Excerpt: Nine Poems From Stephen Oxlee’s ‘Life And Me’ Poetry Collection

So, today, we have a wonderful excerpt from Stephen Oxlee’s poetry collection, ‘Life and Me’. And, this is not just any ordinary excerpt; no, this excerpt contains NINE complete poems from ‘Life and Me’.

Now, before we read any of Stephen Oxlee’s poetry, let’s find out a little about the man himself.

Stephen.D.Oxlee; BA(Hons) is an avid walker and says “whilst on my myriad of walks I started scribbling down things that took my notice. Then I began putting these scribbles into sentences which became poems about nature. My family is a big part of my life and so provided the inspiration for poetry on relationships, love and emotions as well as always offering encouragement and support which enabled me to develope my poetry.The younger family members ignited muses centred around fantasy and children`s rhymes. And I have always followed the news and events, another good subject matter. Hence the wide range of my poetry within these pages which I hope you will enjoy. Poetry is also a great source of therapy and my ambition is to become a recognised Poet.”

You can also find his blog here.

Now, onto the excerpts;

 

The Picture Gallery

There is a picture gallery,

Not made of brick or stone,

With many vivid pictures,

For me to see alone,

There are no famous artists,

In shiny golden frames,

Picasso, Goya, Rubens,

Don`t fill my hall of fame,

The pictures in my gallery,

Are things I`ve done and seen,

Imprinted in my memory,

Not fading like a dream,

Most are joyous,

Some are sad,

I`ve lived in everyone,

I painted them with love and hope,

The stars, the moon, the sun,

These are pictures in my mind,

I can view them any day,

I close my eyes,

And they are,

Lined up and on display.

 

Football Crazy

He wears his POSH shirt while in bed,

He`s really a fanatic.

Old football books and bygone programmes

Are stored up in the attic.

He`s really football crazy now

There`s no denying that,

The dog`s called Maradona,

And Pele is the cat.

The lawn`s marked like a soccer pitch

With corner flags and goals.

It would be very even if

It wasn’t for the moles

The house nameplate says “Wembley”

Three lions on display,

Ring the doorbell loud and clear –

You`ll hear “Match-of-the-Day.

”The family all are used to it

Although it can be hard,

They dare not make a comment or

They’ll get a yellow card,

His children have all suffered much,

They know he`s gone too far,

Each of them are named after

A famous football star.

His folks are all unhappy with

His passion for the game,

His eldest daughter Messi says

She`s gonna change her name.

 

All Is Secure

T`was the night before Christmas and he lived all alone,

In a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone,

I had come down the chimney with presents to give,

And to see just who in this home did live,

I looked all about, a strange sight to see,

No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree,

No stocking by the mantle but boots filled with sand,

And upon the wall pictures of far distant lands,

With medals and badges, awards of all kinds

A sober thought came through my mind,

For this house was different it was dark and dreary,

I`d found the home of a soldier, once I could see clearly,

Who lay sleeping silently curled up on the floor,

His face was so gentle as the tears fell no more,

The room was in chaos and abject disorder,

It mirrored the mind of this battle worn soldier,

For was this the hero of whom I`d just read?

Wrapped up in a sleeping bag, the ground for a bed,

I realised the families that I saw this night,

Owed their lives to these soldiers willing to fight,

Soon round the world kinder would play,

As the adults celebrated a bright Christmas day,

They all enjoyed freedom each month of the year,

Because of the soldiers like the one lying here,

I couldn`t help wonder how many lay alone and why,

I dropped to my knees and started to cry,

The soldier awakened and I heard a whispering voice,

“Santa – don`t cry,this life is my choice“,

“I fight for freedom, I don`t ask for more,

My life is my god, my country, my corps“,

The soldier rolled over drifted back to sleep,

I couldn`t control it, I continued to weep,

I kept watch for hours so silent and still,

As we both shivered from the frosty night`s chill,

I did not want to leave on that cold, dark night,

This guardian of honour so willing to fight,

Then the soldier rolled over and murmured soft and pure,

“Carry on Santa, it`s Christmas day, all is secure“,

One look at my watch and I knew he was right,

“Merry Christmas my friend, and to all a good night“.

