Match Day’s End

Photo Credit: Artist Bob Barker Painting “Secret Messages”

Match Day’s End

Winter furnace, row on row,

chase away the evening’s cold,

lights are out, the days at end,

half past twelve, as night descends

Match day fest has come 'n gone,

the derby, cup and the song,

all is quiet, town asleep,

save two boys still on their feet…

Backyard friends so delighted,

they’re joined by wire and cup,

message sent to each other,

two boys that shouldn’t be up.

Brimming joy n’ happiness,

excitement still fills the air,

game replayed by their voices,

in detail and great flair.

All seemed lost, all seemed over,

biting moments in the game,

seconds remain with a corner,

last chance for glory 'n fame.

Moments held in pensive thought,

their defense was bullet proof,

Teddy banged the header in,

eighty thousand raised the roof.

Euphoric moment caught in time,

that includes two boys of eight,

electrified emotions,

being part of something great.

Stadium’s roar still lingers,

when the match resumes again,

the ball in our possession,

by our captained side of ten.

Ref looks down to check his watch,

reds solve their tight formation,

a forty-yarder tally,

sending all into elation.

The Bench and stands do empty,

pitch covered at Wembley way,

players aloft, paraded,

everyone carried away.

Shining smiles replay the game,

well on into the night,

reliving glorious moments,

two friends in red and white.

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About this Poem: Some magic moments in sports stay with us forever especially when experienced in our youth. All our worldly problems with their daily strife falls away to ecstatic feelings that embrace moments of hope and divine thought; and so this poem depicts the lingering euphoria of that moment by youth, having won the championship.

Visit: Artist Bob Barker – Official Website

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A Mid Night’s Walk

Photo: Wet Feet Warm Heart – Bob Barker

A Mid Night’s Walk

The blue grey flicker of theatre’s twilight,

pales and recedes to red velvet curtains and end credits.

Fright night is over, and just begun,

for worried faces with no way home.

Movie house ushers left behind,

two boys barely nine,

unattended left in mid nights darkness, alone,

walking empty streets, they plan their journey.

A mile to go,

roads devoid of life, dead,

young audacious intellect no longer composed,

agree upon the shortest distance to sanctuary.

Autumn fog floods the air over cobbled streets,

leaving atmosphere crisp with biting chill, swelling panic,

and two young boys attentive to surroundings,

ready to bolt on the faintest sound.

Evenings haze billows on nights breeze,

absorbing lamp light, voice and vision,

to mirror strange reflections in pools of water,

on stone roads and imagination.

Shadows lurk on silent streets, trailing,

provoking image, form and being,

by young omnipotent minds,

creators of tales, myths and legends.

Dragons breath emerges from sewers and moorish fields,

ringing alarms heard by two quickening hearts.

Foul stench and fires steam,

shed the weight of cumbrous legs.

Eyes of the beast zigzags the nebulous fog behind,

Spreading panic in the marrow of its prey, fearfully running.

The screech of the dragon is upon them,

Enticing one last blood curdling shrill of life before their fall,

Adrenalin pumping, blood flowing, lungs inflate larger,

Speed and pace faster in guarded rhythm, accelerating…

The glaring whites of the beasts eyes close in,

Nooooooo! Therrrrrrrlll…

“Who you running from? Get in the car ya dumb kids!”

Arriving at the right moment, our champion slays the beast,

and drives us home with much relief.

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About this Poem: Two young boys walk home after a late night horror show.

Photo Credit: Bob Barker – Official Website

Bob Barker Art on - Facebook

The Barnsley Boat

Photo "Joy Riders" Credit: Artist Bob Barker 

Short Story By: Stewart Brennan

The Barnsley Boat

Stonefield, the home of my precious guarded memories and immortal youth; its been so long since I was home, so the first sight of the long row of tenements today, gave me a warm feeling with a little shiver as if I had gone back in time.

All my youthful memories came flooding back as I passed by the homes of friends and families I once knew, calling out the original owners by name as I drove by. They’re still there in my mind as sure as it was yesterday.

Down a small side street within our little village of row houses, was my destination and the place I called home, Barnsley Street.

Barnsley was on the outskirts of town and descended into a marsh that served as a young child’s hunting grounds for frogs and pollywogs but also for our tree forts and games of hide and seek.

