The Secret by Pat Spear
A fairy circle glows beneath a full moon which casts soft beams of light through the ink-black sky. A sprinkling of stars, bathed in the silent music of the cosmos, twinkle like diamonds on a beautiful gown. This sacred place holds no shadow. Only a special few know of its existence.
Twigs breaking and the rustle of leaves underfoot mark Morgana’s passage through the forest. An owl hoots a greeting. Behind her, her companion waits… waits for her signal… waits for permission to follow; his brow is clammy, hands slick with moisture, even though the night is not warm.
She has turned down his proposal of marriage – insisting that they should meet in this place, on this night, before repeating his question.
Glancing back, she raises a finger to her lips; a warning that he should not speak. Aware of his inner turmoil her lips offer a smile. But this is how it will be done, she vows; this is the only way in which I can be certain of him; the only way in which I will know that he can accept me for who I am… for what I am.
Heart pounding in fear and excitement she waves him forward. She is aware that their future together, if there is to be one, rests upon what happens in the next few moments. He takes his place beside her, the love he wishes to share with her plain for her to see. Reaching for her hand he gazes at the mystical sight facing them.
She promised to reveal a secret on this night… now he is beginning to understand for, around the circle fairies dance. He rubs his eyes, not certain that what he sees beneath the trees is fact or fantasy – reality or a waking dream. Again, Morgana smiles at him, offering reassurance… a reassurance that would be welcome in her own heart. He grips her hand tighter.
Gently she unclasps his fingers and turns her back to him. Slowly she lets her cloak fall from her shoulders, allowing the wonder of her gossamer wings to unfurl.
He gasps.
“You are beautiful” he tells her, “So beautiful.”
The words come from the depths of his heart, linking them together for the rest of time.
Twigs breaking and the rustle of leaves underfoot mark Morgana’s passage through the forest. An owl hoots a greeting. Behind her, her companion waits… waits for her signal… waits for permission to follow; his brow is clammy, hands slick with moisture, even though the night is not warm.
She has turned down his proposal of marriage – insisting that they should meet in this place, on this night, before repeating his question.
Glancing back, she raises a finger to her lips; a warning that he should not speak. Aware of his inner turmoil her lips offer a smile. But this is how it will be done, she vows; this is the only way in which I can be certain of him; the only way in which I will know that he can accept me for who I am… for what I am.
Heart pounding in fear and excitement she waves him forward. She is aware that their future together, if there is to be one, rests upon what happens in the next few moments. He takes his place beside her, the love he wishes to share with her plain for her to see. Reaching for her hand he gazes at the mystical sight facing them.
She promised to reveal a secret on this night… now he is beginning to understand for, around the circle fairies dance. He rubs his eyes, not certain that what he sees beneath the trees is fact or fantasy – reality or a waking dream. Again, Morgana smiles at him, offering reassurance… a reassurance that would be welcome in her own heart. He grips her hand tighter.
Gently she unclasps his fingers and turns her back to him. Slowly she lets her cloak fall from her shoulders, allowing the wonder of her gossamer wings to unfurl.
He gasps.
“You are beautiful” he tells her, “So beautiful.”
The words come from the depths of his heart, linking them together for the rest of time.
Easter by Pat Spear
Don't be sad at Easter time,
Raise your voice and sing.
Go in to the countryside
And let its wonders bring
Peace and beauty to your soul -
And lightness to your heart -
For our dear Lord did love us all,
Though He knew we had to part.
He died upon a rugged cross,
Fashioned from a tree.
And on a hill of greenest grass
He hung for all to see.
Above His head our own blue sky
Waited for His words
And now, today, we hear His cry
Winging round the world.
"I'll live again," He told us all,
"I will come back to you."
And sure enough He reached his goal -
Seen again by a special few.....
He taught us that life follows life.
Death we must not fear.....
And, through our lives we must all strive
To keep Him ever near.
So, don't be sad at Easter time,
Raise your voice and sing.
Go in to the countryside
And let its wonders bring,
Peace and beauty to your soul -
And lightness to your heart -
For He promised us a place for all
When from this world we part.....
Raise your voice and sing.
Go in to the countryside
And let its wonders bring
Peace and beauty to your soul -
And lightness to your heart -
For our dear Lord did love us all,
Though He knew we had to part.
He died upon a rugged cross,
Fashioned from a tree.
And on a hill of greenest grass
He hung for all to see.
Above His head our own blue sky
Waited for His words
And now, today, we hear His cry
Winging round the world.
"I'll live again," He told us all,
"I will come back to you."
And sure enough He reached his goal -
Seen again by a special few.....
He taught us that life follows life.
Death we must not fear.....
And, through our lives we must all strive
To keep Him ever near.
So, don't be sad at Easter time,
Raise your voice and sing.
Go in to the countryside
And let its wonders bring,
Peace and beauty to your soul -
And lightness to your heart -
For He promised us a place for all
When from this world we part.....
The Common Man by Manasij Pal Chowdhury
Beneath the gentle surface ripples of your life,
There lies a great stormy turbulence, Common Man!
Each day of yours is a strife,
I salute thee, Common Man!
Fight! Fight! Fight!
Struggle! Struggle! Struggle!
You’ve a battle for life,
You’ll struggle to survive.
