Step into the Rainbow - Colin R Brookfield (best selling autobiographies TXT) 📗

make voodoo dolls

and stick them full of pins

or mutter mumbo jumbo

to save us from our sins?

 

It’s strange that horse and dog

and the mice and rabbits

like us moggies, aren’t afflicted

with bizarish human habits.

 

It seems Nature’s whole menagerie

is not seeing what’s not there

except the human kind that is!

It’s quite a strange affair!

 

Callow Eyes

I stood returned upon a place

that never had its due

and stood, though this and I

were freshly made anew.

 

As though beneath a darkened sky

the rolling earth did eastwards wend

and did so with uncommon haste

to make of this my journey’s end,

and melt the dawns dissolving grey

and to its going say adieu.

 

Then I, in that awakened moment saw

how callow eyes did once construe.

 

Where Love Is

Where love is, winter dies

for only summer it espies,

devoted love is blind to all

and not at home to other’s call.

 

Simulacrum Diurnal Dream

A dream that thought it lived,

died at eighty-five,

discovered that its dream

had never been alive.

 

It dreamed and died again

like many times before,

a different stage and part

rewritten for each score.

 

Specious formulations,

the dreamer and the dream,

locked in the immutable

fabric of the theme.

 

A dreamer has some licence

extemporising on the theme,

latitude for sub-scripts

by which its traits are seen.

 

It also has nocturnal dreams,

secure from its scheming,

with symbols to decipher

that embody crucial meaning.

 

But many, many others,

share diurnal dreams,

interactive variations

upon the self same themes.

 

Diurnal dreams are programmes

and meant to run their courses,

whilst symbols of nocturnal dreams

point ways to drain their sources.

 

The Extraordinary Happenings at Tallabudgera Creek

At its journey’s end, yielding its identity,

this River, fresh and clear, merged within salinity.

Then menacing and dark, there entered from the ocean,

the portents of a predator with thrusting tail in motion.

The lifeguard gave the order to all of those that swam,

“Move out of the water as quickly as you can.”

Upstream, the river gouged through a basalt ridge

that straddled on its shoulders, the river’s final bridge.

 

Beneath this bridge, the denizen encountered interception,

for there, the lifeguard in his boat had mounted his reception.

Silently the creature swam beneath the boat,

downward went the lifeguard’s oar, the creature’s back it smote.

 

The watchers were astounded, it surely wasn’t true,

the creature just exploded into a thousand pieces flew.

Then the lifeguard rescued a tiny little bit,

but what he held within his hand just did not seem to fit.

 

It wriggled and it jumped about

and fell back in the creek,

returning with the other bits

to reform their monstrous clique.

 

Fair Dismissal

Dead, outside his front door, Rover was discovered,

but he hadn’t given up, for later he recovered.

He still looked rather groggy and the vet made his prediction,

the sandwiches were dodgy and required fast eviction.

 

“Meat sandwiches!” the lady cried, “my George had some for lunch,

Rover managed two or three and I had some for brunch.”

She quickly phoned the ambulance, it responded to her ‘mayday’,

whisking George away from work to save him from the pâté.

George staggered from the hospital, the enema was over,

his wife was tottering as well, and so was their dog Rover.

They got rid of their old milkman after hearing what he said

about the crate of bottled milk he’d dropped on Rover’s head.

 

A Fisherman’s Tale

Three fishermen were arguing whilst strolling through a field

towards a Shropshire mere, to see what it might yield.

The problem was the heavy waders, they only had one pair,

so two were left with soggy feet by one who did not care.

 

They were following a course through the pastures heart,

oblivious to the huddled cows that slowly moved apart.

Suddenly, their conversation jolted to a stop;

a giant beast had blocked their path; they were rooted to the spot.

 

The metal plate across its face, secured from working free

had forced the beast to raise its head so that it could see.

Just ten feet in between them put the men into a flurry

as they looked upon the angry eyes gazing at its quarry.

 

Suddenly, the deathly hush erupted into action,

when three men left at lightning speed as legs regained their traction.

The bull exploded like a bomb, it bellowed, shrieked and roared,

it leapt and pranced and circled; the ground was ripped and gored.

 

Then it stopped, raised its head and targeted a man,

then downed its horns and off it charged to execute its plan.

But its target heard it coming and quickly changed direction;

the bull continued straight in line, without a course correction.

 

The creature thundered onwards about a hundred feet,

then threw another tantrum, when horns and quarry did not meet.

It chose another victim, the outcome was the same,

it harried and it chased each man, like something quite insane.

But all the men were lucky, each one found his fence,

having learned a dangerous lesson at avoiding such events.

Though, one man learned a little more, his legs were slower than the rest,

when one is harassed by a bull, fleet and soggy feet are best.

 

The World is a Stage (Act One)

High above a mountain’s reach,

long before the dawn,

clouds were dark and ponderous

and battle lines were drawn.

 

Then upon the distant verge,

ascendancy was reached,

Æolus strove in winning mood,

the western clouds were breached.

 

And thus contaminating all,

like history’s doomed legions

where valour in its leaving haste

takes corporate cohesion.

 

How the scattered clouds then ran,

like wayside mongrels fleeing,

driven by the westerlies,

till none were left for seeing.

 

Then ebbed the night of velvet black

to finish its divesting

upon an air bestilled of breath,

till all the lands were resting.

 

And thus o’erhung no pressing shroud

but vast and vaulted sky,

a master-class in precious stones

against the moon to vie.

 

The World is a Stage (Act Two)

Second act, curtains drawn,

the stage all dressed anew,

clear as though ‘twere limelit,

the cast comes into view.

 

Echo takes a silent role,

catching every sound,

mute to fall on every ear,

captive noises don’t rebound.

