Four Poems by Patrick B. Osada

 

WARMING ( The Lighthouse)

 

Last night I had a dream that was disturbing —

dystopian nightmare, if the truth be told —

I was on the way back to my village,

along a road that I have always known.

 

I had been to visit at the lighthouse,

it was deserted, no-one was at home,

no warning light with the evening closing,

a storm was brewing, as I left for home.

 

The asphalt of the road was cracked and broken,

an algae’d surface with cracks full of weeds;

the stillness and the silence was surprising,

I was alone, no other traveller seen.

 

Everything around me looked familiar —

yet, at the same time, many things had changed :

the landscape seemed to turn from green to sepia —

meadows and grassland now had a golden tinge.

 

No horses in their pastures and no cattle,

while from the hillside sheep had disappeared;

there were no signs of rabbits on the common —

where are the deer and fox that once roamed here?

 

The new estate of houses seemed deserted,

a sudden wind blew through it with a moan;

the grand sign at the entrance was graffitied :

“Abandon hope, our future isn’t here!”

 

Arriving home, the cottage was forsaken —

nothing to indicate where family’d gone;

no sign of friendly cat or any people,

the garden just as empty and forlorn.

 

The pristine lawn is parched and turning yellow,

bird feeders empty – all the birds had flown,

a final rose was slowly dropping petals…

Then, I woke up – I hope the World will soon.

 

 

NOTHING

 

The debate, started by the ancient Greeks,

saw Parmenides claim “NOTHING can’t exist,”

Leucippus agreed but gave it a tweak;

 

“Next door to madness!” — Aristotle’s twist.

The debate endures to the present day —

see Quantum Theory claims by physicists.

 

For the average man “nothing” means no pay,

nowhere to live and no food on your plate.

For the poor immigrant, there’s no leeway —

 

life reduced to NOTHING when you have no state.

And what of life, when everything must end?

Does essence exist beyond those pearly gates?

 

What if it’s a void, NOTHING round the bend?

Emptiness, blackness, a place without a friend…

 

A sonnet in tercets, Terza Rima

 

 

WARNING 

 

It was a sensational announcement,

gripping the media, causing panic —

yet some complained it had to be a hoax.

Instant fame for those archaeologists —

their Ethiopian discovery

becoming spectacular, world-wide news.

 

Unearthing another level of their site,

beneath objects three million years old,

they uncovered something unexpected.

Glossy, shiny as a hi-tech cellphone,

it lit up as soon as it was handled,

projecting holograms onto thin air,

 

first with symbols unrecognizable.

Then, in the warmth of trembling hands, it scrolled

through ancient languages they recognized —

but couldn’t read… Ancient Sumerian,

Hieroglyphics and Mycenaean Greek…

from Latin to Old Persian and Tamu.

 

Already shocked, the team’s next big surprise

was this final hologram... in English!

appearing as a Users’ Guide, headed “EARTH.”

All the controls have been calibrated

to fine tolerances, are now pre-set

incorporating solar specifics.

 

Earth has been programmed to run perfectly —

in harmony with Sun, Moon, wind and weather.

PLEASE NOTE: alteration to this balance

can quickly result in major changes.

Respect all creatures of air, land and sea,

Keep Earth green, revere both Fire and Ice.

 

 

MAGPIES

 

I dream of strange devils with cloven hooves

and others galloping in hobnail boots —

I wake to heavy footsteps on my roof.

 

I creep to the window, expect some brute,

instead of a monster it’s two magpies

in search of mischief, not long from their roost.

 

Launching themselves into the air, they fly

but are beaten by the bird-feeder’s swing —

thwarted...yet they won’t give in, they’ll still try

 

to find devilry whilst on the wing —

chuckling their way to a neighbour’s tree.

Disappearing, they’re off to do their thing

 

but I’m left bleary-eyed after their spree…

You say “I love these birds” — I disagree!                           

 

Made up of tercets, this sonnet is in a terza rima rhyme scheme.

Patrick B. Osada  is an editor and also writes reviews of poetry for magazines. He recently retired after ten years on SOUTH Poetry Magazine’s Management Team and as   the Magazine’s Reviews Editor.

His first collection, Close to the Edge was published in 1996 & won the prestigious ROSEMARY ARTHUR AWARD. He has published seven collections, From The Family Album was launched in October 2020.

Patrick’s work has been broadcast on national and local radio and widely published in magazines, anthologies and on the internet..