Kevin Hulme

I said goodbye to the fields of the Summertime, The loud cries of the village fair. The mist in the vale by the rising sun, To the Girl with the Titian Hair. I said farewell to the Brooks and the Cottage near, To the birds and the songs they do share. The walks in the dusk after long sultry days, To the Girl with the Titian Hair. A lasting look to the Larkspur and the Rose, And the scent that give all to the air, The Oak by the lane where I spoke of the Heart, To the Girl with the Titian Hair. I said goodbye to the Sun setting far in the West, For the Eve's were all burnished and rare. Where she told of her Love for another in wait, For the Girl with the Titian Hair. Now when the frost and the snow of the wintertime come, To strip the dress of the Countryside bare, I will think of a love one Summer Time past. To the Girl with the Titian Hair.
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So this is Love and the Rich Vein it applied,
The Byronic Verse and Blue April skies.
All thoughts of you are maddeningly hectic,
Thoroughly charged like ‘Dylan' gone electric.
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To the phone users lift up your heads;
For you appear as mourners in prayer for the dead.
Look all around where Nature is shown;
Where Colour and Scent are by Gaia once Sown.
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Amongst the row upon row of polished shelf's,
The Books all patiently stand in file.
Their stories and facts make up their wealth,
And whatever else their leaves compile.
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Porcelain face, clear eyes set in blue,
The hair no barber could tame.
In love with a girl in the gamine kind of style,
Oh I wish I was Eighteen once again.
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The Dormer Windows open wide,
And views the yawning countryside.
For beyond the glare of the familiar pane,
A Tableau spread of life in train.
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What; I wonder is this Poem about,
As I'm climbing the walls in working it out.
A few nice words are here and there,
The Odd Choice Rhyme that we all could bare.
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Would for a peculiar single lone day
As if by chance all time confused,
You looked at me in a Loving way
Now such laws of fate removed.
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For so it is when I cannot sleep,
I set myself to counting Sheep.
My eyes grow heavy around Eighty Eight,
But by the time I get home I'm wide awake.
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The bold fact is the Wars continuous;
It's the same fight that's been boiling for years.
One Country knocked over another Country's drink, or stared at the others girlfriend.
There's been the odd lull for Tea and Biscuits,
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So here I am waiting for the damn bus,
A perfect portrait depicting my life up to date.
And throughout the world people are creating such wonderful things,
But it appears wasting my time was to be my just fate.
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Friday comes around once more,
Like a faithful dog with a ball again.
So I'll lock the front door and draw the blinds,
Upload all cares thereby unwind.
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And so it was in early May; where the Season's Fancies brightly played.
There were shards of light throughout the lane, For the Sun had found its youth again.
To play among the Oak and Yew, and entomb it's light in Meadow dew.
In the layered mist about the glade;
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When Love came it took hold of me completely,
Like a thousand cry's of ‘YES' it just ran up to greet me.
Out of all the Hearts in all the World she had to walk into mine,
It's the Oh I don't think we're in Kansas anymore kind.
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Just a few lines to clear the air, from your eraser of prospects and dreams. Since the annulment now is pending in court from a marriage that's torn at the seams, I'll assume she was ecstatically happy, when divorce was breathed to your Mum, I was never the one for her best ' Blue Eyed Girl', that rinsed haired Attila the Hun. No Prius parked in the driveway or Audi with performance to trust, for we both traveled so, Waiting for ' Godot' to show, that which is known as the Regional Bus. No holidays to Mauritius or Bali, Ibiza, Malta, Hong Kong, for we pitched up our tent where we usually went, in a field near the Scenic A1. Once hope was a thing with feathers, now our lives a ever widening gulf, with shades of 'Taylor and Burton' and the script of 'Virginia Woolf'. Oh I was never the Worlds Greatest Lover, No fine romance had ever been payed, no 'Savile Row Suits or style 'Al La Mode' my choice look was more 'Christian Aid'. So it's Mea Culpa my dear, I was never your true 'Mister Right', the engagement the Montgolfier wonder, the Marriage The Hindenburg flight. Then forgive me so for I have sinned, for saying ' I Do ' to the chaste Miss Lynd. And should I die before I wake, it's just desserts for my mistake.
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How I wish I was born the Heroic Man, And travel the Globe To foil the odd plan. Of World domination by a mad Doctor or two, Then bloody his nose and blow up his H.Q. But when fate dealt the cards it was never my lot, So I amble along with the life that I got. No Femme Fatale Or Russian Spy to entrap me with all her charms, My other half is The 'Fish Shop' Girl,
All Tattoos and Wrestlers arms. No Aston Martin awaits outside,
For the tables at 'Royale' with Le Chiffre, As I place my bet, with the Bingo Set, All Grannies and National Health teeth. No Savile Row Suits That are elegantly cut, The Shoes the finest made.
