‘Rituals of Shade’ and Other Poetry by Keith Robson

Rituals of Shade

Drowsy hang the blooms of light,
descending slowly to a night
That wanders in and out of me,
the shadowed truths of what will be
Forever painted in its shade,
each velvet promise that was made
Beneath cobalt and crimson skies,
without regrets or compromise
When arms were harbors from life’s pain,
a sheltered look out on the rain
That diamond danced itself away,
another dream soaked yesterday
Where summers warmed but never burned,
another page of lessons learned
Another speckled sunset played,
kaleidoscopic rainbow shade.

Shimmering the moon winds blow,
around each wish tied picture show
That flickers in a shaded room,
a ghostly glow that cuts through gloom
Between the seashore and the skies,
a place where mystic magic flies
Like nightingales of nether dreams,
who sew the air with singing seams
That wander whisper winding waves,
in search of haunting echoed caves
That bring back every wondrous song,
to paint them there where they belong
On echoed walls of stars and shade,
before their final moments fade
Into a deep oblivion,
where moon or sun have never shone.

Drowsy drained the depths of dawn,
with such relief at being born
Into a world where light and shade
are happy with the lace they made
That hangs across the newborn air,
confetti scattered everywhere
As tired clouds cough out their rain,
and breathe more easily again
Rainbows creep back upon their glow,
another moving picture show
Releasing colors every time,
eternally a poet’s rhyme,
Until somewhere between the lines,
a certain paragraph defines
Those treasured rituals of shade,
from which each night and day is made…

My Church

In the church are whispers high,
so sweet that they defy belief
They wave their branches to the sky,
bared warnings to the Autumn thief
And down below in cloistered shade,
the hymns of evening bare their souls
Regretfully the echoes fade,
as down the aisles their darkness rolls,
And rainbow glass turned deepest grey,
touches the heart of evensong
While twilight sacrifices day,
two endings that just don’t belong,
Soft bird song peels away the eve,
and every single painted call
So beautiful I can’t believe
the curtained silence slowly fall.

Through the windows heaven high,
an emerald essence on the air
And though we were taught not to cry,
soft silver teardrops everywhere
Sift metronome like to the ground,
within their quiet tiptoed dance,
A peaceful time touched tick tock sound,
that gives so much a second chance,
While wandering in spectral shade,
so many living pieces make
A jigsaw that will never fade,
a segment of creation’s lake,
So many sighs of breathless green,
and many more of perfect peace
The church is a forever scene,
a form of heavenly release.

Around the church there are no walls,
it’s organ is the stream’s sweet song
And birdsong echoes from it’s walls,
angelic wings that still belong
To heaven in it’s many forms,
for churches can take many shapes
Those havens from life’s many storms,
those corners where the soul escapes
And where life’s poetry is composed,
between the arbors of the dawn
So many Prayers  lay unexposed,
as if they’re waiting to be born
Into the church that I attend,
the one that lives inside of me
The church I always recommend,
the one that I will always be…

The Poetry of Life

I feel the tiredness of my years,
those quiet times when breath appears
in melting mosaic imagery,
upon the mirrors of a sea
that only calls so many names,
through pious sunlit tortured flames
that scrape themselves away from light,
then wander off into a night
of promises and empty eyes,
the kind that used to hold surprise
when church songs played in moonlit rain,
afraid to wander back again
through open doors and empty hearts,
until the rhythm of night departs,
like shadow paintings on a wall,
the kind that dance, but never call.

I know the mysticism of time,
so much gone by within my rhyme
so much still here, so much to come,
yet even time stands still for some,
for hours are bolsters for a head
to dream of life and death instead
of dreaming silently away
the hours of each poem of day,
life’s poetry holds certain charm,
it holds you up from fault or harm,
then brings you back to Earth again,
to laugh your joys, or feel your pain,
I write to breathe, I breathe to live,
for words hold many things to give
to tortured souls and hearts that grieve,
to countless spirits that believe.

I seek the beauty that seeks me,
a Celtic song, a sleeping sea,
a moonlit road that points the way
to everything life needs to say,
a baby’s laugh, a robin’s call,
so much to touch me after all,
the souls I meet upon the road,
the friends who wish to share my load
to lift me up, to share a joke,
when shoulders bow beneath the yoke
but most of all a heart to share,
to walk with me to who knows where
to hold me close when it gets dark,
to raise me up just like a lark
to lay by me as evenings dim,
so much of life is like a hymn…

Keith Robson, 66, is a poet living on the Northeast coast of England.

These poems are among the entries for the Society of Classical Poets’ 2012 Poetry Competition.

CODEC Stories: