A birth is a difficult thing By Robert Fullarton Copyright 2017

A birth is a difficult thing

By Robert Fullarton Copyright 2017

A birth is a difficult thing

But not a burden

As every life

be it good or bad

passed through the thinnest

Shaft of light

I looked at the baby

Struggling to breathe

And wondered long

And hard about its pain,

My sense of reason

Behind the feeling

Connected my mind

To the great truth beyond

From the worm unto

The whale,

The star unto the supernova

The baby was born

And another story began its

Painful path once more

For this is the way of the world

Until these painful contractions

Give way unto a new creation

ad infinitum, ab aeterno, for all time

From the Fields came forth.. By Robert Fullarton

From the Fields came forth..

By Robert Fullarton

Copyright 2017

I surveyed the darkness

At the edges of the fields

And waited for the fierce

Frosts to carpet the sleeping earth

I saw darkness within myself

Appearing like a vision

As I journeyed through

Unto the panorama

That revealed a mystery

Unbeknown to me before

There is beauty and there is tragedy

A world of tears

Like porcelain cups

Or lives thrown against the cliffs

This is winter

I told myself

And youth was spring

From which another man inhabited

The roots of furtive thought

And rich living in which I stole the sun

From the point of no return

The boy was hardened

Like clay into the baking oven

Tested by the rough winds

Of the world

Away from this isle of the dead

By the weeping willows

I ask myself these questions

“what is destiny and what is fate,

What part do I play in the great

Wrestle against the colossus?

How can I live? How can I dream?

When my body has been crushed?

I am one of those men who disbelieve

And fail to take the golden

Opportunity afforded

And delivered as a miracle from God.”

I’ve seen these dreams

Like re-runs,

They speak as voices

From the other side

Over the man made wall,

The man made ignorance

That scoffs in the face of authority,

The outstretched arm

And heart calls through

A man made clamour

Just to reach you

Where you are

Into the corners of a darkened winter

Where the light does not dwell

I aspire to think

“of day being resurrected

And man rising henceforth like flowers

Where once the earth and bones

Were dead, henceforth

The man shall dwell in the court

Of the heavenly gardener

And all the earth is alive again

And man’s song is most beautiful

Once more, with no melancholy

But joy, not so subtle

But so powerful, once more!”

What Land is this By Robert Fullarton

What Land is this

By Robert Fullarton

Copyright Robert Fullarton 2017

What land is this?

A foreign world

I beckon to,

To which I knew so long ago

I do not recognise

this ruin

This plastic, stretched mould

Of rot and brutality

Under your noses

You hounds of liberty

Lose all for a paltry

Fight like bold children

For the scraps of food

That fall to ground

Invisible actors

Unknown to burly strong men

Beyond pawns of the marching dead

Beyond the blood flow of cash

And billionaire dynasties

Are the monster tricksters

Of ancient evil

Still at work behind the differing systems

Of man’s cruelty in mass ignorance

After the earth was cracked

And smashed to dust

By the millionth cataclysm

You people of the marching dead

Lost heart, and sank to accept

The belittlement of life and love

When the believing heart had dimmed

And the arms of mercy were withdrawn

What land is this?

Having ceased to be my home

My head and heart is in another world

Forgive me so

For I cannot help but dream

As the endeavour of the weary man

Rises with a leaden weight

From heavy waters

But with high aspirations to above

I too have dreamt these dreams.

Amen

The Glens by Robert Fullarton- Copyright 2007

The Glens
by Robert Fullarton
-one of my first poems

On the foot of Mt. Derrybawn
on the silver lake I saw a bird so pleasant
and so tame
by its shores there lives a fawn
its legs so bandy and so lame

In the soul of the Gaelic woods
I gazed upon St. Kevin sleeping
Beside the lush vision of the flower buds
I thought I heard a child weeping

The golden sun shed its light
marvelling as amber on herons backs
in dusks final cry before the night
I saw the solemn miners carrying home their heavy sacks

While I took a fleeting glance
of the maiden glen
I fell forward into sleeping trance
while thinking of St.Kevin's glen

Beyond the door.... By Robert Fullarton Copyright 2017

Beyond the door....