I am what you see, a pity full sight, An advert for Christian Aid. No U.N.C.L.E. agent or 'Saint' am I, Nor partner to the divine Mrs Peel. Never travel afar to some exotic locale, Or punch ups to bring Villains to heel. A life of intrigue would be my plan,
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The Old Year now is all set to depart, His bags now packed full of tales of despair. He's not the same soul that he was at the start, All youthful intent and a confident air. Now he's off to the realm where The Old Years lay their heads, That Valhalla for long days having been spun unto death. Here the Centuries tell tales of misery and dread, Like Old Lords in their Brandy filled drawling long breath. For each and every one claim the reward for being aggrieved, The course was well run to the end. But the procedure of man leaves one utterly bereaved, Though saplings of love could still move to amend. Now away at the door for the first foot to be laid, The New Year Stands alone with much ambition and heart. And Janus once again see's the Eve slowly fade, The Church Bells give notice, " you are done here so depart". And very soon the Child is born, Those days that house our lives. Where the act of just being with our Hopes to adorn, To live and to Love, To Conquer and to Strive. And as the Seasons pass along, Their statements duly made, His treads are firm and wilfully strong, but all duration is set to fade. And so to the Old Years whose Vigilance now kept, Have repaired a seat for The Rovers retreat, For unto the line his progress has crept, His duty now done his endeavour complete.
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Wandering, so Wandering by Hillside and Stream, How the dusk is the Loneliest and Forlorn of all times. Searching, still Searching by the Moons probing beams, How could the dead inflict hurt on his own fellow kind. Punished so to walk when Spirits do stir, Condemned for to travel, to Wander afar. Heaven for a sight, oh to see her, to see her, What wearisome mortals after Death that we are. She went from this life when her Bloom was in Youth, Like a Rose for to Wither and tragically fade. How awful those words of this terrible truth, The purest of Souls that once Heaven displayed. Remote are the days of my feverish blood, To be with you, my ardent wish and my hope. To attain it all in a Torrent, the Crimson flood, The bud without the sun is the better to cope. So to cross the divide with a breaking Heart, Forever beside her Righteous young Soul. But Heavenly Might did rent us apart, A terrible judgement began its terrible toll. Now to Wander, and Wander beyond the margin of man, To search forever for a sight of a pale fleeting form. Centuries have died since this Perdition began, Through the pages of time this lost Shade must now roam. How the Stars Shine cold in the Wintering air, The fields all around lying Barron and Bleak. The howling wind around the Ruins where, all desolation here now the prospect will speak. Wandering, searching through mist covered Wood, The Creatures of Night are all one unto me. The Wrecks and the Rubble where Lost Sagas once stood, Oh for the end and my Soul to be free. Wandering, Wandering through sleep lonely towns, Like the Dark and the Dust of my own silent grave. All cries of my pain are unheard all around, To find her, to find her then all peace will I save.
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Does he treat you kindly, All words as soft as down. Have you live in the purest light, No shade or tempest found. Are you placed upon an Alter, Where Juno once did reign. And showered stones of infinite hue all tributes to your name. And do you both walk on Sundays, Through fields of Honey'ed air. And watch the Western Eve burn bright, By old havens we did share. For the Heart lays weak, And to the first love must sway. Such passions carve deep, So by their emotions give way. But oh; I stole in and watched you when soon The Banns were passed, Your face told tales of upmost joy, Unmindful of the past. If only, if only, if only. The age old chant does ring, for i'm Passed " One and Twenty, " And Old Housman's tale does sting.
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Is there anything more painful than travelling by a Bus, Save wearing a Hair Shirt with a Barbed Wire Truss. For it to arrive on time is expecting the Earth, Like asking Bill Gates for his PIN Number and Worth. There I stand at the STOP and the Bus sails on by, For the Driver wears Blinkers to the side of each eye. And when Godot does turn up it's packed to the brim, It's like a scene from "Where's Wally " for the space to fit in. Bowed heads they give prayer in the Church of the new, To their Gods that are Orange and Apple or the divinely O2. How unhappy and Glum the people all seem, Happier faces on Toffs meeting Madam Guillotine. Headsets to loud, sly Vapers at the rear, A baby's lungs in front give assault to the ear. The floors laid with trash and the seats are unclean, When last had a Mop "Lady Chatterley" was obscene. Oh there must be a better way to get from A right over to B, Without the Slings and sharp Arrows to my fragile self dignity. "Hell Is other people " a wise man had once said, This Perdition on wheels is the sample we dread. So as we get to the end, I disembark with relief, Next time I will walk and save myself grief.
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