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Bill Mitton

God's Dog

God's dog he barketh never
His tail is ever still
For heaven hath no cats to taunt
Nor rabbits yet to kill

He scratcheth not
And howleth less
His life a bitter pill
For omnipotents they throw no sticks
And low they never will.

To throw a ball in heaven
Is simply never done
And cars to chase in paradise
Are numbered less than one.

So paradox on paradox
The circumstances tell
Of a hound who dwells in heaven
But lives his life in HELL!

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VOICES ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD (in honour of my fellow poets)

It is how we are and who we are
that we live out here on the edge
the ragged rim of the world
It’s the nature of our vice
This dark self imposed isolation

Yet the paradox in it shines bright
As the isolation bears heavy
upon our pale and brittle skin
for unless we share our souls
there is but dust in what we do

Each staking a separate claim
along the river of the golden muse
and each naked in hand and heart
bares the working of a soul
tasting the ice in the edges isolation

yet from each site along the rim
the voices of comfort and support

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Your Children Are Always Your Children

In your eye’s the child
never ends,
nor should it
Oh the limbs grow,
the body matures to adulthood
But in your eye’s and heart
the child remains
The laughter though a deeper tone
Still holds that
joyous golden ring
of Christmas presents
or a birthday game
The hair now full and Silky
Still holds the urge
to touch and stroke
The smile though older
still makes the heart leap
The body may be
tall and lithe and grown
But in your eyes the outline

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The Box From The Attic

A Father's Medals World War One
The wrist band from a stillborn son
The first picture of the two (now three)
An Old Irish Fiddle, Left to me
My Rugby Jersey old and Blue
My Son’s first Rugby Jersey too
A silver frame, the self same smile
My wife’s Pennant (She ran the mile)
War department Telegram (a death)
My wife’s Mothers Christening dress
my first handcraft (a mat of reeds)
My Father’s Mothers Rosary beads
A picture of our son at play
a memento of my graduation day
My wife’s Pearl backed wedding book
Big Peter's number (what a crook)
The box is almost empty now
Forgotten memories, but how?
The pride, the Lose, the answered Call
The pain, the joy, I knew them all.

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Young Sons

YOUNG SONS
A mother takes down a photo
And she holds it to her breast
Just has she’d done the child it shows
The little boy she’d washed and dressed.
She remembers how his hair felt
His soft scent still fills her nose.
And one again she curses,
the path her young son chose.
With boyish smile, and happiness
he’d picked the shilling and the gun
she remembered still the fear and dread
when he told her what he’d done.
Yet she’d smiled and waved him off
as only a loving mother could
If God was good, her smiling son
would return as young son’s should.
but then fickle fate, it knows no God
it makes it’s judgments where it will
and IED’s they don’t discriminate

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Within This Space

Within this space upon this spot
Hatred blinded worse than dust
Repression and anger crushed
More surely than any falling concrete
And once again
Innocence became death's victim,

Time holds no strong dominion here
Life's cycle ceased it’s turning
Gone, all hope, all dreams of future
A dark and mournful paradox
A bleak empty city lot
which holds a million beating hearts

They were but seconds on time's clock
yet each did not fulfil its turning.
Only harvested moments of agony.
in hatred's deadly ripening
carried spitefully,
world wide, upon uncaring wings

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To Make Stone Sing

In fashioning Stone to give a song in every turning,
by giving flow to glass that is not molten,
placing a dancing step within a twist of steel,
bringing life and warmth to wood long dead,
seeing the story in a shape, where none intended
this, surely is the alchemy in your Art

By your hand and inner eye is the common
made to become uncommon, cherished, special.
Breathing sympathy into that which, by natures way,
is wrought from clay and holds no life nor feelings.
To balance shapes upon a pin within your mind
and be not breathless at the audacity in the thought.

To know the shape of time and space
To give bright image to a feeling.
To hold within your palm a sunset's touch,
and awaken within a dormant heart
the fires of something long forgotten.
To be a signpost to life's light and beauty.

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A Song For The Journey

A SONG FOR THE JOURNEY
Sometimes you may sing in your heart
or have song running through your head
but there’s always singing’s in your soul
and it’s on this song’s journey you’ll be led.
Towards a distant point, as yet unclear
your singing soul will lead you on
to find that place of understanding
with all your preconceptions gone.
Yet we sometimes meet more questions
Hard, hash decisions we must make
So the Soul song leads you onwards
along the pathway you must take.
The road can be both rough and smooth
its horizon hidden from your view
But the power within the singing
gives you strength to see it through.
With every step upon the road
the soul song keeps its tune and beat
and from its verses courage comes

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Herbert

Whilst cleaning out a stable
A was about to light me light
When a voice behind my shoulder
Said “It’s rather cold tonight”

“How do you do”, he said “I’m, Herbert”
then he give his foot a stamp
“I expect this has quite shaken you”
He was right! …A nearly dropped me lamp.

For a start he’d no right talking
A mean he were a Bloody Horse!
And secondly he had real a posh voice
E’ made me sound proper coarse.

“Well” a said “am gobsmacked”
am am not sure what to do
a talking horse named Herbert
A you sure that, that was you?

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