Come wind or weather. Across the silences these words are true. That answer sorrow with a worthy smile. But will not pause to soften nor revile. Your efforts nor the feelings that are due. This passing day what is it we review. Among the many sights that might beguile. Each voyager who reaches this last mile. Is that the known provides us with a clue. Some would be said to answer that the day.

stanmorehill.blogspot.com

Stanmore Hill: dessalines at vertières

http://stanmorehill.blogspot.com/2015/01/dessalines-at-vertieres.html

Odd ravings, comments, and other wastes of time. Some are in plain prose, yet others are in rhyme. Our meanings come from choices handed down. By those who built the towers and raised the sky. The folk who farmed the fields and filled the town. Who'd made the horrid trip and did not die. Their long hope was back to lost home to fly. But all the horrors made their footsteps slow. While home was lost in the far eastern glow. They had their duties and their constant care. So much depends upon a simple frown.

stanmorehill.blogspot.com

Stanmore Hill: July 2014

http://stanmorehill.blogspot.com/2014_07_01_archive.html

Odd ravings, comments, and other wastes of time. Some are in plain prose, yet others are in rhyme. This is indeed a great war. So all we hear today is cannons’ boom. Their echo forms our terrible surround. For this whole century the world’s a tomb. It isn’t that we just ran out of room. For good intentions our shots will redound. So all we hear today is cannons’ boom. From shore to shore and the explosives’ bloom. Accompanied by their pervading sound. For this whole century the world’s a tomb. Discoverin...

stanmorehill.blogspot.com

Stanmore Hill: November 2014

http://stanmorehill.blogspot.com/2014_11_01_archive.html

Odd ravings, comments, and other wastes of time. Some are in plain prose, yet others are in rhyme. Where no man argues and no woman fights. For good or evil we have reached an end. Of human battles and the stars portend. No better indications as the nights. Close in we note their distant blinking lights. As symbols we might faintly comprehend. When we are whole but what the worlds intend. Is not a matter that we have to rights. The argument of workers in the day. Or farmers when the wind upsets the trees.

stanmorehill.blogspot.com

Stanmore Hill: June 2014

http://stanmorehill.blogspot.com/2014_06_01_archive.html

Odd ravings, comments, and other wastes of time. Some are in plain prose, yet others are in rhyme. A century ago the world began. In blood and pain the auguries were wild. So many things have changed in a short span. My father’s world the currents overran. There was no time for words or thoughts too mild. A century ago the world began. We have to choose which of the screens to scan. It is too easy to become beguiled. So many things have changed in a short span. And we are all entranced woman and man.

stanmorehill.blogspot.com

Stanmore Hill: August 2015

http://stanmorehill.blogspot.com/2015_08_01_archive.html

Odd ravings, comments, and other wastes of time. Some are in plain prose, yet others are in rhyme. So long a silence covers up much pain. We can rejoice but we must still recall. This sun of freedom rises through the rain. Why they were taken we need not explain. For weight of shadows on us casts a pall. So long a silence covers up much pain. Of those who suffered for other folks’ gain. Whose battered bodies hung against the wall. This sun of freedom rises through the rain. Links to this post.

stanmorehill.blogspot.com

Stanmore Hill: no winners at the end

http://stanmorehill.blogspot.com/2015/03/no-winners-at-end.html

Odd ravings, comments, and other wastes of time. Some are in plain prose, yet others are in rhyme. No winners at the end. To speak of valour is no great mistake. When each of us confronts the howling gale. Those who are ready when the sandbags fail. Know what is meant when city turns to lake. Each of them is that moment wide awake. While in their corners all the cowards quail. Left with no benefit save their own stale. As even stoutest bodies bend and shake. Words that are spoken in the autumn sun.