The voices of children’s laughter and merriment echo back to memory and paint the scenes of a street I grew up on in the mid 1960’s as I emerge from the car and look down the road.

The long row houses on either side of the cobblestone street had small yards just big enough to hang the laundry to dry so most of our time was spent playing on the back street that declined into the marsh. When it rained, the water would pool at the bottom of the road, which is where the undefeated Barnsley Boat was. An old rusty 1939 P8 Plymouth automobile that was our unsinkable ship, a boat that won every battle it faced.

The old steel and aluminium garbage cans across the road served as the enemy ships and sounded lifelike when we made a direct hit with a rock. Many times the old Barnsley boat was hit by subs that silently snuck up on us with their torpedoes, but we always stayed afloat by the brilliant and magical engineering of our crew.

We played outdoors, morning, noon, and night and never came inside until family would call us in for supper.

August would bring the fireflies, an alien invasion by night that we and old Barnsley held off to eventually save the world…and at wars end, we decorated ole Barnsley for the victory parade that passed by an endless row of people on either side of the street and waved until our little arms grew tired.

The old boat belonged to Peters father, Mr Wing, who left it parked outside his gate after it broke down for good. That is, until one day, Peter who had just been in the marsh with his rubber Billy boots jumped onto the hood of the car and slipped off hitting his head on the road. I saw it all unfold as I had just closed the gate to my front yard when Petey called to me and slipped.

I quickly ran towards Pete but was beaten by the lightning quick strides of Mr Wing who scooped Peter up and brought him inside his house.

I stayed outside on his back steps worrying about my friend when a lime green station wagon ambulance pulled up, followed by all the neighbourhood kids running behind it. Concern was shared by everyone as I relayed the story to them…we all stayed there in Pete’s yard waiting for word…

Within fifteen minutes, which seemed like an eternity, the ambulance attendants and stretcher came out of the house with concerned expressions and a reply to our questioning faces, “Don’t worry boys, Peter will be alright, he just has a slight concussion.”

Relief ensued then as the group of us waited for the ambulance to pull away, and as it did, we all ran behind it to give Pete a protective send off as any good Barnsley crew would for their shipmate.

A week later Mr Wing had ole Barnsley towed away to a junkyard, a sad ending for our old boat and stalwart champion…

Old memories give way to the grey skies above and drizzle falling on Barnsley road. Our marshland now turned into a cemetery holding stones with the names of people I once knew, including Mr Wing and Petey, who sadly passed away last year in a car wreck.

Here now, a crowd gathers with black umbrellas in the cemetery, with a priest waiting for the last few of us to arrive. Tom Fisk, Dave Fallen, his brother Mike, and Sylvain de Bruit, whom I hadn’t seen in years till today…no one had changed, it was like we never parted, the spirit within each of them remained so recognizable…as if it was yesterday.

A melancholy atmosphere pervades the murmur of voices gathering as another soul from Barnsley Street is laid to rest. Ashes to Ashes dust to dust, we will all meet again here, to revisit our guarded memories.

The mourners slowly dissipate and walk from the graveyard onto Barnsley Street and pass by two young saluting boys standing on top of an old rusty 1939 P8 Plymouth automobile…”another successful burial at sea captain!” “Eye first engineer, prepare to take the ship into battle!”

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Story Summary: A Man revisits his childhood home with vivid memories.

Please Visit the extraordinary Artist "Bob Barker" @ the Following Links:

Artist Bob Barker – Official Website

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Dan’s Return

Dan’s Return

Daylight crests the dawn, as clouds scurry across the bay, the country’s in midwinter, and filled with anticipation.

Horse and cutter clears the snow, mail sleigh is a go, lifting hopeful spirits, with letters replied in tow.

It’s been weeks since Dan returned, but today the mail cart is coming, and Phil’s reply should relieve concerns, that all is well and running.

Dan’s thoughts go back to wars end, when they said their goodbye’s, they made a pledge to redress old times, carry them back to Maine, and open up that damn wood shop.

Phil’s ship left port, two weeks ahead of Dan’s, as he recalled the singing, the excitement and the boat filled with brimming smiles. Life was in celebration and the future was ours.

