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
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.
One Day In Summer
When the morning was over and the sun crumbling noon, the ants kissed the patio dust disappearing down cracks of the dead.
At Summer's End (August 1914)
The muffled-knock of high blown summer, upon the leaves and grasses August since June, wrap tightly like bundled flowers, around the jaundiced seasoned air.
Some Happier Days
I thought I heard your morning step but it was my heart beating missing steps as I spoke you name.
For I was reared in the great city And saw nought but the sky And the town's people Packed in their caves
Bank On Love
Don't break some heart before you wish the week away for whatever how it goes one day will do for me.
The Wildest Beauty
Rooks cawed, over apples sliced and stored, while nothing else stirred the air. The day: Had a certain mystery and magic,
The Boatman's Lot
Western Winds of glory drive across the waves are sometimes kind and fair to boatmen scurrying home
Now Departing From....
Long ash coats and cherry faces say nearly, but not quite. Long grey coats and beady faces say tomorrow, maybe.
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,
I saw the shadows Long after I had looked away An imprimatura of self Left clinging to the imposter
Within That Land
A summer's mist, a summer's morn born fairer under this part heaven shade a churchyard yew high born within those lands
We That Were Young
The Generals smiled, their swords in hand and drank a stately port before the storm.
The Playing Fields
Out of muddied pasts
and ninety years on
no guns, no blame
only prayers and dog-eared verses
and for what?
Crosses, sepulchered in pain
grown weary over time,
pray silent in the still air.
And crimson fields