Words are my canvas
Words are my brushes
Words are my paints
Words are my knife
Words are my easel
But words float off in the air
As soon as they are spoken
Words float into others minds
Words that are spoken
Create an image - a painting in the air
A feeling, a spark, a memory, an emotion
These words that are spoken.
Words are our medium
Words are our tools
Words create magic
Words portray our innermost thoughts
Enjoy our words today
Varied and heartfelt
Funny, dramatic and descriptive
Words of all shapes and sizes
Our Spoken Words.
Donald James Dolby ©2020
A Place I Knew
Never again shall I go home to the place I knew
For it has changed,
And all is strange
In Melton Town where as a boy I grew.
Melton Mowbray, you are never so forlorn,
Pall Mall and Timber Hill
A street called old Beck Mill
From deep within, your heart has now been torn.
I remember many wet feet, now where to look
From side to side
In one big stride
We’d try to jump, of course, the brook.
The cattle market every week on Tuesday morning,
A rabbit, a sheep, a bird,
And, of course, cows by the herd
Suddenly a bull is loose, “”Look Out”” goes up the warning.
So sad to see as building after building tumbles down,
Here a house, there a shop
No cobble stones on which to clop,
No I will never go back to Melton Town
November Forest Frost
The early morning forest glistened in its coat of white,
Shining frost, sparkling, quiet, hiding all its life;
Fox, well-filled, stealthily seeks its warm den
Young rabbit scampers, skates, tumbles down a hole
Deer, deep in to the trees, huddle together
Seeking shelter while the dawn brings light.
The sun shines in, still cold, but what magic it betrays
Webs of spiders, silken threads, moistened, brightened, jewelled in the rays
Of golden wonder coming from afar
To give the icy crust an illuminating glow,
Crowning the glory of the morn.
Gaining warmth, the sun climbs high,
Slowly melting away the earth’s white coat;
Thus revealed are greens and browns, scattering the
Of many hues, rushing, pushing, swarming over the ground
Teaming food for hedgehog, badger and hound.
The day is short and dusk comes early
Casting a misty grey cloak, descending low,
Hiding blackbirds roosting deep in the dense hedgerow.
Darkness hastens, coldness grows,
To don again its cloak of white.
For Dad - he loved the forest
Ringwood, November 1987
Do They Play The Blues In Heaven?
Do they play the Blues in Heaven?
Is there a need
Even in the Promised Land?
Is the promise empty,
As earthly promises are.
Or do they play the Blues in Hell?
As maybe you’d expect.
Expectations are not met
But then they never were.
If they play the Blues in Heaven and Hell
Then what has life been for?
The Blues helps you through
But through to what?
High Wycombe, 1987
This World Is Not My Home
This world is not my home
This world of greed and money,
Ambition is no god to me
When ambition means to tread
On others to achieve success.
Success, success, what a mess
This world has become because
””The top”” is where you are told
You have to be
No where else will do.
Top, bottom, black, white,
Right, left, skilled, unskilled,
Why do we divide
This world into its segments
In this unnecessary way.
There must be somewhere
A world for you and me
Where other values rule
Perhaps one day I’ll find
This world to call my home.
High Wycombe, 1987
No one to talk to
No one to upset
No one to love
No one to hate
No one to pacify
No one to argue
No one to shout
No one to listen
No one to lie
No one to deceive
No one to disbelieve
No one to pretend to
No one to pretend to me
No one to misunderstand
No one to be unkind to
No one to worry
No one to worry about
No one to forget
No one to remember
I like being Alone.
High Wycombe, 1987
It was in 1986, the end of January I think
That changes came,
In job and name,
And the ship began to sink.
The first name in, no great surprise, was that of F.O.C.
Always an ambition
To Ôimprove’ his position
Forget his name, but his initials were B.D.
Another name, of Deputy, followed close behind
Now this was strange
A major change
As we were soon to find.
Now were these men of such great vision
That jobs were found
To go around
And give them both a position.
The blossoms of life are falling now
Faster than ever they have,
Though the leaves are still green
They fail forlornly to conceal
Time racing by to the end of the day
When they too will fall
Leaving nought behind but stark branched wood
For the winter of man comes quickly to some
Who have had hope strangled from their future.
Pachacaid, France, 1987
Ball of Snow
Christmas is a time of profit, a confidence trick
Played on the conscience of the world.
Spread the goodwill, spread the cash
Give presents more expensive than you will receive
And you can feel good for five minutes at least.
The snowball rolls along
Getting bigger and Ôbetter’ as the years go by
Perhaps the giant ball of snow
Can one day perform a service to mankind
And flatten the hypocrisy that damages our mind.
This cannot be the way,
Goodwill for a few days to last the year through
Is not reason enough
To feel good, to feel happy, to feel pleased
We imprison ourselves and there is no release.
High Wycombe, 1988