Biography of John Rickell
I am a countryman by nature.With my retriever I am in the country most days. Living in a small market town in Shropshire UK
I have been writing free verse since 1970 I am a singer of plainsong and Gregorian chant, which has significantly influenced my poetry.
I have published a book of poems'A stirring in the Air'with photographs by Tom Scot, a grandson, it is being sold on Ebay by SHINE, the charity which cares for those with spinabifida.
John Rickell's Works:
'A Stirring in the Air'
John Rickell Poems
Butterfly Trapped In A Norfolk Church
Where were you last Christmas
The mountain stream bubbling towards the sea, silver in the evening light crossing hills and far away.
It winds its drunken way as all lanes since Chesterton, Hedgerows, verges, centuries old green shoots in the fields
The long day closes, safe with moth and fox, silent owl and timid badger. I wait the sun, paths tripped
I danced her rhythms, long black hair restless feet dark eyes and pouting lips, to my shoulders stood and kissed my cheeks promised more, if I would only wait,
Mozart Symphony 39
Mozart, I antiscipate or think I can. You suggest, imply, leave the rest to my imagination, I wait...... A discord I know will overwhelm
Remote and lonely baritone the first in May, clock-work, mechanical, two notes not to be forgotten
Opium Poppy (Edited January 2014)
There is a poppy in the garden the first I've seen in years. Ten years ago they left... were they mourning for my love?
Come sweet be my mistress let me be your lover desires to share and share alike. This secret moss-deep hollow
Queen Anne's Lace
NB Sweethearts an alternative name for Cleavers; Queen Anne's Lace the flower heads of Wild Carrot. Queen Anne's Lace silhouettes in the hedges hawthorns bound in bindweed ties
In Awe Of Nature
I am in awe of nature love her as she me, We are never far apart woods and down the lane styles to lean, gates tied with twine, hinges rusting, mossy green.
Building Site Walsall Uk
Hoardings shouting at the street, those in buses reading as they pass of perfume, razor blades and Guinness, selling space and advertising
Floating On Ferns
Floating half hidden from myself buoyed on ferns and things like that sheltered from the wind and rain trees, shade from the sun and glare.
Statuesque, handsome, flowering in the shade beneath wild crab tempting as of ages, past legends steeped in belief,
Is There No Rose?
Is there no rose of pure delight
no lily white or blue bird wing
rival to your charms and opal skin.
Do I wake or am I sleeping,
honey-bees in sleepy drone
liquid sweetness from the
lotus bloom and honeysuckle arch
Such pure delight no rose can tell,
is there such and do I dream?