The Sound of Falling Snow

By John Ryan

This is a collection of poems created at odd moments, day and night. This is the seventh in a series that began a number of years ago when John was savagely raped in the workplace. The book means so much to John. There is a constant sense of pure delight and fascination with words in this. John here distils his own idiosyncratic sense of the word and the world he finds himself in.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546292609

Book preview

© 2018 John Ryan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/04/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9261-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9262-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9260-9 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Mental Illness amongst Friends

Roses Bloom in June

My Polish Poets

Drama Deep Within

A Loving Home

As I Got Older

I Go to Church

The Sound of Falling Snow

Roma’s Legacy

My Many, Many Books

A Slow, Slow Walk

A Springtime Walk

Rest at Last

Christmas Time

My Irish Soul

A New Poem

Winter

My Coffee Shop

An Open Fire

Robert Frost

On a Summer’s Day in June

Full Moon

My Legacy

My Sister’s Grave

I Want to Love

Pondering

The Hawthorn Bush

The Sound of Falling Snow (3)

Robert Frost (2)

Inspiration

Life So Cruel

A Troubled Spirit

Departed Souls

The Naked Tree

White Sheet

My Prayer

Frost

My Active Mind

To a Robin Redbreast

Death Wish

The Squirrel

The Sound of Falling Snow (4)

A Poem Being Born

Early Morning Light

Poets Unite

An Old Man’s Beady Eye

I Long for Africa

My Loving Dog

Life in the Soul

Visiting Family in Pretoria

Busy Writing All the Time

The Bare, Bare Trees

The Mountain Roads

Cemetery on November First

Write, Write, Write

What Poets Say

An Old Man Died

My Postman

Spring at Last

My Son Revisits Me

The National Gallery

Humbug the Cat

Composing

My Empty Page

I Am a Loner

Snow Flurries

Inner Peace

I Am Devoted

Advent

Monkish Chants

Three Fifteen

Happy Through the Night

The Gods I Place on Notice

Mesopotamia

That Day in Old Saigon

I Take the Infant in My Hands

November Gales

Tashkent

I Feel for All the Lonely Now

My Triplet Sister Anne

The Sound of Falling Snow (2)

Six a.m.

Poets from Across the World

Ten Million Dewdrops

My Heart Is Upbeat

An Irish Cemetery

Like a Trappist Monk

Making Poems

I’m Committed

A Mild Winter’s Day

Shimmering Shafts of Sunlight

Raindrops

The Lonely Folk

Wild, Wild Winter’s Night

A Listless Morn

Retired at Last

Arcadia

One Day at Work

In the Springtime Park

Daffodils and Snowdrops

A Poem

At My Sunday Church

I Get No Pleasure

My Geraniums

Deep Inside My Being

Enough!

Oftentimes

The Gypsy Melodies

I Want to Tell a Story

My Triplet Sister’s Grave

Mental Illness amongst Friends

      A word of wisdom to the wise concerning

      Mental states amongst the many folk I met

      As the moon shone on corridors in Bedlam’s

      Frozen wastes.

      These poor souls were frozen out from humankind’s

      Kinder ways. We formed unsteady bonds, broken

      When we left for good—or so we thought back then.

      Incarcerated yet again in months, newer bonds were

      Formed, endless cycles of enduring faith.

      Mental illness is still a scourge, not least to those

      Who’re left behind to worry and to fret. I’ll ne’er

      Erase the memories of Bedlam’s putrid ways. I simply

      Can’t comply with dictates from on high this hour. ‘Get

      A grip,’ they say, but little do they know.

      A constant state of torpor overcame these new-found

      Friends. But they suffered all alone through the endless

      Nights. The days were just the same. My soul went out

      To them. I still recall the many talks we had. Today I

      Wonder where they are, if they are safe from ill, and

      Ill-informed comment amongst the literati of the world.

      Bedlam must disintegrate; it serves no purpose but to

      Cause the pain unique to friends of mine who’re close

      To me. Bedlam I did curse back then. Today I curse it yet

      Again. ‘It serves no good,’ I say. ‘Let them free,’ I plead.

Roses Bloom in June

      In my Garden of Delights, the roses bloom in June.

      I sit and hear the sap and watch them gain more

      Strength as days wear on in languid form, delightful

      To the eye.

      Geraniums are jealous, I do sometimes think.

      Combined, they form the perfect scene in my secret

      Garden space. No life without a garden, in my crazy

      View.

      But my roses lead the way, colours, hues eternal deep

      Inside this poorly head of mine. They are my solace in

      Old age. A heavy scent exuding now, I sniff and sniff.

      Again, I can’t resist this hour as summer nears its peak.

      A rose forever in my hand, rose fever in my heart.

      Better this year than the last, perfection now for me.

      Sipping slowly, I doze off, contemplating roses grand.

      My special time when roses grow, days dawdling in

      The dizzy scent, my tablet spewing out my poems grand

      And plentiful.

      June and roses made for fun and happy thoughts of glee.

      Summertime and roses time, time to spend composing

      Verses varied that may just last.

      The roses need some water now, but not until the sun

      Is spent. Evening coolness just in time. I’m so arthritic

      I can’t manage it alone. The splashing water sound is

      Heaven’s gift to me. Tomorrow’s roses all the more exotic,

      Of this I’m sure.

My Polish Poets

    Szymborska, Milosz, and all the rest are so, so close to me

    This day. We do converse and set the tone for all my

    Work. Check them out, I urge you all, there’s much to

    Gain.

    I cried the day Szymborska died. Remembered all

    She said. Milosz came to me one day; we’ve been

    Good friends ever since.

    Zbigniew Herbert, Polish poet, has credentials

    That appeal to me. These three poets keep me sane

    In my old age alone. I peruse them in my coffee shop

    Early morning and at night.

    Others are so close to me this hour, reading on my

    Tablet happily. I fell in love with Polish ways forty

    Years ago. Poland has been good to me. Especially the poets.

    Chopin too, of course.

    Long may we share this mutual love. Forever and a day.

    A hundred years and more.

Drama Deep Within

        As I venture out to face the world, there’s stirring.

        Deep inside depression—awful, bad. My rape those

        Years ago is just like yesterday.

        There’s drama in my soul this hour, but outwardly,

        I’m looking fine. I hate such moments that can

        Cause such pain. Rapists cause such damage is

        All I understand just now.

        I’m unstable in my mind; no words I have at all.

        I’ve dried up, and hands are shaking