Clopping hooves and sleigh bells break the frosty air to ring in mornings excitement, as the postman shakes guarded memory, places a single letter in the box and slips away with his team.

Bandaged hands excitedly waving his thanks, Dan moves swiftly towards the letterbox. “Damn these dressings, my hands don’t work. I can’t open a simple letterbox, how will I tell Phil the shop will have to wait? Here’s my Martha now to help me with these tricky things.”

“These darn hands don’t seem to work with these bandages dear Martha, could you open up the letterbox dear, so we can both take a look?”

Bundled warm in coat, boots and sweater, Martha retrieved the postman’s delivery. Eyes round and glowing, she turns with letter in hand and makes for the house.

“Yes, let’s go inside to read it, it’s too cold out here, we’ll certainly catch our death.”

Inside the kitchen, with woodstove all alight, Martha opened the letter to read Phil’s writing.

Dear Martha,

…the letter wasn’t for me! What’s that devil up to, thought Dan…and so behind Martha he stood to read Phil’s words…

When I left your Dan in France, his wounds were healing, the Great War was over, and the future was all ours to build. Dan spoke of you often with such love in his eyes, and was heading back to ask for your hand.

I went to greet his boat a day early, and booked two tickets to Maine. Dan wanted to introduce me to his future bride, so I waited at the station in great anticipation for news on his arrival. I waited long, but was truly looking forward to the reunion when the news came…Not one day out, their ship was hit by a mine, the ship sank…and all aboard was lost…there were no survivors…I’m so sorry…

Martha broke down in tears, and tossed the letter aside. Dan looked down…”but I made it home, I’m with you here, now…”

Martha, distraught, got up and ran from the empty room, leaving the letter behind…

Dan sat down in his usual spot and stared at the tear filled paper on the table…

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About Dan’s Return: Phil and Dan were comrades who survived World War I and on Phil’s departure pledged to meet up back home in the States. Although Dan’s return is not as expected…

Love is not a Waste of Time

Love is not a Waste of Time

Wagging tails and soulful eyes,

rising sun in morning skies,

Gibbous moon with its embrace,

a child’s giggle and smiling face,

The passing hours here with you,

all the things we had to do,

Patience with a heart of gold,

always mindful growing old,

Slower walks in memories made,

singing songs that never fade,

All within our life’s assent,

treasured moments, time well spent.

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Poem influenced by Phil Common's song, "Love is not a Waste of Time"

Video Source: Stewart Brennan

Music By: Phil Common

The Light of Life

The Light of Life

Life awakened

in captured time,

spirits brightly shone.

Tempus formed,

ego rose, battles raged,

I was alone…

Then you came,

removed my shell,

oh brilliant light!

Reflections of a Man

Reflections of a Man

Thoughts reflect in the mirror as I search for yesterday,

only to find the blurred vision of an old man who once stood as Hercules.

Young, strong, proud, defiant!

A youth who thought he would live forever,

A man built on solid foundations,

So flawless...

Eyes clearly met, with reserved anxiety, by the only one who really knows me…

Staring back, on guard was the frail consciousness of a graying man,

petrified of facing his reflection, for the image looks back with the guilt of experience and the time deepened scars etched on his brow as a reminder of the errors committed from his past.

Ego would not drop its defenses in the reflection staring intently back.

Who are you to stand there so defiant as if in judgement of me,

when I have made amends for the sins I had committed from my own defective flaws and arrogance…You are just as guilty as I, even though you never apologized when looking at me straight in the eyes.

You never forgave me my sins…
Yet, I stand here in front of you, hoping to make amends and put this rift behind us.

Why do you just stare back with echoed conversations in reflection?

Haunting thoughts that go round and round in my mind,

unforgiven,

unforgiven,

unforgiven,

forgive me…

Our Little Miracle

Photo Credit: Deviant Art: http://baxiaart.deviantart.com/art/Abandoned-380571423

Our Little Miracle

Spring arrived early that year, in our little village of Rome,

as migration came much sooner, and livened up our home,

Life worked out a miracle, after the doctors we did phone,

and our family tree grew bigger, the couple no longer alone.

Just out back in our garden, where the family oak tree stood,

was a wicker basket carriage, with a white frilly hood.

