Tag: by Cleveland W. Gibson

Poetry Reading: After The Highway, by Cleveland W. Gibson

Performed by Carina Cojeen

Get to know the poet:

1) What is the theme of your poem?

ANSWER: The power of love in a dramatic setting.

2) What motivated you to write this poem?

ANSWER: I always wanted to know what might have happened next in the original poem. In the end I decided to write my poem in a ghostly, yet intriguing way with a new point of view.

3) How long have you been writing poetry?

ANSWER: About 14 years but from a very slow start.

4) If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would
that be?

ANSWER: The late Dr Douglas Baker because he impressed me with his attitude to living and all the medical work he did..

5) What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a
professional actor?

ANSWER: The invitation to submit and then when I saw the chance of having my poem read by an actor I was thrilled enough to grasp the opportunity.

6) Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?

ANSWER: Yes.I’ve always considered myself a writer of short stories, flash fiction ,essays and articles. I do have a MG novel(WIP)called ‘Skull Drum’ and a short audio book.

7) What is your passion in life?

ANSWER: I want to publish my novel and a long ballad as a tribute to the many interesting people I’ve met and who have helped me.In particular my late son Michael who was my rock and such a generous person in all he did.

Read Poem Dr Mike Gibson PhD. by Cleveland W. Gibson

Please, don’t let the flowers
on my grave wither and die,
because if you do, I know
Mum and Dad will surely cry.

All Saints church stands tall, dignified,
not far from the grave where I lie,
A church filled with soulful people,
but ‘miss you, Mike,’ I hear you sigh.

In mellow eventide or chapel,
I hear the sharp bells ring out.
Once Dad took me into the belfry,
I loved the thrill without a doubt.

But there is a wind so cold,
as it blows across my chest.
I thank God for singing birds;
happy songs I love the best.

I’ll sing a song of sunshine,
my, I love the many seas so blue,
playing on the golden beaches
of the Med, Greece and Malta too.

My life has never ever been easy,
about DMD, there’s much to say.
But I’ve always done my best,
to smile, to pray up to my last day.

I loved to play War Games 40K,
in the pub and far into the night,
friends around the table, such fun,
it’s normal and, to me, so very right.

I studied hard to go to Uni,
and was proud of my PhD,
Oh, what new doors opened!
R & D on ‘Big Guns’ if you please.

My thesis built on solid Autofrettage,
it drove the Prof Z. wild with delight.
Then I went to work, kept on thinking,
on gun problems, hours into the night.

Many thanks, Vicki. Also Tom and Charlie.
Me: the boy who couldn’t even walk,
but I rode Charlie in fields of daisies,
led by Vicki, who smiled at all my talk.

There are friends I miss, to challenge,
to prove we can be the Queen’s Best,
so bend your back and work hard, lads.
I did. Can you? Be a cut above the rest

Read Poem: AFTER THE HIGHWAYMAN, by Cleveland W. Gibson

Later by 200 years or more
I heard the bold robber’s call,
beneath my daughter’s window
as if no time had passed at all.

“I seek ‘ee out at midnight,
in moonlight shining clear,
no Devil from Hell will stop me,
damned, but how else to show I care.”

At that I stepped out of the shadows,
tried to look the ghost in the eye,
alas I smelt fresh blood, then heard,
my God, his deep anguished sigh.

Above my head shone the stars,
twinkling, giving out a little light,
and the pale moon did its best,
as on that first fateful night.

The rogue tossed me the leather reins,
I quivered as he landed on the ground,
his face and chest shot to pieces. Lord?
Was his blood that dripping sound?

Then the ghostly Highwayman stared,
a rattle, a hacking cough first he gave,
as loud came one crazy laugh,
that still haunts me from his grave.

I froze as I heard a strange sound,
deep from the stables, that awful creak.
But the clever spirit found a jug of ale,
so he drank with no need to speak.

Then a nod, his head fixed on the moor,
toward the grim drama of the night,
as I heard the sound of steady marching,
of Dead red-coats into the pale moonlight.

King George’s men all swaggering,
muskets sloped as grim as any grave
They marched to the Inn door to enter,
Blind or dead? No look at me they gave.

From the Inn came surreal music, voices
and poor Bess at a window, candle in hand,
trying to warn her endangered lover.
I thought now wasn’t that kinda grand?

I stood still like a statue, moved not one step,
made no noise at all or even tried to speak.
But come the tiny crack of first dawn light,
my legs filled with terror, I felt so very weak.

No landlord stays long in this cursed Inn place,
but me, as I’ve worked out all that before.
It’s because at night gallops the Highwayman,
as red-faced soldiers march across the moor.

Another rhythm of another time will see his
timeless face astride his phantom steed,
bringing to his beloved lover a bag of gold,
the coins forever tucked up his sleeve indeed.

The end