Poems by Ian Croft

Oceans                          .............           2

Nell                               .............           3

The hollow places         .............           4

Whale-girl                     .............           5

Cry for the lost years     .............           6

The moth                       .............           7

Dreams                          .............           8

Oceans

I remember the people

who have wept tears of pain.

The beating of waves

on the oceans of sadness,

- sweeping over the world

- waves of tears washing on the shores of consciousness

why did it start?

how can it end?

Hands reach out ...

imploring,

beseeching.

Hope dies, they draw back ......  resigned ......  defeated

The wind sings its sad song of pain.

The trees bow their branches to join the wind

in its cry of anguish.

The hills stand .....  silent  ........ watching  ........

brooding over the oceans of sadness.

Like that grain of sand

which though warmed by the sun

presses the other sand beneath....

so we

turn our face to the sun

and forget

that past of pain

those voices crying

those hands that reach

How can it end?

when did it start?

Before time,

sadness brooded.

After time .........

echoes of  pain will whisper.

© Ian Croft May 1995

Nell

tree    .........  wind .........

be thou my protector, oh my lord

Things small when seen small

grow smaller when big

things big when seen small

grow bigger as I grow big

fears that were small then.... but  so big to me

have grown bigger than me ..... now that I am big

places that hid me then

won’t hide me now

the fear has grown so big

it is inside the place I hide

be thou my protector, oh my lord

tree ...........wind  .........

Our horizons are so vast

we can see from the past to the unborn yet to come

yet we hide ourselves within invisible walls

shelter from the fear .... the fear that grows faster than we

so that our wall is never high enough

Quick ...

build another wall!

Don’t let anyone touch me ...

or see the person that is me.

© Ian Croft July 1995

The hollow places

The hollow places of my heart

cry out to you.

Dreams of what could have been ...

yet will never be.

Endless awareness of decisions gone wrong ....

they can’t be undone.

What rules this lonely place?

Or is it unruly ... and unruled?

Who can know what path to tread

before the step is taken?

Yet how can the path be trod

without the step be taken?

Foolish mind,  ever leading with emotion ...

ever looking through feeling-tinted eyes.

© Ian Croft Sept 96

The Whale-girl

Wings spread

beautiful shape

glides into vision

Humbled by size and majesty

watch in awe

reach out....           reach out.......

Touch me

see me

do you know me?

do you share my wonder?

If we could speak .....

                 If we could speak .....

Spirit free she soars

as the whale glides

From ocean floor to sky above

all is hers

The whale is one with the ocean

yet breathes the air above

so she is one with the world I know

yet her spirit breathes

an air that I know is there

yet can never partake

Wonder

While mankind struggled and fought

his bitter hatreds poisoned the air

Yet the whales lived out their long lives

at peace with each other

At one with their world, they did not quarrel.

Through the centuries they lived in harmony

while man struggled and fought.

The whales watched the rise and fall of countless kingdoms .....

yet almost .. almost they faded from the face of our world

© Ian Croft June 95

Cry for the lost years

All time is three

and three is one

Past present and future

are with me always as one

but ever present as three

The past is our wisdom and experience

that guides us through the present and

leads us into the future

The mem’ries of the past have shaped

my past and have shaped my present

and will shape the time still to come

Part of the past is always present

but unwanted

It was not welcome or sought -

the space that it takes in my mind

was hacked .... and torn .....

stolen from my then present

to be the ever present thief of my future.

When present in the past the thieves stole the unborn future

Now they slowly creep through my mind

and mindlessly they steal again ...

my present time ripped blindly from my open hand

Damn you! ...  Damn you .....

You unthinking vandals of my life

have taken the present which might have been

and with callous cruelty you keep on stealing my present

and scrawl your obscene graffiti

onto the pages of my future

I cannot rewrite the pages which are wrote

I cannot reclaim a past which never happened

but I can accept the pain and learn .....

.... welcome the pain and build its bittersweet taste

into my present -

and use the lessons so painfully learned

to shape my future as I choose.

So cry for the lost years

Weep for them and grieve

but when the end is seen of all the tears ....

..... then welcome the time now

and welcome the time to come

© Ian Croft Jan ‘97

The Moth

Darkness in the cocoon

safety, warmth

living an existence of ordered regularity

shielded from the world outside

the cocoon is a wall of safety

within which the grub slowly grows

and then emerges

Safety stripped away

the walls are gone

and the moth takes flight

it glories in the freedom of knowing

that it is a creature of the light

of the air

and it soars and swoops

the moth feels the heights to which it can fly

and sees the breadth of perception

But the wind blows

and the moth feels the chill of the hostile air

Buffeted it remembers the warmth of the cocoon

and seeks that warmth anew.

Then it feels warmth

and turns toward the source

The warmth grows

and the moth knows that the cocoon

could never give a warmth like this.

Like a magnet the warmth attracts

and the moth draws ever closer

till the warmth becomes a consuming heat

and the moth finds that final rest.

© Ian Croft Dec 96

Dreams

The thought that you don’t share my dreams

is the only thought that keeps me sane...

The thought that we might both have dreamed the same dream

yet never spoken of it ....  that would drag my thoughts to madness.

 The solitary wanderer paces inside his fortress walls

listening to his own words

thinking his thoughts ...

thoughts of what others are thinking

Searching for any opening in the wall ....

seeking to find any hole

to block the opening

Yet hoping that someone will find their way in ...

some one with a gentle touch

some one with gentle understanding.

Those outside the walls

Don’t even know the wall is there.

The wall they see

they think is me

Yet I know the me that I feel

the me that is real

©  Ian Croft 4 June 1995