 

 

 

Walk Of Dreams

He walks across meadows and through pastures green,

No trace does he leave wherever he`s been,

Up hillside pathways and down valleys deep,

His mind does the walking his body asleep,

He strides gently forward over clear mountain streams,

The sun on his face but only in dreams,

His earthly body is resting at home,

On his walk of dreams it`s his mind does roam,

The stress of the day is left far behind,

To do everything with the power of his mind,

He sees wild flowers with colours so bright,

The sun slowly sets beckoning forth the night,

He enters a forest without any fear,

Watches wild birds and beautiful deer,

Touches the branches with their essence of pine,

That enters his soul and tickles his spine,

All of these things I know to be true,

The green of the grass, the sky brilliant blue,

I`ve been there before when I`ve set my mind free,

For on my walk of dreams it`s all about me!

 

 

 

On Winter

We mourn the loss of afternoons to ever-sooner moons,

The darkness we had once forgot in old Julys and Junes,

It creeps on us to break our hearts, and tear apart the days,

So bitter in its jealousy of Summer-long malaise.

It takes the Autumn to defeat the shining light completely,

And lulls us into cold retreat so tightly and so neatly,

The berries gone, the shadows long, the bareness of the oaks,

The dryness of the rain compared to lavish Summer soaks.

We take to celebrate the dark in merry festive ways,

We wake and sigh and wait for Thy most holiest of days,

When we forget the blackened chill, and look to warmth inside,

But fickle is the thrill in which we drown; the Christmas tide.

For Winter has not yet begun, and crowning is the white,

That buries nature’s wary heart in January’s night.

The King of all the seasons, and lengthy be his reign,

A thing of earthly reason is the strength he doth maintain.

He breaks the spirits of the weak who look ahead to Spring,

And takes delight in plucking sight from those who strive to cling,

He’ll conjure storms and thickest fog to smother quickest hope,

And break the clouds to bring the cold, and laugh at how we cope,

Pathetic hectic humans down the jagged frosty slope.

This Emperor of seasons, who holds himself above,

Who’d freeze the beating of a heart, and suffocate our love.

We take the shakes and tumbles, the callousness and pain,

The isolated loneliness, the sharply ripping rain,

The dying breath of innocence, the bite of every shard

Of ice that forms in chests and trees so mercilessly hard,

And mourn the loss of afternoons in every Christmas card.

 

 

 

On Spring

When little is our last of hope to feel the warmth again,

When unexpectedly we wish, through tiring Winter-rain,

To feel the torrents pouring down from lazy snoring clouds,

But warm and wet and wondrously damp and drenching shrouds

That thaw the ice and nicely kiss the earth beneath the frost,

And pour so thick, so quick we find ourselves forever lost,

In labyrinths of streams and glimpsing gleams of morning puddles,

That cling to clothing thoroughly, caresses us and cuddles.

The rain that penetrates the soil and foils the Winter’s plot,

And brings to us returning life and love we once forgot.

The dandy strands of daffodils are tickled in the breeze,

And blushing-girl-hued blossoms whirl and prickle on the trees.

Even weeds are welcomed for their gossamer and power

To grow out high, defy the cold, and wildly boldly flower.

A hem of border-lining stems is sewn by nature’s hand,

Dressing up the child Princess that is the living land,

Returning to another year with cheer and brightened cheeks,

Sprightly dancing over fields for hours and days and weeks.

The older seasons can’t compare to fair and lively Spring,

Who lifts the air with care to share a feather from the wing

Of birds returning home from learning songs they long to sing,

The warming Spring who curtsies in the willows when we pass

The ready-steady-standing lambs that guzzle growing grass,

And smiles a while and giggles with the trusting guarantee

That we will see longevity of life upon the tree,

Its budding fruits, and mudding roots, and squirrels popping out,

Its little leaves against the breeze that sway and swish and shout,

When little was our last of hope to see what life’s about.

 

 

 

On Summer

The greatest show on earth is found in ground and nooks and brooks,

Wherever there are lovers, and where every child looks,

Where wild stretching fauna finds a corner yet to fill,

Of every downing valley, and of every crowning hill.

