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THE POETRY OF HARRY DRAKE
SPEAK
OF US GENTLE SEA
Dedicated to Lisa
 Speak of us gentle sea, when we are gone.
Tell of us, tell of what we were, but are no more.
Use soft ocean breezes to speak of good times
and ocean storms to relate events … best forgot,
buried forever in dim sad places that are not for mortal
minds.
Speak
of us gentle sea, when we are gone.
Let the story be yours, for we were of the sea …nothing
more than loyal servants to your enduring reign and
bound for eternity by your foaming chains
Let the story travel the wind and soar with mighty seabirds
that, in their gentle innocence are but messengers in
your eternal game.
Speak
of us gentle sea, for we are gone
Our meager being, corrupted and laid waste by merciless
time and the wounds of our toils… all in your
name gentle sea, which in reason is no name but that
given to sacrifice and cursed by those who have not
endured for the sake of freedom.
What cost gentle sea …. What cost?
Speak
of us gentle sea, for we are gone
Only in your being does continuation lay – that
of past love and futile hope … all things since
forgotten by those not of your court.
Our journey was long and companions we were, aye, but
who led, who followed and for what reason? … Answer
this gentle sea so that we can rest
Where
you are Lady Sea, so shall we be, one man one woman
who, while the gods allowed journeyed with you becoming
almost the giant that you are.
But we followed a false path and your lighthouse only
led to rocks … could it be that you, mighty sea,
became jealous of what we were together, what you couldn’t
be?
So gentle, savage sea, you move on alone, while we,
the no more, wander your many lanes together. We cannot
touch, we cannot taste but love is still ours while
you, Lady Sea have seen oh! so many seasons and have
become cold and blind to feeling.
Can
you hear our passing laughter gentle sea, does it move
you to regret … or are you now so alone…
with only your soaring messengers to give you being.
Speak
of us gentle sea for we are gone and none remember but
you.
HD 1987
THE
COURT OF TIME
To most comes that time of lengthening shadows between
uncaring youth and judgmental old age, when the scorecard
is first tallied.
It is at the time when limbs begin to slow, eyes blur
and hair seeks to pale as if fatigued.
The curse that falls upon us during this most damning
time is that of memory made clear by the distance of
years.
A courtroom existing only for the mind that created
it.
How hateful to have events once cloaked in the uncertainty
of the happening made plain and naked.
To have rooms once softened by the demand of exploring
others, lit as the day with no corners hidden from the
eye, with all truths exposed.
Then does our trial begin and for such as me, it has
no end.
Happy indeed are those that find no darkness and can
move on.
Cursed are we who look back and find only emptiness
of our own creation where happiness could have resided.
Desolation where great feelings of joy could have lived.
Pain given by our own hand, where just as easily, it
could have been pleasure.
Hurt to those who gave none.
This merciless court has but one punishment and that
is the most terrible of all - to live and remember …
everything.
Harry Drake 2000
THE
SILENCE
Always the call through all generations
Always the reason, even if not known by all
Always the flag to give power to the frightened, souls
to those who had lost them.
And always
the waiting, still but faces of humanity, still seeing
the sky – but waiting
Others stand with you but they are unseen, there is
only a ‘self’ seen as a different person
Then a sound, a rustle and movement begins, bugles and
drums, bugles and drums – the symphony of the
soldier.
Sword
or lance, pistol or musket, cannon or artillery it matters
not, for intent is the same
Then you are part of the movement, part of the sound
Time is in the past, for it leads only to madness –
only returning as you weary and stumble
And when
the drums had ceased their beat and only tattered banners
gently guarded the still, silent, shells of the fallen
When the last bugle has ceased its call and the last
young eyes forever dimmed.
When the last rally to arms went unheeded for none were
left to serve
When victor and vanquished both alike were stained
God wept,
For all battles are lost.
A
LIFE IS BUT A SINGLE DAY
A whole life is but a single day.
Alone we awake in innocence, with nothing in our mind
but the immediate now
Through the early morning we walk in the garden and
wallow in beautiful confusion at the height of the sky
and depth of the oceans.
We learn sweet from bitter, taste both joy and sorrow,
yet pain is, as yet, not for us.
Late morning we seek others to share the marvels, to
be with us, for we only live through others' eyes
By noon we are complete
Afternoon is the time for us to tend to the garden so
that others may enjoy it
To plant so that tomorrow others may benefit from our
labors
Then the light starts to fade and we turn to the comfort
of the waiting house, we have used our time in the sun
Evening sets in and we play quieter games before a somber
fire of memory which exists only to keep our day alive.
