I live in Penzance, Cornwall, a place steeped in legend and myth and possibly the home of King Arthur's Camelot.
I love words, the sound of them and the look of them, for me they paint pictures of depth and substance. I am irreverent and cynical, but at the same time romantic and full of mischief. I love writing and creating, but I read avidly as well. more »
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Owain Glyn Poems
I am sat on a bench, on the seafront, alone, Just me, and the sea, and the old weathered stone. Of course, there are tourists, who wander on by, And silver winged gulls, as they dissect the sky.
The night was clear, and still, and silent, air like razor-blades The naked trees stood sentry, limbs outstretched, in dark charades The ground, a pure white wilderness, sends out no invitation But the traveler has need of none, he knows his destination.
Men In Grey Suits
There are men in grey suits who infest sand built towers, Where they sit and they spit out their venom for hours, Making judgments and plans which they say we must follow, Leaving them to get fat in the shit that they wallow.
This Green and Pleasant Land
Oh, this green and pleasant land, Its clear blue seas and golden sands. Its rolling hills and wooded vales, Its constant rain and howling gales.
A Tear for Christmas
Christmas comes but once each year I beg from each of you a tear; A tear for the homeless whose bed is the floor
Homes for Gnomes
Would you give a gnome a home? Sit him down on sculpted foam? Find a pleasant shaded spot, Not too cold, and not to hot.
THE DARK ROAD
Lost in loneliness, bathed in guilt, The dark road stretches out, The black wind swirls around my soul, And fills my heart with doubt.
I'm waiting for the Sun to shine, But it won't wait for me, I'm either still asleep in bed, Or busy having tea.
The Poet lives within his word Some erudite, and some absurd Some meaningful, and some obscure Some insightful, some unsure.
How do I find the words To say how much I love you? When you are near
The mist hung low, above the moors A gentle breeze, caressed the tors. Ancient boulders, lost in sleep Buried secrets they would keep.
Ethelred had toasted bread Each night before he went to bed. And every day when he got up Hot Chocolate filled his morning cup.
This One and only Life
Let your thin and claw like fingers grasp and clutch this life of yours. Remembering the peaks that briefly forced themselves above the spreading gloom. The fetus of success, within the mass of your existence, proved to be stillborn. Go back! go back and drink the pleasure of that dark and succored womb
A Soft Summer's Day
We sit by the stream On this soft summer's day Entranced by the dance As the dragonflies play.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
I am sat on a bench, on the seafront, alone,
Just me, and the sea, and the old weathered stone.
Of course, there are tourists, who wander on by,
And silver winged gulls, as they dissect the sky.
There are fishing boats, plying their trade in the bay,
Whilst pleasure craft hoist up their sails for the day.
I can see the face painters and bead makers too,
As I watch pale-faced addicts who head for the loo.
A solitary policeman, whose aspect is stern,
As he dreams of promotion and what he might earn.
A parking attendant comes slithering by,