My Poem “The Warstone Angel”

In all of Warstone cemetery,
in Birmingham,
above only one of the many places of rest,
there stands the stone statue
of a single Angel, with one broken wing,
blessing the grave of lost
and reminding the living
who pass them by how important
the gift of life is –
and though the figure depicted
is motionless, because after all
they are a statue,
there is something about the look
upon their face that makes
you think, imagine, and possibly believe
that they could easily come to life
and float down to the ground
from their high plinth
and walk the paths that run
through the cemetery
so that they may bless
the graves of everybody
individually and know them by name
even though some of the grave stones
have long since had the identity
of those that they were erected
to remember eroded and erased…
it is comforting to think
that while we are alive,
and even after our time on this Earth
has come to an end,
that there are celestial beings
who do God’s work and who protect
those who need protecting,
who guide those in need of being guided
and who watch over the living,
as well as the dead,
so that they can find their way
to a place of peace –
and that is why I treasure
the gift of life, and that is why I believe
death is not the end for us when we die:
because some things, some places,
some revelations that people have,
even in a small way,
reveal that there is more to existence
than what we can see with our eyes –
but only those who have already
crossed over the threshold
between the world of the living
and the place of light and dark beyond
know what happens
and how much everybody
who is still Earthbound
are touched every day
by the hands of Angels
as they are silently blessed.

Advertisements

My Poem ‘All Halloween’

Almost everyone loves the season of Halloween;
all through October to November,
everywhere you look Pumpkins, skeletons,
and images of apparitions
adorn the fronts of houses on every street;
children get excited to dress up
and go trick-or-treating,
adults of all ages watch scary movies on TV
about ghosts, demons, Vampires, werewolves,
and stories about places and creatures
to be feared as if they were real,
because they almost defy imagining.

I do not think
that there is another country on Earth
who celebrates Halloween
better than North America;
I don’t think that there are no other people
other than Americans
who understand that Halloween
is meant to be a season of celebration;
I do not think
that there is anywhere else in the world,
besides perhaps Transylvania,
where stories of the world beyond this one
inspire daydreams around a campfire
that set alight the feverish
dark creations of the human imagination.

The dead are remembered;
the saints are worshiped;
the living are cherished;
the costumes that people choose
to dress up in are always wonderfully
and darkly embellished;
the night of Halloween
is anticipated by some
with as much joy as Christmas;
some people give generously
to their young sweet-toothed
trick-or-treaters that come a-calling,
while some people just do not
understand the reason for all the fuss.

For some people,
Halloween is the favourite time of the year;
for some people,
every day is Halloween –
and to them it is not just once a year;
for some people,
Halloween feels like reality is reflecting
their inner-most thoughts and dreams;
for some people,
enjoying tales of witches, spectres,
magic, and the emotions and the feelings
that bubble-up to the surface,
that make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on-end,
and the stories that make you jump with fright,
is what Halloween is all about.

My Poem ‘Ghost on my bed’

When I was a child,
around the age of eight or nine,
I was sleeping in bed,
when I suddenly woke up in the dark-
I’m not sure what time it was,
but it was definitely after midnight-
and the lasting memory
that has stayed with me every day since
is that of me turning over in my bed
to look down at the light
coming from underneath my bedroom door,
and even though it was seemingly warm in my bed,
the air around me had gone incredibly cold-
as if I were sleeping in a bedroom
that was also a fridge;
and I also remember, from out of nowhere,
the feeling that I was being watched,
and that I was not alone.

I must have been lying there
for what must have been only a few seconds,
when I turned my head to look away from the light
towards the dark of my bedroom wall,
when I suddenly felt the mattress I was sleeping on
sink, as if someone was sitting on my bed besides me,
and I could feel their weight,
and their touch on the back of my neck.
It was definitely not the wind,
it was definitely not my imagination;
it was definitely someone, or something;
it was definitely a presence, a spirit,
a phantom, an apparition,
that felt real and was real-
it was a life that was still living in some form,
who had come to pay me a visit.

I did not make a sound;
I did not cry;
I did not look around;
I did feel frightened and unsettled, I am not going to lie;
I just lay there; I just listened;
I just closed my eyes and wondered whether
when I woke up in the morning
whomever was now sitting on my bed would still be there;
I just remember drifting away,
until I saw the light of my dreams glisten.

I woke up in the morning,
still with the memory of the night before
alive and burning in my mind.
I opened the curtains to let the new day’s sunlight in,
and I looked around, and I sighed.
To this day, I do not know what, or who,
came to me on that night a long time ago;
I do not know if they were once alive and they knew me,
or someone I know who is not yet dead;
I do not know who was there in the gloom of my room,
but I do know that one night when I was a boy
there was a ghost who sat on my bed.