There inside smiling, was our pride, and next generation,

our newborn baby girl, who would inherit our plantation.

My wife and I stood there, our arms around each other,

Smiling at our little one, who looked just like her mother.

If only dad were still with us, your mum, and father too,

We could take a family picture, while the flowers are in bloom.

The morning mist was lifting, as the birds were in full song,

they gathered in the trees above as more birds joined along.

Then landing on the carriage sides, two sparrows began to play,

their chirping brought more laughter, and chased the morning grey.

The clouds dissolved and parted, as the sun shone down its rays,

and there above the carriage, was a glow that seemed to stay.

Our little girl was looking up, something made her smile,

as if someone were standing there, talking to her a while.

I grabbed my little camera, took a picture of the beautiful sight,

I swear we saw three figures, winged, and filled with light.

And just as quick they vanished, as the clouds returned the shade,

But deep inside, my wife and I, knew who came that day.

Valleys

Valleys

The last days of summer, descend uneasy skies,

merging mountain and valley beyond in twilight.

Crimson nebulous shrouds give promise of return,

as warmth embraces my soul, and says goodbye.

Thoughts grace reflection as mirrors looking back,

engaging heartfelt moments and happier times.

All appears as yesterday, some moments forever,

these treasures locked away from long ago.

Faded smiles return, with longing thoughts of home,

travelling to scenes in old black and whites,

they play on my mind and nourish my soul.

Essence flickers recognition from guarded reaches,

filling a melancholy heart with happiness.

Cherished friends no longer here,

family come back to life,

now bathed in empathy and protected,

where time never ends,

We embrace our moments together once again.

Autumn has arrived, and in brilliant colour,

trees rain their creative souls upon the ground.

A mosaic of splendour and abundance,

freely given as an offering to the essence of nature.

Benediction and thanks for granting substance and life,

but leaving its soul exposed to harsh elements.

A dusting of thoughts engage brilliant seasons,

where conscious smiles forever shining, gaze.

We once painted infinity with laughter and song,

a montage of energy in the celebration of being,

heard and recorded by time and moments made,

to play here, in the valleys of radiant memory.

The sun now falls and sets on autumn skies,

winter arrives, cold with life’s sacrifice,

when tree’s nod off to sleep on seasons ending.

Natures guardians stand firm and strong to the elements,

defiant, proud and upright with deep roots to life,

they vow to reawaken with springs rebirth.

I nod my agreement with noble promise, well made,

and pledge my covenant of remembrance,

to those that hold my conscious spirit,

returning back to times before, I gladly affirm.

When the last sun goes down, in the winter’s eve of my life,

we will again meet, in those treasured moments,

to repaint valley skies with our spirit and essence,

together once again, we will be home.

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This Poem was inspired by a very moving composition by artist and composer John Sokoloff called “Valleys”

Direct Link:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W8ajKwbdNJM

John Sokoloff – Official Website

http://johnsokoloff.net/home.htm

John Sokoloff - YouTube

http://www.youtube.com/user/yulno

John Sokoloff  - World United Music

http://worldunitedmusic.blogspot.com/2010/06/john-sokoloff.html

Estuary of Life

Estuary of Life

Mist swells in perfect reflection on estuary's mirror,

held in place by the chill of the air.

Dawn peaks on the horizon,

its rays held back by rising fog.

Thrilled sounds of the geese are heard making ready,

as they offer their prayers to god above.

Echoes from the forest join their hymn,

as all make ready to greet a nebulous morning sky.

Excitement builds to hushed thunder,

by the beat of ten thousand wings,

in reply to the silence,

and a new song lifts into the air.

Hearts racing, beating faster in joy and jubilation,

they carry my spirit in tow,

raising me up with them in celebration of life,

a oneness with the universe,

and the river of life goes ever on.

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Music brings image and emotion together in ones mind and as I reflect on the brilliant piece of music by Dirk Maasson “The River” I’m reminded of the Estuary of Life and the magic nature holds.

Dirk Maassen - River

http://youtu.be/GY0Q-haYF7Y

Dirk Maassen – Official Website

http://www.maassen-music.com/

BUY MUSIC

Dirk Maassen - Bandcamp

https://dirkmaassen.bandcamp.com/