Thursday, March 1, 2018




The Cycle of life
is a mere span,
that is allocated to
to mortal man.
From a tiny infant
to the teenage form,
a responsible adult
is finally born.
All have their own
entrances and exits,
as the good bard says.
To use to our advantages,
In many diverse ways, it has
been so, since time began.
The universe holds the answers
to the fate of the eternal man.


The midnight sky was
spread like a field of stars,
lying on the edge of my mind.
and our favorite song played
silently, as you left me behind.
You slipped away quietly
from this earthly fold.
Went home to the ancestors
in their house of gold.
As the poets say.

When the dawn broke
I fought of sleep to watch
the clouds, like flocks of
sheep, amble leisurely on
the azure blue sky above.
And I thought of our love and
how you are now free from pain.
Then I heard your voice resonate and
my spirit responded to your refrain, as
you told me softly, I would find love again...


The emerald green grass
felt wet beneath her tired feet.
The trees bent forwards
as if to weep.
The sky glowed red as
the Sun set low.
The floodgates opened
and her tears did flow.

Her soul cried out
for solace, for peace.
An end to the ceaseless
rhythmic beat of sorrow,
Which coursed thorough
her mind, since the
Terrible news of her
beloved Hugh's death.

A tiny robin came into view
chirping so sweetly she
Hardly knew she no longer cried.
she listened in wonder as he sang
His lullaby. Mary felt a sense
of relief, and the deep sorrow
Being released as she watched
Hugh's soul soar high.


Last night I dreamt I was back again
across the Irish sea, and all the folks
I knew in bygone days, were there to
meet with me.
The sights, the sounds of other days
the words of love then spoken,
caressed my Soul and made me bold
for liberties I'd taken
I rambled with my true love, back
up the lovely mountain trail.
While he whispered sweet nothings
that with me still prevail.
The purple mist was on the Mournes
these mountains I adore,
They rose to dominate the skyline
as back to London I was borne.


LIZ RAGOUT: Liz was born during WW2 in 1942 in Northern Ireland, as a teenager she contracted meningitis which damaged her ears and left her hard of hearing. Nevertheless, she worked in London for almost 50 years, in adult social services. Liz took up writing when she retired and is a published poet. She is a widow witch three grown up children one granddaughter and two great grandchildren. Liz lists some of her hobbies as psychology, gardening, music and literature. She likes travel and enjoys living in leafy green north London.

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