Poetry Blog by Mr LEON STOLGARD

cold impatience

I look out on this white March night

stretching its freezing self across the country.


How I despair about the distance to summers deliverances

of the days I love best.


Long days that beautifully lift and bless me

with golden caresses


soul reaching tendrils

that to me are the flames I need

to make a fire

of winters cruel stories. 

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praising all but the final the inescapability

I thought determinedly

no more shall I contribute words

to romance, birds, or loneliness

or the breath taking displays

of sky reaching mountains.


Contented, no sooner do I sit on my laurels

than the bombardment

of brand new revelations begins


wonderfully irritated by excitement

I write and write and write

-about what?

about romance, and birds, and lonelin...

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Bootleg Beckham's

entry picture


She the image

of skin and bone Victoria

and not one mirror would disagree.


The same kind of piggy nose

on the same kind of elfin face.


Hair black colour copied.

Posh Spice girls eyes almost her own.



a fairly believable David.

Lean stripling of a fair-haired man

easily capable of passing for

the squeaky mouse voiced ex-M.U. player


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3D effect

It is because of

the glaringly strong pigmentations used

compared with the wishy-washy ones

weakly suggesting a background presence


that the gaudily assorted colours of the flowers

filling a brightly patterned vase

have been made

to lift themselves from the foreground

of the painting


and occupy a space

in front of the canvas

that doesn't belong to them


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looking forward to backtracking

The reassuring moment arrives

the train crosses the border into my country

bringing home sweet home

closer sweetly closer


the fretful past few days

I'm giving to a forgetfulness

that expands by the minute.


The engine picks up speed 

and I ridiculously imagine it being

as impatient as I am

to get to our destination and I smile

wanting to agree with my ridi...

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blundering through a disused cemetery

I nonchalantly wade in wind waved depths

of a long grassed field

overlooking a  sea pounded bay

catching my knee

on what I find to my surprise

is an extremely old headstone

followed by many more

but most having fallen down due to subsidence


from upon one leaning precariously

what could be a resident magpie

disturbed by my slow approach takes flight

leaving a ...

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older the driver the longer the journey the whiter the knuckles

You dangerous road at all times

won't let my mind wander

you keep it focused by reason of

black spots and stretches in total darkness

according to council cost cuttings.


You frighten me with your zigzagging hairpin bends

you test my steering abilities

with your red and white witch hat lined roadwork chicanes 

and your sign posted fatality numbers of this year

that i...

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Celtic messenger

entry picture

ancestral builders

of these monumental

diary-like stone crosses

telling of their ways and days

in secretive symbols

painstakingly chiselled.


What they suggest or ask of us

cannot be passed by.


Thankfully today's minds

have the abilities to translate

into modern language such ancient meanings

and unravel the tangled links between centuries.


These s...

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mentally arresting the ages awhile

I lower my tired feet

into the lake water

while landscape viewing.


I condense too many questions

into a few.


Will the heat of last summer

warm the mid seasons this year?


What happened to that cute little calf

I helped pull from its mother's womb? 


Will I walk the same happy paths

my mother and father walked

through this life?


Asking myse...

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for the lovers of pessimism

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it is his own sad persistence's

that have driven him

into a dead end of misery

but still, he refuses

to go back through that hour-glass of time

that once squeezed optimism

in to his days.


It is here and now

where is unhappily happy to stay

and despite the grievous harm

he has inflicted on his own mind

he will never want to change 

the lengthy sentence of it


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remembering summer rituals

when barbequing in a mates garden

with Budlite's and burgers 

laughing and wasp swatting


his mother would scowl

through the kitchen window

head shaking

at our inebriated gesticulations

and gyrations

gradually tiring us all out

enough to leave


that was always the time

she  would appear

pushing through departing friends

to at last stake her claim


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oh yeah! that's him all wrong alright!

they will only see

what he permits them to

but they will believe they are seeing the real thing


if only they could look

into the mirrors of themselves 

and see the damaging mockery he has inflicted


thankfully and I do mean thankfully ( BIG-TIME!)

it is they and not me who belong to him

and he, in turn, offers himself with one hand

while laughing behind the bac...

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and still, he bleeds from the wounds

made by cutting words

tries to hide the hurt

with useless bandages.


Clings to words of his own





never I

so as not to feel alone


needs a strong threatening name

to replace his own real milksop one.

Picks amongst the decay of old worn accusations

and loads them into his weak weapon

fires bu...

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LITTLE hitlers

my pet dislike?

is of those schizoid

kings of manipulation

who have the devious skills

of feeding hatred in the guise of love

to their dumbed flocks

of easily fooled sheep.

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bad signs of the times

I no longer feel safe.


Even the elderly and children

have to brave these jungle days

where the big wild animals ( for want of a much darker word )

we once knew as  little human beings

are on the hunt


each of them having thrown their hearts away

and bloodily baptised their ferocious teeth

on the increasing misfortunes of the weak.


Dear God above! 

just a...

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farewell flea-pit

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old art deco decorated cinema

about to face the wrecking ball

to be reincarnated no doubt

into post-modernist form 


it's futuristic replacement

gleams in sci-fi silver and moonscape white

but with its newness, incomplete, no-one can presently enter

for now with a week or two to live

it's still the antiquated movie museum neighbour.


Upon my final visit,

the s...

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Once upon a time in Princes gate when I saw heroism in full magnificent flow

entry picture

on that day

when hope was falling

at the hour

when the iron lady's

patience died

stepped up each

to his elite calling

trained to dare

to protect our pride.