The fullest time of life is of sublime, empowered green,

And blue that boldly dares the red to share its flowered scene,

Of light that warms the days, and night delights that warm the heart,

Of cuddling and kissing, missing days for love of art.

The very soul of Summer is the youth of human time,

That bounds across the meadows to meander, leap, and climb

Between the laden branches, taking chances, making dares,

Faking grand adventures to recite at village fayres,

Where chubby girls will peck their cheeks then hide behind the hay,

And men will kneel in promises to hold a wedding day.

We see the purpose in our lives from every darling friend,

To share with us and care and fuss for endless months on end.

The gallant Prince of Summer merges swimmers with the streams,

And has his fun conducting all the lyric-birds’ bright themes,

And might on odd occasion paint horizons full of dreams.

He gaily strides through days and prides the honour, his to keep,

That he will be remembered as a time of restful sleep,

The ember of a campfire that’s held as a keepsake,

But the fire’s glow must dither, and the dreamer must awake.

The storybook of August, with its gloried illustrations,

Its tentative last pages’ ostentatious aspirations,

And hopes to all the ages that it will not be forgot,

As cover comes to cover and sun comes to its cot.

The greatest show on earth is when the ground is browned and hot.

 

 

 

On Autumn

How beautiful the elegance of slowly turning old,

The elegy of decadence that’s wilting brown and gold,

The gentle sinking of the sun between the harvest-trees,

That shows, through glows of telling beams, the thinning of the leaves.

The turning of the soil, but the toil of this chore

Is that it serves to publicize that Summer is no more.

Every towering bonfire, and chorus choir singing,

Every warmth we require, and steeple bell still ringing,

Every tired expression stressing smiles despite the fight,

Everything we do is to reclaim the fading light.

The aging Queen of Autumn feels the lines upon her face,

She sees her ever-greying hair, and fast-decaying lace,

She tries to stand, but finds the loamy earth far too unstable,

And cannot taste the summer-feast she once had on her table.

She fears the ice that catches on her perfect morning dew,

She snatches at the berries that once prospered here and grew,

But now fall into mud and join the dying flora there,

The sickening plethora of bare thorns that snare and tear,

Her fragile heart beats hollowly and far beyond repair.

She longs to be a Princess, more with every nail that breaks,

The crisply breaking leaves that sound her effort and her aches,

She looks to have her youth back, despite her lack of sight,

And tries to pull a blanket o’er the strangely bitter night.

Her longing for the past, and passing cries for times forgotten,

Nostalgia for the fruit that from its root is turning rotten,

Are yet the most fantastic things that brighten up her scene,

And lighten up with golden rays her days that once were green.

How beautiful the elegant, but slowly dying Queen.

 

 

 

I wished I was a race horse once

I never rode a horse before,

Although you could’nt tell,

I feel a natural in the saddle,

Doing very well,

I’m riding very steady at a nice and easy pace,

Feeling very confident,

A smile upon my face,

Ego and imagination,

Now becomes much larger,

I’m a Knight in shining armour,

Riding on a charger,

My fantasy runs riot,

I’m Sir Lancelot no less,

With sword in hand I’m off to save,

A damsel in distress,

Now I sit astride my horse,

I’m waving to the crowd,

The winner of the the Grand National,

Feeling very proud,

I sit up in the saddle,

With a tight grip upon the reigns,

A cowboy herding cattle,

On the Arizona plains,

Suddenly I’m shaken,

From my world of fantasy,

The horse I’m riding gathers speed,

This is reality,

I want this horse to slow down,

But I really don’t know how,

My confidence has disappeared,

And I’m not smiling now,

I’m shouting at the horse to stop,

My cries are all in vain,

I never want to see,

This blasted horse again,

Then at last my ordeals over,

Ye ha! Someone’s heard my call,

The supermarket manager,

Unplugs it from the wall.

—-

These poems are just 9 of 100 poems featured in `Life And Me`, the first anthology of Stephen D Oxlee – “an exciting new poet of the modern era“(William Cornford).

`Life And Me` covers a wide range of topics and styles but all are unmistakably Stephen D Oxlee.

`Life And Me` is available from Amazon/Kindle as an eBook. The buyers of the eBook will not be disappointed so get on-line and secure your very own copy now.