Night presses against the windows, first with the tenderness
of a kiss, then with a dreadful weight of command
From time to time we hear the dreams of those who have
not yet woken, have yet to have their day, but they're
distant and we can't see or touch them but, perhaps,
in a passing draft we can feel their growing presence.
We turn to our books and our thoughts and to those still
around us for comfort against the inevitable
But we are simply men and as the night progresses many
get tired and leave the room to find sleep
Then … loneliness
The book has become dull, the pictures without colour,
the words all read, the silence unbearable
You arise, so very tired, and walk to the door
It's time to sleep.
This
work was only recently found.
THE
ANGRY MAN
They say I'm an angry man but they don't bother with
… why
These fools that live in the hibernation of society,
dulled by what is presented, have no concept of what's
around them
Those that govern and inform keep the tenuous reflections
of good things visible
While that ugliness that is humanity cavorts, not in
the shadows but in the light
For every good deed there's a hundred that bear malice
For every kindness there is a field of ill will
For every honest soul there is a mountain of corruption
For every act of compassion there is tenfold cruelty
For every minor joy there is a banquet sadness - all
perpetuated by man
They say I'm a silent man but they don't ask why
I have seen … much, not with scales to weigh but with
a heart that feels
Yet they say I am unfeeling and cold.
I believe in no god and am reviled
Yet those that do believe put their deity second to
avarice and get laurels
Applaud you fools those who make wealth, even though
it be for their own sake not the sake of those that
cheer and bow in undignified awe.
They say that I am an outcast man because I dared look
beyond the scenery and saw the theatre
Because, with brothers, we dared to break the word of
those that decree and took arms in the name of something
that even we didn't understand - but for good, in the
meaning of the word
So much to fight, at times with weapons at times with
guile
Overwhelming odds that had us constantly drowning, always
the battle was lost.
Yet we tried
They say I am a lonely man, but this is the way of final
scenes
Through time there were twelve of us, now only I remain,
the last of what was once 'us'
Good souls, who endured, suffered and eventually fell
- under no banner than that of trying to keep the human
world cleaner than history and society permitted.
We were giants that got smaller - we were warriors that
had our compassion stipped away, layer by layer
We felt and we wept for all was ever lost, humanity,
that dead man alive because nobody dare tell him he's
dead, how ugly.
They say I am a dying man - not many will notice the
passing
In shadows we lived and in shadows we die, it's the
correct way for us.
I leave this place in the knowledge that man will continue
to invite animals into his world and then abuse them;
for such is the manner of man
That most things that are deemed evil will prosper
That all things that are deemed good will be destroyed
That people will remain shallow, with only surface caring
and even that for self
I shall be glad to leave - I'm so very tired.
THE
TWILIGHT SHORE
Dedicated
to Linda
 Harsh winds know this shore; it's where such winds should
be, always twilight, always chill.
And a lonely man
of no age but his own stood upon this shore and cast
his eyes to the sea
And to the ship that waited, always
waited.
Silence except for the wind, and the howl of that would
be better to be silent, for it uttered no kind words,
gave no comfort, was no companion.
This terrible place,
uncaring of grief, ignorant of despair, does it await
us all or only those that sail their own damned course
to where it waits?
And on the horizon the ship waited,
always waited.
Waves crash without sound on this shore, for only the
wind has voice, grey waves with smoky spume touch ancient
shingle with reluctance, as if eager to be away to where
colour exists, far over a pastel horizon, washed in
the colour of tears
And on the horizon the ship waited, always
waited
The man's eyes, weary with more than age, scan the shore
and the horizon, so empty 'cept for the ship
There is
no warmth of life but … here and there, flickering alike
to a candle, shadowy phantoms, seen only very briefly
from the corner of the eye, silently laugh and tumble.
Images of what was, terrible vistas of all that had
been lost, all that never was.
From the four corners
of hell itself can there be any greater cry of anguish
than the softest tear for what might have been?
And
on the horizon the ship waited, always waited
No compass points the way to this desolate shore, unless
it be the compass of enduring despair
It resides at no place known, a tiny grey hollow that,
by its existence, makes it more vast than any universe
No sun by day, no stars by night, simply grey and black
that merge as if lovers
And on the horizon the ship waited, always waited
Now even the flickering images have departed and the
loneliness is complete
One lonely man against a shore
that is but the divide between wind and water, what
was lost, what was never found
He stirs and with one
final curse thrown at the wind, is no more
And the horizon
is empty.
The
above works are all under copyright (C) to Harry Drake
and may not be copied or used in part or whole without
the permission of the author
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for readers comments
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