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Hi, welcome to the humble web page of Jerry Pike, but, from little acorns, who knows, maybe bigger acorns. As a way of letting my poetry fly free to the universe, this page is a great idea, so here goes....
I suppose as a starter to something like this, I should let people know a little about me.
My name is Jerry, just turned 50, and what a joy it is to be older (lies) , I speak fluent English, which has been my specialist subject most of my life, apart from a brief sojourn into Swahili (more lies). I have two children, a boy of  11 and a girl of 16, and as a parent I have to say that I adore them, (they are watching me type this).
My interests are, hold your breath, Music, most types except comb and paper and the spoons, although i'm quite into smootn jazz, which has little to do with real jazz, but hey, who cares.lol. I like scribbling words on paper, which I think comes from my ability to hold a pen. I love cars, especially old English sports cars, and I own a1967 Austin-Healey 3000, a childhood dream, which took me 4 years to restore, and it scares hell out of people, so it was worth it.lol.
I love the coast, any beach, any weather...it's a place to get lost, especially without a map.I also like good beer, good wine and good people, though not always in that order.I'm interested in psychology, positive thinking, photography, gardening, playing the piano/bass and ...oh who knows , I'm into loads of stuff.ok enough.oh and surfing.lol
Hope the poems are well received, If you want to comment, please feel free..thanks.Jerry
Email me.
TempusAtras@aol.co.uk
A Pocket Full Of Dreams

It was shivering ice, frozen feet, didn’t care,
he was laughing at life, with a rose coloured stare,
shoulders back, he was happy, he trod up the street,
knowing there in the distance, his future he’d meet.

His pocket felt full, on this frosty March morn,
spreading fingers, held tight, to the papers, so warm,
he smiled through his breath, as it mixed with the cold,
in his heart summer dwelled, in his hand, purest gold.

As he walked, springy stepped, he could feel every crease,
with each fold, he was brushing, his lift would increase,
in his mind, he was living a dream far away,
and he’d promised himself, he would live it one day.

Well this dawn it was dancing quite merrily ‘long,
then he pulled out the promises, vibrant as song,
slowed his walking, to open each promise he’d bought,
he had hundreds of sheets, and he sang at the thought.

Every finger unfurled them, each promising note,
but the pages showed nothing, where much had been wrote,
he unpacked every item, and all remained blank,
all the promises empty, with each his heart sank.

In the bin went the promises, made up of nout,
as he stumbled and turned, a small tear was let out,
then he knew that reality beckoned his way,
on the day empty promises blew him away.

3 3 2003
A Driftwood Haze

Those distant church tympanic chimes,
for whom they toll?
Not thee nor I,
this Sabbath summons breaking skies,
cram full of flitting cumuli.

A silent warmth, as only sun,
whose slender trickle,
creeps the breeze,
I close my eyes, through orange lids,
I see you there, at peace, at ease.

Your smile is that of childish fun,
a glow of love around you sits,
hands hold
like shelterers from storm,
no rains too harsh through lightning spits.

I recreate, inside my head,
your kind emotions, as we stroll,
life’s beach, a marvel,
in our dream,
repeating walks, a mutual goal.

Our arms around, like armour plate,
protecting us, from worldly cares,
secluded, loving,
step by step,
oblivious, just kiss filled stares.

Inhale concocted scents of us,
mixed sweetly with those gullish cries,
our avenue
a  driftwood haze,
our path, a bed of sanded sighs.

 8 9 2002
 Alone with you

Though soft, I’m cold as winters’ whim,
No shadows here, no breeze to skim.

I feel unloved as warmth that made,
and  shaped my present form, doth fade.

So near to you, so far away…..
I hear your echoes everyday.

Yet all about is mirth and sound,
I hear but I can’t see around.

So where the noises start and end,
I have no clue, I’m just a friend.

Without a touch, I am not real!
You cannot tell the way I feel.

Emotions cannot course my veins,
I’m motionless, No-ones to blame.

Please heal the cracks as they appear,
Just gentle touch will help them clear.

Then put me back, and tuck me in,
I am that heart that beats within.


2001
Coming soon

Burnished vacuums scan the clock
Blistered holes unfilled by light
Scary noises speak of nought
Bedevilling their own delight

Cooled air through a hot glass view
Shudders breath-like on its path
Contemplating where to go
It rises in a noonday bath

Insect flitter tells a tale
Summers sanctions coming soon
Yellow petals splashing mass
Summoning a middle June

Still and blue and soft and clear
Sprays its peace down like a flood
To jettison a winters scream
And pull a season into bud


18 3 2003
Ascension

And up along the way he played,
in cavalcades of moonlight beams,
each glowing embers neon burn,
a tapestry of littered dreams.

Through shooting stars imagined tails,
all dusting him for pastures new,
in wonderment, a gawp, on high,
he readied, certain of his due.

Spray spangled flecks, aurora trails,
slip past, fragmented days of yore,
he lived his time the best he could,
each flashing scenes receding shore.

In Gabriel’s strong saving arms,
he reaches heavens golden door,
a final glimpse back on his life,
he’ll smile at loved ones ever more.


30 9 2002

 

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