By Robert Fullarton

Copyright 2017

Detached man

-From the people

All disjointed

-From the society ripped apart

From the bindings

Of the fluttering soul

Croaking out

Communities splinter

Into self sought individuals

Self seeking makers

Of the images

of the cardboard cut utopias

Days in cafes babbling

Nights in pubs bleating

to the sore

and sorry soul

knowing not

but wanting to consume

from murky troughs

of eternal waste suspended

from nightly rambles

and daily walks

through the societal mists

of man made complications

A day is like a page

Of life

A life is a fluorescent judgment

In the dark hinterlands

Of the human heart

In a moment a random man

Searches for the luminescent God

From the luminescent heart

From the deeply desiring soul

Awoken from the slumber

A confession of the lips

The harbouring

And grasping

Of the beloved

In the landscapes

Of time and space

And all that lies beyond the door

Desiring to be in his arms

Cradled and grown

Out of the good and healthy soil

To have a good and mighty soul

I have ploughed through these blizzards

These days of know not

And know what

These devices of the world

To the hungry receptive

Minds of the generations

The squeezing of all promises

The testing of all hearts

Comes at the boiling over

Of the nations on the heads

Of the tied and bound scapegoat

They cry for meaning

Like ragged souls in the grimy streets

In the lofty palaces of knowledge

In the giving and taking of alms

In the making of money

And the mounds of pleasure

But live as sleep walkers

Through the pageantry of the night

Each dame and gent partakes

And plays a part

But the act is wearing out

And the game has grown in tedium

In a moment a random man

Searches for the luminescent God

From the luminescent heart

From the deeply desiring soul

Awoken from the slumber

A confession of the lips

The harbouring

And grasping

Of the beloved

In the landscapes

Of time and space

And all that lies beyond the door

A God with hands and feet

Arms stretched outward

Without a sound

For whom to meet

On the ragged road homeward

bound

Farewell, Goodbye -By Robert Fullarton copyright 2017

Farewell, Goodbye
-By Robert Fullarton copyright 2017

Breakfast in the Hofburg
Down the haunts of Klimt
And cafe soirée moments
Lunch under the lime trees
And the Charlottenburg’s
Prestige
here one moment
On the celluloid
Gone into the pits
Of the Verdun

Dreaming of those citron
yellow white nights
Magnolia and egg shell green
Fantasies
Books and symphonies
Imperial orchestras
Spectres and classes
Come and gone
The world of Tolstoy
And Rachmaninoff
The émigrés
Migration to Gog and Magog

Coffee was taken in the final hour
Bellow the Topkapí
By the Bosphorus
In the final hour of the night

A beast released from the earth
And a third of the world turned to blood
A beast released from the sea
And a third of the earth was covered in hail
Fire made of steel
But the whole of the earth was burning
And the memory set ablaze
The columns of those poignant
Moments are buried long since
Beside the monarchs

The Strawberry Beds -by Robert Fullarton 2017 Copyright

The Strawberry Beds

-by Robert Fullarton 2017 Copyright

I have this image

from my youth

a distant memory

from the fog

Where the Green hills fold

into the wandering water

where Green hues, pastoral plains

unearth a work by Constable

of the English Summer of antiquity

Below the Bridge

there was a vista

where I never went

and will never go

But my mind is searching

and my heart is wanting

for a home unspoilt,

imperishable, upon a solid rock

The tumble down cottages,

these many mansions

upon the untroubled waters

where men live out their

dreams upon an unfolding canvass

The Pilgrim

beholds heaven's centre

but is obscured at the gates

to the lower circles

where green ethereal dreams

have been obscured

with concrete prisons

and the pearly rivers

are going brown

At my desk I begin to frown

to think it has been confiscated

spoiled and lost

but my determined heart

seeks with a determined will

the reservation of this past

to make it cast and make it last

for ever more.

and ever and ever

in the dye that's cast

in these determined dreams

for the future