Poetry Blog by Graham Eccles
tony sheridan on First Heartbeat (Fri, 19 Oct 2012 11:35 am)
stella jones on Left Shiv'rin. (Thu, 16 Feb 2012 11:16 pm)
Pick a pathway: forget the roadway
A thousand mile should take more than a day.
Nourish and nurture the nature around
Not tear up and dominate and build on the ground.
We didn’t evolve as a static race, to be born and to die tied to one place.
Let feet do the talking as legs move along.
Fill up your steps with a wandering song
Let direction be guided by moments of light.
Wednesday 16th May 2018 7:43 am
If you stood in a forest, you would be, as insignificant, as a Worker Bee.
If gathered were you, with friends, in a copse, the beauty of you, would surely be lost.
If you lined a roadside, i would find, as i swiftly passed, i'd leave you behind.
Though there you perch, high on your lonely hill, a solitary figure, rooted still.
More unique than all your kind, sloped and ben...
Wednesday 19th June 2013 3:38 pm
Bury my bones in the garden.
I know it's hard on you.
Plant me like a flower.
Beneath the cloudy blue.
My soul will never stray too far
away from this, our spot.
So please don't make my spirit wander
round a graveyard plot.
It would be hypocritical,
for me to be laid there.
Among the passed on parish,
eternity to share.
Plant trees above my empty ...
Friday 19th October 2012 11:22 am
You were there for my first heartbeat
I was there for your last.
From baby rattle to death rattle we go,
Time slips by so fast.
Did you even know, in your final throes
I was there, and that you were loved.
And what about that religious stuff?
Do you look down on me from above?
When you opened your eyes, for that one last sigh,
was it then I becam...
Friday 19th October 2012 11:20 am
Backpack sat, sheltering well. Last post harbour, cradled by fells.
Churchhouse slept, up before dawn. Hobo Poet, journey sworn.
Hum of boats, pierced by, terror beak, beady eye.
Sneaky walk, leg bent : silver back, hell sent.
Hunting on the pavement for chip bits, and dog ends.
Long since ever fish catch, this bird should wear an eye patch.
Opportunist mismatch, of poet...
Friday 19th October 2012 11:16 am
A little more soaked, with each move of the foot,
the legs take the shoes for a walk down the brook.
New pasture, new path, new texture at last
beneath sole for the toes to explore
Banks edge, to field hedge
up squelch, and slop, and slip
and slime, as struggle try to climb,
though cannae find a grip.
So, backslide to brookside,
to branch grabbing heave...
Wednesday 15th February 2012 8:45 am
Knock and the door will be opened, but first you must get through the gate.
Ask and the words will be spoken, as long as you're prepared to wait.
Seek, and ye shall find, as long as you know what IT is.
Come, to the house of the master, but remember that inside is HIS.
What did HE expect to find?
Walking around with God in mind.
He looked for the word, but only fou...
Monday 21st November 2011 7:17 pm
There are billions of people in this world, and billions of cells in each person. Those cells came together by fate, or choice, to create each one of us.
YOU could search your entire life and never find another person who looks
just like YOU, thinks just like YOU, has the same experiences as YOU and feels the same emotions as YOU in the same way that YOU do. YOU may not be a world chang...
Sunday 21st August 2011 11:36 pm
So, this is the house of God
Another one, eh?
How many houses do you need?
I thought you lived in Mount Sion
Or sat on your throne in the kingdom of Heaven
But here I am in your ‘house’
Where are you?
I’ve been and called for you loads of times
But you are never in
Look, I know you are busy,
but I think you are taking the piss now
Even your Son seems ...
Wednesday 5th January 2011 7:55 am
There was a time remembered fondly
when i was young and fair
when passers by, all and sundry
marvelled at my carefree air
A fleeting moment of former life
though age comes on one soon
and youth cut off as if by knife
slips to dark, like waxing moon
My curling tress, my flowing lock
to baldness creepeth on
imagine please the horror shock
when crown onc...
Tuesday 4th May 2010 6:13 am
a poet can write about a pebble and make a page of it
he'll tell you all about the texture, and any lumps or bits
he'll tell you how it feels to touch, and smell and see and taste
but by writing much about a pebble, an hour of time he wastes
time that could be productive, time that could be used
not time spent in tune with a pebble, time that's been abused
he'll tell you how the pebble came to be in...
Sunday 13th April 2008 8:53 pm