BRIGHTON... (My new poem inspired by Sarah Evans' artwork...)

 Brighton…

(Inspired by Sarah Evans’ artwork…)

Disfigured metal lengths, worn

And rent from a once solid structure

Claw from the dull ocean,

Like an intrepid crab’s legs approaching the shore,

Its skeletal frame foreboding and surreal…

The folly remains, weeping tearful scorn

For its own rued life-blood and tincture 

Of laughter, music, conversation and emotion,

Footsteps, scoldings, screams and the furore

Of amusements, once the attraction with 

boisterous appeal…

A glum curtain of storm and sea around the torn

  Pier, adds to the crude rusting and fracture,

Weathering the monstrosity further into erosion, 

As a sodden sandy beach retreats from what is in store

From the threat posed by the serpent of mangled steel… 

Pete Ray…

26th December 2025…

Love this painting, partly because I saw the mangled and damaged pier in 2007 and instead of looking away from it, I was drawn in by its charm and took a couple of photos with a very basic camera… 

ACROSS JERSEY MARINE BEACH... (My new poem inspired by Sarah Evans' paining, Glamorgan, Wales...)

 Across Jersey Marine Beach…

(Inspired by Sarah Evans’ painting of Glamorgan, Wales…)

Rather wild weather is betrayed by the huffs and puffs of white

Smoke from two towers at the steelworks and a wayward scarf blowing

About the artist’s neck, as she keeps Alf close. And the might 

Of a sullen, colourless tide, unperturbed and yet irritable, continues flowing

Towards the shore…

Daubed like gloom, industry has become the seascape

For the artist and her dog, mere silhouettes regarding the silhouetted plant. 

And despite apparent freedom, the lurking buildings inhibit their escape

And command attention, their curious complexity bold and askance

Across the shore… 

Pete Ray…

25th December 2025…

The scene is a rare one but splendidly rendered by the acrylic touches of the artist, Sarah Evans.

(Not the American singer Sara Evans, but I Could Not Ask For More…)

CHRISTMAS EVE IN SLAITHWAITE, WITH A DISTRACTED DOG & A BAFFLED SHEEP... (My new poem for Christmas Day, inspired by Peter Brook's painting...)

 Christmas Eve In Slaithwaite, With A Distracted Dog & A Baffled Sheep…

(Inspired by Peter Brook’s painting…)

A reminder of Kirklees’ industrial past lies behind the row

Of terraced Slaithwaite homes, whilst the church is a reminder

Of the time of year, nestled beneath the snow-smothered moor.

A clear night displays vibrant stars and a slick crescent moon

Above darkened homes, their roofs with a layer of snow aglow.

The chimney sweep hauls his gear, leaves the dwellings and begins to wander

Past an interested dog and a red-marked, bemused sheep, both in awe

Of Santa trudging with gifts, towards homes with suspended coloured lights festooned… 

Pete Ray…

25th December 2025… 

It would be pleasant to think that the chimney sweep had cleaned and created chimney space for Santa…

Love the sheep’s face…

Slaithwaite is a town in the Colne Valley, near Huddersfield, West Yorkshire…  

SINISTER TOWER... (My poem inspired by Kirsty Elson's artwork...)

 Sinister Tower…

(Inspired by Kirsty Elson’s artwork…)

Snow slakes a tree, like a wrapped gift.

Church windows are daubed black, like death

Beneath a lemon meringue roof, extraneous.

Iced-cake cottage snuggles, incongruous,

A forgotten bicycle has been left leaning

Against its pink wall, the frame gleaming

White, dusted by a light sprinkle of snow,

Like the pillar-box and the wreath, inconspicuous

Upon the tower’s dark, forbidding door,

Where Yuletide has become depressingly adrift…

Yet the eye is drawn

To that portal worn

And the dial, circular,

Its hole intriguing, peculiar.

The platform’s stark pinnacle,

Its cross a reminder of a miracle

And, like guards at a crucifixion,

Harsh nails lurk in solemn valediction…

Pete Ray…

FRIGHTENED TO MOVE ON CHRISTMAS EVE... (My childhood experience...)

 Frightened To Move On Christmas Eve…

It was as if my lung 

Was being plucked

Like an acoustic guitar string

When every minute or distant sound

Invaded

And raided

My darkened, chilled room.

It was as if my heart

Was being beaten

Like a slow drum of war

As each muffled or indistinct undertone

Injected

And infected

My solitary, winter gloom.

It was as if my mind 

Was being tormented

Like an abandoned child’s,

For every excruciatingly drawn-out moment

Frustrated

And dictated

My placid, fearful isolation.

It was as if my soul

Was being mesmerised

Like a hypnotised patient’s,

For each second hung deceptively

Timeless

And helpless

As my timid, shrinking desperation…

Pete Ray…

I was terrified to move or make a sound, in case my father admonished me in his tone of loud anger, which frightened me so much. 

I could not get to sleep because Santa was due. 

Even when I realised that my parents deposited my gifts at the bottom of my bed, the fear still 

returned…

SOLACE IN THE TRENCH... (My poem about the sound of singing in WW1 trenches on Christmas Eve 1914...)

 Solace In The Trench…

There was a lull.

A truce. An acceptance

As the filthy sky

Hovered, black and sullen

Leering over his trench.

And silence.

And a sense

That the God he had been urged

To fear,

Was for him no longer near

For his faith had been purged,

And his chest wept.

Yet the tears

Failed to wrench 

From eyes smarting and dull…

There was a melody.

A hymn. An incongruence

As the smoky air

Lurked like a maladie,

Peering over his trench.

And innocence.

And a sense

Of peace was being merged

 With fear

Sung by the enemy near.

And his faith, severely purged,

Into his chest crept.

And his tears

Fell on the stench

Of battle, such a sweet tragedy…

And Stille Nacht haunted

No Man’s Land

And all was calm

Although not bright.

And then more voices, undaunted,

Rose, as infantrymen began to stand,

The beauty a balm,

The battle a blight… 

Pete Ray…

World War 1, Christmas Eve 1914.

I would like to think that this might have been felt by at least one soldier, German, or English…

THE TRUCE MEMORIAL, NATIONAL MEMORIAL ARBORETUM, ALREWAS...

MY MATERNAL GRANDFATHER ALBERT HEDGES, SEATED ON A CHAIR, CENTRALLY...

MY PATERNAL GRANDFATHER, WILLIAM RAY, WHO WAS POSTED TO THE AREA WHERE THE 'TRUCE' TOOK PLACE...