Half hidden behind the Lantern Oak
there stands a certain tree,
with bark as smooth as a woman’s thigh
and a door only the wind can see.
There stands a sentinel
a Watcher of the Wood,
its senses primed to overcome
evil for the greater good.
Every leaf that falls
every bird that calls
every creature scuttling by,
none are aware
of the roving stare
of the Watcher’s ceaseless eye.
But this is one of many
Watchers amongst the trees,
taking note of every sound
every scent upon the breeze.
Everything that moves
be it on paws or hooves
talons, claws or feet,
none can evade
in light or shade,
for the Watchers are discreet.

© Terry Hopwood-Jackson 2006

A sound to thrill
is the woodpecker’s “drill”,
distantly clear
a delight to hear
in a deep and darkly-green wood.

A sound to thrill
is the robin’s sweet/sad trill,
beautiful on the ears
and joyful tears
from my eyes fall in flood.

A sound to thrill
when the night is still
but those who hear it
need not fear it
though the owl’s call can chill the blood.

Each thrilling sound
is in Nature found
from three of my favourite birds,
yet another choice
is the human voice
using Nature’s very own words.

© Terry Hopwood-Jackson 2006

Some wounds can never heal
you just try hard to conceal
the scars that Love leaves behind
to haunt both the body and the mind.

© Terry Hopwood-Jackson 2006

“Who’s been a naughty boy then?”
used to drive me mad,
first from my tell-taleing sister
then from my Mum and Dad.
“Who’s done this and Who’s done that?”
I always got the blame,
so it came as no surprise to me
to think Who’s was my real name.
This haunted me throughout my life
my proper name is Kevin,
but at last I laid this ghost to rest
becoming the Editor of “Who’s Who two thousand and seven?”.

© Terry Hopwood-Jackson 2006

Anniversary

Once I saw a kingfisher
like a flashing dart of blue,
speed along the river’s edge
then disappear from view.

Now I’ve seen another one
a year to the very day,
but the water was so polluted
it floated, dead, away.

© Terry Hopwood-Jackson 2006

Sophie

Sophie the little raindrop
fell like a tear from the sky
for the thunder and lightning were fighting
and the clouds began to cry.
As she tumbled like a shiny pearl
she thought she was going to die,
but a passing breeze leapt from the trees
and gently laid her by.
Sophie woke to find herself
in the petalled heart of a rose,
she bathed in its scented waters
from her head to her tippy toes.
She looked all about around her
and then up to the sky
and saw all her friends were leaving
as they gently drifted by.
For all was bright and sunny
the clouds as white as snow,
but Sophie felt so lonely
she had nowhere else to go.
“O how can I get home?” she cried
but her sobs were overheard
for on a tree next to the rose
perched an old and grumpy bird.
“Wait as the flower opens”
said the bird, all feathery black
“then slide down the petals
and jump onto my back”.
Sophie did as she was told
a smile now on her face
and soon they were up in the air
relishing the chase.
They came to a big fluffy cloud
flying low in the sky
and Sophie stood on the bird’s wings
about to say “goodbye”.
But then a gentle voice spoke out
and whispered to the raven
“for the good deed you have done today
you can rest in heaven’s haven”.
So Sophie and the ageing bird
flew into the cloud so deep
Sophie was never seen again
and the raven went to his sleep.

© Terry Hopwood-Jackson 2006

Christmas Crumbs

In the white light of Christmas time
when all was quiet and still,
my garden filled up with snow
right up to the window sill.

Little Robin Redbreast
hopping about outside,
sang his sweet sad twist of song
I had to open the window wide.

Shaking out the tablecloth
on which I had just fed,
the little robin danced with joy
amongst the crumbs of toast and bread.

There was more than enough to go around
and I knew it wouldn’t be long,
before the little robin
was joined by a merry throng.

Tits and finches and thrushes too
all flew down to eat
and the snow became all criss-crossed
by the scratchy marks of their feet.

When all was gone, they flew away
in a flurry of rapid wings,
except the little robin who stopped to say
“May you enjoy whatever your Christmas brings”.

© Terry Hopwood-Jackson 2006

BlindRap

I’m only blind
I’m not insane,
behind my eyes
I’ve got a brain,
I’m not contagious
or a disease
all I ask for
is understanding,
please.
I’m a prisoner
inside my head
I can only feed
on what I’ve fed
so memories
are my staple diet
and those still keep
my screams
quiet.
But please don’t give me
“I know how you feel”
you haven’t a clue
so please get real
or any of that
“I understand” crap
here now endeth
this BlindRap.

© Terry Hopwood-Jackson 2007

A Confused Poet

It's bloody cold in this ivory tower
sitting alone hour after hour
my pen won't write
the ink can't spell
the paraffin stove is beginning to smell.
‘What's the point?’ I think to myself
and look towards the dusty shelf
reams and reams of empty paper
what's the point of this writing caper.
And all those sorry wasted trees
can't think of that, I'm starting to freeze
will have to light the stove again
and reactivate my confused brain.

© Terry Hopwood-Jackson
February 2007

Seven Haiku

Adolescence

Life is before you
just like a clean stretch of sand
waiting for footprints.

Soul Mates

Two swans on a lake
in an alliance of snow
they drift together.

Ole!

Rhythmic guitars play
heels thunder hands lightning fast
flamenco dancer.

Spring Cleaning

“So, that’s where it is”
and the dust and the cobwebs
and an aching back.

Cliffhanger

The crowd holds its breath
there are only seconds left
the penalty is.

Sentence of Life

All of us suffer
from one terminal disease
the one that’s called Life.

© Terry Hopwood-Jackson 2007

Sensory Perception Blues

Sensory Perception Blues

Well, I woke up this mornin’
I may as well have been blind
yeah, I woke up this mornin’
pretty sure I was blind,
coz I couldn’t see nothin’
‘cept what was goin’ on in my mind.

Well, I’m sure the day was dawnin’
coz I could hear the birds sing
yeah, I’m sure that it was mornin’
I heard those pretty birds sing,
the robin, thrush and blackbird
and the rhymin’ starling.

Well, I drew back the curtains
opened the windows wide
yeah, I threw back those curtains
and opened up the windows wide,
the lovely scent of woodsmoke
came to me from the countryside.

Well, my belly starts to rumble
off to the kitchen I go
yeah, see the cornflakes tumble
into the breakfast bowl,
orange juice, black coffee
bacon and the eggs to follow.

Well, it’s off into the countryside
out where the air feels good
yeah, it’s deep into the countryside
to find myself a wood
and my only occupation
was to stroke every tree I could.

© Terry Hopwood-Jackson 2007