Selene looks reflectively

‘pon images she makes,

and lays her elegance confessed

with vanity on mirrored lakes.

 

No light more delicately falls

through chinks into the void,

as veils of whitest finery

to dark made less employed.

 

Shadows, children of the light,

flee to leeward timidly,

leaning on the wall and post,

remaking trees in mimicry.

 

Shadows though, are like the sea,

all behested forms are fey,

thence morning’s prologue must attest

he westward crowed the night away.

Then Dawn from her awakened sleep

puts Selene again to flight,

to shed her luminescence then

upon some other distant night.

 

New for Old

Each moment by the wayside falls

a victim of relinquence,

as days must cede then be renewed

of fresh and fickle sequence.

 

This process touches everything

thus everything is changed,

henceforth with altered resonance,

this “new for old” finds nought estranged.

 

I Bring You One You May Not Know

Sometimes a rare and delicate thing

can reach for the stars and discover its twin,

it must reach, it must call, it can’t flower alone,

it must touch and be touched or why had it grown?

 

Though what cannot be, is out of consent,

unable to be what another one meant,

but leaving moments won’t be held,

nor waiting shadows whence to meld.

 

Innocence Lost

I went to the country when I was quite small,

to a house that was large, by a lane that was long,

with hedges so high and a brook wide and deep.

 

I went to the country when I was quite tall,

to a house that was small by a lane that was short,

with hedges so low and a ditch where water could barely creep.

 

The Old Painting

It must have stood three hundred years, forgotten and alone,

lost within a lonely place, decayed and overgrown.

Its openings were firmly shut, in time’s hermetic grasp

and ivy from its ceiling hung, that took its final gasp.

 

A little sunlight flickered through, like fretful candlelight,

their patterns danced the darkened room, thus more came into sight.

The sturdy walls were cracked and bowed with small unseeing windows,

old leaves lie as first they fell, untroubled where no wind blows.

Then I dreamed as I stood there, three hundred summers past,

into a bygone furnished room that was fated not to last.

This numinous presentiment made the senses reel,

as all that lay before me, was suddenly made real.

 

The sun now formed a panel of warmth across the floor,

where it crept in through the entrance of the open wooden door.

In awe I wandered here and there and touched the simple things,

and saw the glades beyond the door, a vision fit for kings.

 

There were violets growing at the door, sweetening the air,

so I knelt and plucked a single one and handled it with care.

But the scent of occupation lay plain upon the air

and I sensed of my intrusion, and of nerves in disrepair.

 

Then I sensed another feeling, I saw the room had changed,

there was darkness and decay again and I was left estranged.

My eyes remained for ages, glued upon the spot,

of this painting hanging on my wall, of a place that time forgot.

I settled for an aberration, it seemed the safest bet

until I noticed at my feet...........a fresh picked violet.

 

The Old Painting II

A very old painting hung new on my wall

with a rather strange background I seem to recall,

it was a view of the inside of a cabin or shack

that Nature’s entanglements had long taken back.

 

It came from a house, closed up so long,

that its absentee owner was thought dead and gone.

I sat deep in my chair and mused for a while

on this fanciful story; it brought me a smile.

 

Then a heavy log settled, disturbing the fire,

and the darkened room brightened as the flames rose up higher.

Then the strange shifting shapes from the flickering flame,

made the picture seem altered inside of its frame.

 

Then the door of the shack seemed to open up wide

and a sun unfamiliar, lit up the inside.

Then consciousness blurred for a second or two

but it didn’t return in the place that I knew.

 

I was gripped with alarm for I suddenly found

I was standing on strange unfamiliar ground.

I was inside the shack, now furnished and clean,

that stood in the frame, where my painting had been.

In dread, I turned round to escape from its stricture,

to be faced by a wall that was not in the picture.

A painting hung there, of the room I had left

with a fire and a chair of my presence bereft.

 

In a desperate bid I turned to the door,

though everything in me said to withdraw.

I took a step forwards into the light

and sweet smelling violets came into my sight.

 

I cast my eyes round a wondrous place

and felt its warm sun on my hands and my face.

Then I turned round to look at the old wooden shack,

but the tangle of Nature had reclaimed it back.

 

So I swung on my heel and into the trees,

with colour and verdure up to my knees.

It made things that I’d known seem duller and trite

and the Summers of Yore but a Wintry sight.

 

It confounded the mind, with no way to measure

its coming in fear and its staying in pleasure.

So I followed my feet by a musical stream,

through each vibrant and delicate unfolding scene.

 

Then a voice very close, with no form I could see,

jolted me out of my reverie.

Then a hand touched my shoulder and I turned with surprise,

transfixed to the spot by two heavenly eyes.

 

I stepped back, from a girl, some two or three paces,

and saw mirrored in her, three feminine graces.

She had elegant form, manner and face,

like the exquisite alchemy gilding this place.

I knew from that instant I would never think back

to a room with a painting, on its wall, of a shack.

 

The Old Painting III.

She stood in this strange and impossible place

and looked upon me with a smile on her face.

“I sent you the painting,” she said “of the shack,

it opened for you but not to go back.”

 

“Tell me your thoughts” said the girl’s gentle voice,

but the words of my world were too lame a choice.

Then her voice spoke again as she moved to my side

and she asked that I sit, there were things to confide.

 

“My tale,” she began “will be strange to your ears,

but is anything ever quite the way it appears.

You have trodden the difficult paths of your world

deciphering signs that few have unfurled.

 

They led your way here but I gave you the means,

for I painted those symbols you saw in your dreams.

I was also the briars that tangled your life

and I was the pain when it pierced like a knife.

 

But we are the opposites meant to unite

and I was your destiny into the light.

Remember the fable The Briary Rose

well I am that prize by the path that you chose.”

 

Then she smiled once again, but he suddenly frowned,

for the flowers and trees were