Clouds herald dawn with flame and gold
escort the sun, clothe mountains
paint landscapes with flying shadows
move in silent and solitary grandeur
or blanket the sky
are torn and hurled by wind and storm
unvaried, cloudless skies stifle and suffocate
clouds are the artists of the sky
Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing
Spoken by Macbeth at Dunsinane, near the end of it all, having been told that Lady Macbeth was dead — last year, I saw Christopher Eccelston play Macbeth, his rendition of this particular speech brought me to tears.
Full text at : http://shakespeare.mit.edu/macbeth/macbeth.5.5.html
Breath by breath we travel
In our beautiful shells
Encompassed by unperceived wealth
The rhythm of life unnoticed
Until disturbed.
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
The last line of this poem is echoing through my mind this afternoon……
They say that wildgeese, flying southward,
Here turn back, this very month . . .
Shall my own southward journey
Ever be retraced, I wonder?
. . . The river is pausing at ebb-tide,
And the woods are thick with clinging mist—
But tomorrow morning, over the mountain,
Dawn will be white with the plum-trees of home.
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
Souvenirs
only remind you of buying them
People and places
stay with you forever
Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeoning of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
I’m delighted to tell you that the Science Fiction Magazine, ‘Trouble among the Stars‘ has published my speculative poem ‘Glint’ in their Issue 3.
Please head over and check out a great issue….. Trouble Among the Stars pdf
This is so good!
Suppose you found a bargain so incredible
you stood there stunned for a moment
unable to believe that this thing could be
for sale at such a low price: that is what happens
when you are born, and as the years go by
the price goes up and up until, near the end
of your life, it is so high that you lie there
stunned forever.
~ Ron Padgett, “Bargain Hunt” (jacketmagazine.com, April 2005)
Notes:
Drowsing on the wayside
Halfway through our walk
We are stopped
Something rustles and I open my eyes
Raise my head
There in the red tipped grasses of the moor
Stands a doe, ears twitching
Black liquid eyes gazing into mine
Two creatures on the uplands
We exchange something in that moment
Before the nearby bleat of a sheep
Startles us each
And the moment and doe are both gone
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Standing on the ridge
seeing distant Jerusalem
shine white in yellow
brings childhood hymns
to ring in my ears
I hear a call
Jerusalem
Jerusalem
Jerusalem
Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond
