Copyright 1982, S Hartwell

He was tall and was fair,
Like spun silk was his hair,
And his eyes were deep pools of blue,
His skin was bronzed by the sun,
His silken hair - spider spun,
And he was the one love I knew.

His voice was the breeze,
In the leaves of the trees,
All virtues were met in this youth,
Those blue eyes so clear,
Held no hatred or fear,
But only the beauty of truth.

Those deep eyes were so blue,
They shone brighter than dew,
His hair outshone the sun with its glow,
And even the skies,
Were less blue than those eyes,
But all this was long, long ago.

In those gentle blue eyes,
Something pales, something dies,
Like the flame of a candle blown out by the wind,
Gossamer hair, once so fine,
Lost its colour and shine,
As age leaves short-lived beauty behind.

My life must go on,
Once the golden sun shone,
Bright piercing the shadowy skies.
But he is long gone,
And Iím left alone,
To remember the heaven I found in his eyes.

For that sun turns to red,
Now my one love is dead,
Leaving alone one who never can die,
That man turned to stone,
Then nought but dry bone,
Iíve only the memories of those gentle blue eyes.

In my search for the truth,
I drank the spirit of youth,
And I live for as long as time lasts,
The one love I have known,
With centuries has flown,
And all love is part of the past.

Copyright 1984, S Hartwell

There is a castle atop a hill,
Where the nobles drank their fill,
Where the vanquished blood did spill
In days of yore.
Once the bards their epics sang,
Galleries to minstrel music rang,
Tapestries from the walls did hang,
Beside trophies of war.

But age beat down the towers tall,
And pierced the proudly armoured wall,
A greater warlord claimed it all,
King evermore.
For time destroyed what foes could not,
Gone - another Camelot,
The Arthur and Sir Lancelot,
Long gone before.

Its knights and ladies; all are dead,
Its poems from all memories fled,
Only the ravens wheel overhead,
Just as before.
Once in those ruins on the hill,
Proud knights and ladies drank their fill,
Once the vanquished blood did spill,
In days of lore.

Copyright 1983, S Hartwell

Grant me immortality, but not to my flesh and bone,
For they corrupt with nature - let me live on in stone.
Carve me out of granite - in rock let my form be hewn,
Make me, then, a statue - to ills and age immune.

Ah but nature shapes the rocks; by nature are they worn,
Down into dust is stone reduced: dust will not bear your form.

Then make me into legend, to cheat the flow of time,
Let me be immortalised in legend, song and rhyme,
Then when my shape is dead and Iím long gone,
In memories will my fame live on.

But even songs and tales will die in time,
Thereís no immortality in rhyme.

If stone erodes and language dies,
My memory with time will fly,
My deeds be forgotten, my empires fall,
Iíll steal softly away leaving no trace at all.

Copyright 1981, S Hartwell

Years fold back upon years,
Millennia upon aching millennia,
Time without meaning,
For everything,
Hopes, fears, wars, peace,
Have been seen repeated over and over,
Fading, dying and being reborn,
Blossoming only to wither,

A weariness sets in,
An aching tiredness of life,
A hopeless, timeless ache,
Immortal pain as the years pass into a dullness,
A colourless space of time,
There comes a slow crawling numbness,
A wish to lie down and sleep forever,
But in the flurry of time you need no sleep,
And there is no awakening from a living nightmare.

Time passes unseen,
For all time rolls into one,
Days accumulating into centuries,
Time into eternity,
Measuring out each dragging moment of your immortality,
Weighing heavily on your immortal soul,
Time forever.

Copyright 1983, S Hartwell

The sands of our kingdom stain crimson with gore,
Of valour the poets all sing.
Returning in triumph with the spoils of war,
Proud trophies our warriors bring.

Now the wars have all ended; the trophies decayed,
Proud empires have turned back to sand,
Returned to the earth are our warriors so brave,
Emptiness fills all the land.

Copyright 1981, S Hartwell

Clone - do not complain, for all your problems,
(Caused by the current trends towards individuality)
Are solved by uniformity -
Your happiness ensured by abnormal normality.

Try not to fight your blissful anonimity,
You chose between our faceless production line and the next,
You may struggle but one day, one year
You will see someone else fighting to retain identity
And laugh at the freak.

Copyright 1989, Sarah Hartwell

I am the reaper who brings in the harvest,
I am the wheat, I bear grains of gold corn,
I am the ear that is bursting with goodness,
I am the seed that was sown in the ground.

I am the sickle that cuts through the corn stalks,
I am the beater, I sift chaff with my flails,
I am the mill that grinds flour from the good grain,
I am the wind that drives the old mill sails.

I too am a reaper who brings in the harvest,
My harvest is man and I cut them down,
I hold the sickle that cuts them in their prime,
Leaves them to lie in their blood on the ground.

I am the face that you see in the window,
Mine is the voice that you hear in the wind,
I am the shadow that flees from your keen sight,
Whenever you feel my presence behind.

Copyright 1976, Sarah Hartwell

Here I am,
Watching and waiting,
For whatever may come,
For rivers to run dry,
For the sun to burn out.
Waiting for time -
To be part and yet not part of it,
To see, to live, to BE,
To be in and around and apart from it,
Separate, but inseperable;
I aspire to immortality.

Why do you wait?
Surely you know time waits for no-one,
Forget your love, your love has gone
And is useless to your purpose.
Time slips past, carrying us with it,
Debris on its endless river.
Forget your love and live your span,
Your long, timeless span,
Far beyond that of mortal man.
Do not let the ghosts of the past,
Persist into the present
Or the future.
Speak not of "before" and "good times",
Time has come to banish such ghosts.

Copyright 1989, Sarah Hartwell

A chill wind tears my soul in two,
My mind flies with the breeze,
My consciousness becomes more diffuse,
My frail existence f1ees

On solar winds my freed spirit flies,
Through the cosmos spread thin and far,
Fraying, decaying, upon lunar tides,
Ever more thin in a cradle of stars.

Copyright 1981, Sarah Hartwell

Time's horseman gallops headlong down the road of life,
But life is dead.
The horseman gallops on in loneliness,
In utter desolation,
Into dark nothing, just drumming hoofbeats,
In the silence.

Time's horseman urges on his unfaltering steed,
Through the silence,
Through death itself in steady tireless beat,
Measuring time,
Denying non-existence with the jingle of a harness,
In the deathly hush,
In hope he gallops on.

Copyright 1980, Sheila Smith

Advancing age,
Stiffening joints,
A weary frame,
A tired heart,
A spirit waiting
To depart.
The freedom comes,
The spirit soars,
No longer held
Behind locked doors,
Those left behind
Will feel the pain,
Those gone before
Will rise again.

Copyright 1980, Sarah Hartwell

The ageing process seems so slow,
As day by day we older grow,
Another wrinkle soon appears
To make a tally of our years, Maybe hoping for the day
When an active spirit steals away,
From a tired useless frame -
Tired, lonely, fragile, lame.
The pain is left for those who love us,
Who always speak of "those above us".

Copyright 1980, Sarah Hartwell

This body has grown feeble,
A home become a cage,
Confined to inactivity,
To wither and to age.

Copyright 1989, Sarah Hartwell

Death is the discarding of an outgrown suit;
The evaporation of sweet oil from a worn out flask,
A pinioned spirit is given wings,
A cage-bound bird is freed - and sings.
And all I ask is dignity
So I can let my soul fly free.

Copyright 1989, Sarah Hartwell

If there was something I could say
To make the hurting go away
I would say it.
If there was something I could do
To bring a loved one back to you
I would do it.



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