Biography of John Scully
Founder of the Chesham Poetry Society. Gives talks on all aspects of Poetry and Literature in and around Buckinghamshire. Poetry has been published in various magazines.
John Scully Poems
A New Emptiness
I found yesterday today, through unlit corridors, and saw catastrophies
When Day is Put Away.
On a wild and dreary hill, the sun still on the horizon, a running flock of birds swirled and gathered, home to roost.
One Day in June
Amidst the hills full and lonely I walked the ragged paths and stumbled stones, Looking for a kind of longing, A memory of that one day in June so long ago.
Now Departing from....
Long ash coats and cherry faces say nearly, but not quite. Long grey coats and beady faces say tomorrow, maybe.
I Will Walk With You Awhile
When I know that evening's fog will no more haunt and cloister me I will come and walk with you awhile knowing that my gloomy face will smile again.
I need the sun and sea the pinks, the greens and yellow caravans the weathered boarded holiday homes so isolated in winter squalls
The Day We Went To Margate
Was the loviest day of the year, with buckets and spades fish paste sandwiches and four-cornered hankies on heads.
A no more 'Glorious Destiny'
When death is trampled underfoot and martyred flowers wither so, it's time to be a Pilgrim a Peter, James or John.
Between The Darkness and The Light
Does the heart moment and explore abstractions or is it just flesh and blood, a pumping station? That it can grow radiant and resplendent, that I am sure, not just seeking to extend our lives.
Close down the summer curtain and shake the leaves and flowers, allow the autumn ripples in the slanted sunlight
The Tree House
I climb up, a final look its branches once gave weight to when we went to play. But now hang useless,
For I was reared in the great city And saw nought but the sky And the town's people Packed in their caves
Imagine; One word or even two on a day that's not good or you and someone nearby is having a worse one
A Christmas Song
That day again, Every year just the same, Repeats on telly Visits from Vi and Nellie,
Till meadows weep with pollen drops,
And flowers turn to fruit
The ghosts of winter glimmer still
Among the frosty village frocks.
And when the brown thrush comes with throaty song,
Touching barren hedgerows with his wing,
The west-wind hovers or'e my door
And wakes me with a roar.
Till then and only then