Poems On A Quiet Road

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
The poems offer a snapshot of the author's thoughts and experiences during the early 1980s, having just graduated from university and qualifying as a teacher.

Submitted: March 18, 2013

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Submitted: March 18, 2013



Poems On A Quiet Road


First Edition


Copyright  © 2012  Raymond Harris


All rights reserved


















Listen to the voice

That offers us a way

To ease our fears

And keep the enemy at bay.


Listen to the voice

That promises health,

An abundance of choice,

With a helping of wealth.


Listen to the voice

That will create more work,

More jobs than ever before

-But no one may shirk.


Listen to the voice

That tells us who to blame

For the anguish and humiliation

Cast upon our once proud nation.


Listen to the voice

That chooses windows to smash,

Which homes to enter,

Whose bodies to thrash.


Listen to the Voice

Reaching newly conquered lands,

Like a soothing lotion

Upon our scorched hands.


Listen to the voice

Savouring half the world,

Golden apples to be picked,

With our new banners unfurled.


Who will listen to the voice

As the flames grow high?

Our motherland in ashes

As we bow our heads to die.




Derby Station Unfinished



A mound of mailbags mask the grey

Of the station platform on a winter’s day.


No breath can hide in that frozen fog

As watchers pray to the eternal clock

That laughs at their mortality.




First Day



Shoes shining like the smile of youth,

Tie knotted like the morning tongue,

Shirt fresh as frosted grass,

Walking under an early sun.


Arriving at the appointed time,

Dragging a bag of yesterday’s knowledge,

Approaching a class of today’s problems,

Tomorrow’s people.


Not yet fully awake,

The school building looms,

To mark him present on the first day,

And bear witness to a baptism of chalk.



The Truth?



Were the truth known

Our beliefs would be blown

Far from the parade

Where our lives were made.


Wheels would not turn,

Engines would not burn.

Humanity would run for cover

With fiery thoughts to smother.


Good for us that ignorance is strength,

So we may sleep at length,

Waking to another day,

Striving to keep the truth at bay.



Suppressed Emotion



A time of longing,

A time of hunger,

A time of waiting for fear to fly

And my passion to die.



Cold Are The Mornings



Cold are the mornings

Upon which to begin

A similar day in a familiar way,

Boiling the kettle but longing to stay

Wrapped in a blanket,

And hidden away.


Cold are the mornings

For stepping outside,

With no time to bide,

No place to hide,

But your coat’s inside,

Taking the usual walk or bus ride.


Warm are the mornings,

When arriving at work,

Watching the clock,

Yet fearing to shirk,

Lest the hours fetch a warning

Of new days dawning

-Without cold mornings.




The mind is a puzzle,

A joy not to solve,

A breast on which to nuzzle,

A reason to evolve.


Safe and warm in thought,

The wind catches cold hands

Skills for survival are taught

As life’s rope tightens its strands.






Gods and humans merge in stone,

Some in faith and some in bone.

Though carefully carved to honour the match,

The eternal question is tricky to catch.


Life crumbles under the blade,

But the voice of the spirit will pervade.

If the two blocks can be made into one,

Why is the stonework still not done?



Passing Vision



Your eyes touch mine

In a glimpse of time,

In a room full of filing

And people half-smiling.


Your look brings me fear,

Though your presence is dear,

But my spirit has turned;

Only work is concerned.


Now that I’m free,

You will not see me;

Only a wastepaper bag

With a tendency to drag.






Warm winds hasten

Spring anew.

White buds coyly

Show their smile.

Brighter mornings ease in the days.

New birds calling from every high.

Grass awakened, stretching limbs.

The first garden tea of the year.

Time to reflect

Upon Winter’s work.

All living things

Coming out to play,

No longer cold

Nor hidden away.





Patterns on an eggshell,

Life etched on a face.

Draw water from the well,

Fill in one last space.


Powder colours stirred,

Moist fingers probe the stone,

Telling stories unheard

On a canvas never shown.




Superman’s Gone To The Bathroom


Superman’s gone to the bathroom,

What will the world do now?

He’s locked the door behind him,

But we know what he’s doing and how.


He’s not using his x-ray vision

To keep an eye on things.

Having made this big decision,

He sits back on his seat and sings.


His muffled voice is heard outside;

Arch-enemies have been told.

Lex Luther and Brainiac no longer hide

As Superman’s knees grow cold.


The Daily Planet’s editions fly

As some super evil bubbles,

But Superman’s still not in the sky;

It seems we’ve all got troubles.


It’s not green kryptonite that’s keeping him back,

Or the harnessed rays of a red sun.

He’s found a joint in the toothbrush rack

And he wants to have some fun.



Lights of Remembrance


Crowded people push and plunge

Through shopping bag streets,

Threaded by jewels of light,

Across avenues of reddish white.


A time of togetherness,

To share and consort,

As the star looms bright;

A baby cries in the night.


The sword blade falls;

Red is the blood of Man

As he bears his cross

Through thorn and palm frond avenues.


Pure is the time of remembrance,

Cleansed by the blood of ages,

The cries of the few,

As nails drive his body into the pages,

Tinged with reddish white.





Cast in a bottle,

A molecule of life.

Crawling from the water,

Fear cuts like a knife.


Through the mists of creation,

Feel the joy of sensation,

Spine stretched to extremity,

Kiss the breast of humanity.





© Copyright 2019 RJD HARRIS. All rights reserved.

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