Eye of She

The eye of she that looks at me,
with lips that never smile.
From her disdain I’m never free,
not even for a while.

The work I do is never right,
I fail to meet her mark.
Her critique sets my endless fight,
To hear one kind remark.

Ideals so far beyond my reach,
of distant goals I dream.
The words that echo poet’s speech,
are cursed by scornful scream.

Yet satire’s bane shall not defeat,
my pen will write my plea,
this critique’s hex will not retreat,
whilst eye of she is me.
 

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Dare to Dream

She left me standing here without a chance,
alone, no light to see within this place.
Yet still, I dream beyond this night's disgrace,
no words of love to guide my heart's romance.

I long to hear her voice caress my ears;
she is the blood that surges through my veins;
my love complete, in faith and trust remains,
to feel her touch embrace my lonely tears.

If dreams could bring my Lady from her flight,
to set me free from fear and torment's rage,
and share her wisdom in unearthly sage,
inside my heart she dwells in purest light.

Towards that hour I toil and dare to dream,
of days beyond this place in Lileth's beam.


© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Archeological Walk on the Beach

They mark the ascent of Man
foot steps under Formby sands
hidden prehistoric paths
where ancestors walked
in fleeting glimpses of ancient time. 


© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Journey to Art

They say she was born with it,
as colours fit on the boards.
The practice of many years,
hiding tears, with no rewards.

So many leave empty quills,
to pay the bills - forget art.
And those brave few who remain
face disdain, ’til they depart.

Brushes and pens leave their tracks
chalk and wax, subtle effects.
All these skills need to be learned,
talent earned, still with defects.

Picture that hangs on the wall,
she gave her all to create.
Glory at last she can claim,
speak her name in art’s debate.

Behind each success hides years,
endless fears, no peace of mind.
Her legacy is her art,
from the heart, she left behind.
 

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Iambic Meter Assignment

The rhyme is in iambic feet,
It’s left my pen alone in defeat.
As words that come and go today
I’m practising to write this way
Then write some more to ease my pain
Then edit it and write again
The guys I read from long ago
The pulse of words, some fast, some slow,
Thus poems flow with rhythmic beat
With rhymes that form iambic feet


I sit with pen in hand, but have no ink
No time or space to dream as pictures sink
Beyond the art my eyes no longer see
As words entwine in random form for me
Arrange in lines to build a structured verse
Poetic joys I often find a curse
But words like rivers have to ebb and flow
And dance in thoughts and dreams with cosmic glow
A new art form to learn as I turn grey
The Painting Poet’s here to write her way

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Ernie the Other Half a Bee

Half of me, co-incidentally,
As has been said, Eric be,
This half of bee must surely be,
acutely, the half bee that is me.

They forgot me, can you not see,
That Eric Bee was half of me,
They said this Bee was not a bee
And blamed it on an injury!

Sing it...

ABCDEFG
Ernie the half a bee
One, two, three... la dee dee
Ernie the half a bee

It's that cursed semi-bee
No chance he recalls me
As he dozes upon your knee
Damn that Eric, the half-a-bee

Ho, ho, ho, and he he he
Ernie the half a bee
Twiddly dum, fiddler's three
Ernie the half a bee

I loved the hive, 'til he broke free
Split in two, bi-sexually
That summer's day when he loved me
Wholly carnally.

He loved me carnally
I was his lady bee
The End

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Crimson Clouds

He stands alone in Europe’s field
As clouds of poppies summon dreams.
The days of war a human shield,
He stands alone in Europe’s field.
Alone in trenches men concealed,
So few remain who knew war’s schemes,
He stands alone in Europe’s field
As clouds of poppies summon dreams.
The distant cannons never yield
He stands alone in Europe’s field.
No peace can cure wounds never healed
No answers to his nightly screams.
He stands alone in Europe’s field
As clouds of poppies summon dreams.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.