Their performance

kept the whole world's

breath suspended


we heard the BOOMS!

the rapidity of fierce gunplay

by Bob and the black-clad boys

was the 'game' soon ended


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unsure prodigal

old urges weigh heavily

almost but not quite enough

to completely sway the decision for my return


to the petty crime scene of arguments

all more or less about nothing.

Its a time and tide thing.


A new day begging me to try it out for size

a different corner waiting to be turned.


I could make excuses 

in case they try to stare me down.


'Oh! I was j...

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on hearing a memory

ragged tagged old guy

sawing away on what looks to be

a fiddle even older

scraping out a tune

that an equally scruffed up associate tap dances to

on the pavement


collection tin nearby

into which they doubtlessly hope

more silver than copper will be dropped.


Being in the midst of the crowd surging by

I am virtually jostled almost out of listening range


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me-an ugly and crap harmonica player

about ten years old

I could suckandpuffsuckandpuffsuckandpuff

my out of tune way through

# God save our gracious queen #

(without bowing of course)

and in the same inhaling and exhaling way

annoy my parents and anyone else within suffering distance

with my brass reeded rendition of

# oh can you wash your father's shirt #

( without going near the sink of course )



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oh! the poor little rapists lets not forget THEIR rights!

entry picture

parole board do-gooders undisturbed

by the critical limelight

as the judicial system lumbers along

with all the so-called good things

they've done wrong

in contravention of OUR rights

and correct punishments 

blind to the constant repetitional 

red flashing warning signs 


continuing to rely on empty excuses for

being caught between pathetic rocks and hard places


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last second hitting of the brakes

prevents multiple cow deaths 

blame for which would have rested

fairly and squarely on my inattentive

and bloodied shoulders to be

and also for my unawareness of a hairpin bend

not to mention too heavy a foot on the accelerator.


In regaining composure shaking stopped

and the loud blurted  F*****G  H**L! shock exclamation swallowed


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going with the grain in more than one way ( an anti-plastic poem)

is there a worker in wood available

who isn't busy and out of timber

willing to build for me

( having a large number of fallen trees to make use of)

my very own wooden cabin

my very own wooden furniture

my very own wooden carriage


and continue with that willingness

to then dismantle all he has built for me

when I die

and recycle it by building for me

my very o...

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Nature in the dock

entry picture

people of our old streets have gone,

the old streets themselves have gone

those new spaces now live as one huge meadow

home to wildlife and wild flower's

untouched as yet by land snatching developers


will it stay that way or is it to be imprisoned

under the feet of a housing estate giant?

if so I'm depending on appreciative ramblers

to slip as many hacksaws of protests...

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my unhappy bunny

just as I am getting in the mood

for a nice night in

she decides to go off to her sleep cemetery


her cryogenic dead zone

until the next day comes along to thaw her cold nature out

and put my patience through another endurance test 

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lamenting good and bad intentions

Trying to be a devoted Father and secret lover

in one unfolding lifetime's too much already

I'm not prepared for the long ride although I knew the score

these difficult years must soon come to dust; Alcohol  

and depression will see to that. The last door

has to stay closed to memories; abandoned

they can howl all they want to gain re-entry 

my existence down at heel must be ...

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march of the Paedo's

with minds so filthily crammed,

they make Summer seem like an endless 

procession of darkness

Satan like a shy choir boy

Hell, a holiday camp 

in comparison to their iniquitous deeds.


Though sickened and vengeful enough

to want them hung drawn and quartered then incinerated

and their ashes scattered into a disused cesspit

I nevertheless know that the guarantee would...

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for the cuckoo land tourist


would all those

waiting to ride the pink elephant

to the planet of insanity

report to check in

where their boarding passes

and straight-jackets 

will be waiting for them


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roll of life's dice

years tumble

numbers getting lower


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Recent Comments

J R Harris on cold impatience (Thu, 16 Aug 2018 11:07 am)

Patricia and Stefan Wilde on cold impatience (Sat, 3 Mar 2018 08:40 pm)

Patricia and Stefan Wilde on praising all but the final the inescapability (Sat, 3 Mar 2018 08:28 pm)

Hannah Collins on cold impatience (Sat, 3 Mar 2018 06:55 pm)

LEON STOLGARD on cold impatience (Sat, 3 Mar 2018 05:20 pm)

LEON STOLGARD on praising all but the final the inescapability (Sat, 3 Mar 2018 04:28 pm)

Hadil on praising all but the final the inescapability (Wed, 28 Feb 2018 01:24 am)

Martin Elder on praising all but the final the inescapability (Tue, 27 Feb 2018 10:47 pm)

LEON STOLGARD on Bootleg Beckham's (Tue, 27 Feb 2018 06:53 pm)

LEON STOLGARD on 3D effect (Tue, 27 Feb 2018 06:52 pm)

LEON STOLGARD on looking forward to backtracking (Tue, 27 Feb 2018 06:51 pm)

LEON STOLGARD on blundering through a disused cemetery (Tue, 27 Feb 2018 06:50 pm)

LEON STOLGARD on older the driver the longer the journey the whiter the knuckles (Tue, 27 Feb 2018 06:49 pm)

LEON STOLGARD on Celtic messenger (Tue, 27 Feb 2018 06:48 pm)

LEON STOLGARD on mentally arresting the ages awhile (Tue, 27 Feb 2018 06:43 pm)


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