Yet you never lose heart,
Yet you deal in hope;
Cruelties hard and fast,
Doesn’t give you jolts.
Getting up at early morning,
Returning late at night;
Your whole day is work,
You labor with all your might.
Your head may hang low,
Your shoulders may droop down;
But in your mind, you never bow,
Your spirit never goes down.
Work! Work! Work!
Toil! Toil! Toil!
Yours a seemingly easy life,
Without glories or spoils.
You’ve not fought any wars ,
Nor bought plunders for your nation;
But you only fought for your life -
Against all injustices and oppressions.
“Anything is fair in love and war”,
‘Twas not in your case, Common Man.
You followed the straight honest path,
And have often been wronged for your actions.
Some fight bravely, they kill coolly,
Memorials are erected in their honour;
Few promise much, fulfill a pinch,
Tombs are built as their memoirs;
Some have dark and gruesome careers,
And are hailed as great masters.
No memorials are erected in your honour,
No plaques kept to felicitate you,
Who served the world all his life,
By following a straight right route.
Time! Time! Time!
The warning bell has rung!
Enough! Enough! Enough!
Realize your potential, Man!
The most hardworking, the most painstaking,
It’s you! It’s you! Common Man!
The most unputdownable spirits on globe,
It’s you! It’s you! Common Man!
You’re needed at this hour,
Arise! Awake! Go! Common Man!
There lies a great stormy turbulence, Common Man!
Each day of yours is a strife,
I salute thee, Common Man!
Fight! Fight! Fight!
Struggle! Struggle! Struggle!
You’ve a battle for life,
You’ll struggle to survive.
Yet you never lose heart,
Yet you deal in hope;
Cruelties hard and fast,
Doesn’t give you jolts.
Getting up at early morning,
Returning late at night;
Your whole day is work,
You labor with all your might.
Your head may hang low,
Your shoulders may droop down;
But in your mind, you never bow,
Your spirit never goes down.
Work! Work! Work!
Toil! Toil! Toil!
Yours a seemingly easy life,
Without glories or spoils.
You’ve not fought any wars ,
Nor bought plunders for your nation;
But you only fought for your life -
Against all injustices and oppressions.
“Anything is fair in love and war”,
‘Twas not in your case, Common Man.
You followed the straight honest path,
And have often been wronged for your actions.
Some fight bravely, they kill coolly,
Memorials are erected in their honour;
Few promise much, fulfill a pinch,
Tombs are built as their memoirs;
Some have dark and gruesome careers,
And are hailed as great masters.
No memorials are erected in your honour,
No plaques kept to felicitate you,
Who served the world all his life,
By following a straight right route.
Time! Time! Time!
The warning bell has rung!
Enough! Enough! Enough!
Realize your potential, Man!
The most hardworking, the most painstaking,
It’s you! It’s you! Common Man!
The most unputdownable spirits on globe,
It’s you! It’s you! Common Man!
You’re needed at this hour,
Arise! Awake! Go! Common Man!
Loco motion by Richard Leach
Oh, centipede, oh centipede,
Why’ve you so many legs?
Is it so necessary
To race round the flowerbed?
Oh, millipede, you must concede
You do look quite amusing,
And tying all your shoelaces
Must really get confusing.
Oh, worm, in turn, you have to churn
In dirt, not one appendage
Writhing about under the sprouts
In sweat and toil and bendage.
Oh, Mr Snail, a small detail
Perhaps you could address
Is why have you one big, slow foot
Which leaves an awful mess?
If you’re one of these small beasts
Sorry, and beg your pardon.
Oh, wait a minute... you can’t read,
Get back out in that garden!
Why’ve you so many legs?
Is it so necessary
To race round the flowerbed?
Oh, millipede, you must concede
You do look quite amusing,
And tying all your shoelaces
Must really get confusing.
Oh, worm, in turn, you have to churn
In dirt, not one appendage
Writhing about under the sprouts
In sweat and toil and bendage.
Oh, Mr Snail, a small detail
Perhaps you could address
Is why have you one big, slow foot
Which leaves an awful mess?
If you’re one of these small beasts
Sorry, and beg your pardon.
Oh, wait a minute... you can’t read,
Get back out in that garden!
My Favourite Writing Place by Richard Leach
I think my favourite writing place
Is, hmm, well let me see?
Inside the shed, under my bed,
Or swinging from a tree?
To sit upon the family dog
Is oft a place of choosing
If only he would just sit still
It’d be perfect for musing.
I sometimes stand upon my head
Serenely jotting verse
But last time I stayed there so long
They had to call a nurse.
To hang from next door’s washing line
Helps me in contemplation
It’s just a shame my neighbour won’t
Give this consideration
I think, however, that
My favourite writing place could be
Where I am now, sat on a cow
Who’s skipping in the sea.
Is, hmm, well let me see?
Inside the shed, under my bed,
Or swinging from a tree?
To sit upon the family dog
Is oft a place of choosing
If only he would just sit still
It’d be perfect for musing.
I sometimes stand upon my head
Serenely jotting verse
But last time I stayed there so long
They had to call a nurse.
To hang from next door’s washing line
Helps me in contemplation
It’s just a shame my neighbour won’t
Give this consideration
I think, however, that
My favourite writing place could be
Where I am now, sat on a cow
Who’s skipping in the sea.
