Tomorrow Today

Today is August the third
Another day in the quest
To write in a few words on a topic
And try to do our best.

A poem a day can be hard to write
Particularly on a theme
The theme this month is tomorrow
Harder than any that’s been!

To write a few words in a poem
Can be hard for some, don’t you know
You have to think of what to write
So perhaps we’ll wait for t’morrow.

© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 03/08/2009

The Mustard Seed

The earth is tilled
To root out weeds
To clean the soil for everyone's needs
The mustard seed is sown

The rain doth flow
To wet the earth
Roots do grow
And weeds do flourish by their mirth

The weeds are strong
And by their hand
Do suffocate the seeds
And the weeds do long for their own land

But man is here
To till the earth
To shed a tear
For the lowly mustard seed

But oh what joy
To hear the cry
Of that farmer boy
Who tilled the earth

For the mustard seed
It has taken root
And has grown a plant
And has grown its fruit

For the fruit of love
Is a mustard seed
It fills our need
Oh! that amazing mustard seed.


© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 30/07/09

To Rest

To rest - the brain
To rest - the body
Sleep...

To relax - to paint
To relax – to write
Rest...

To work – the machine
To work – the typewriter
Tire...

To live – in peace
To live – in war
Fight...

To live – love
To love – live
To Die...


© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 29 July 2009

The Pigeon

The pigeon seems not a graceful bird
It’s plump and rather clumsy.
In jackboot style it struts its thing
On roofline and amongst the barley!
Its feathers are grey and white
With some green and faun and blue.
It has a yellow eye each side
Stuck on its head with glue.

At night time when one is camping
It doesn’t seem to sleep
It coo’s and ah’s all thro’ the night
Along the boughs of trees,
And in the tent with you!
And if the pigeon goes to sleep
It falls from roosting bough.
It flaps wings as though
It’s in a plastic bag – somehow?

The pigeon flies like Superman
As straight as flight can be
At other times it flaps its wings
Then glides like Bumble Bee.
It does this several times in flight
Its mate, she tags along.
In formation the pigeons fly
And around the others throng!

© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 27 July 2009

The Unforgotten?

The unforgotten stand
With heads bowed to the ground,
All through the long year,
The seasons do not fail them,
Rain and snow and wind and sun,
Beat down for all eternity.
Their names are written in rough-hewn blocks
John, David, Paul and Saul.
And upon these souls an angel stands,
For the soldiers, who were smitten?

And then there are those men,
They’re dead before their time,
They were only 18 years of age,
When the sting, was felt by them.
They’ve been left in no-mans land,
Between the rows of troops
Scattered in the holes of war,
All buried in their boots.

Oh! What price war or skirmish?
There have been many since,
Korea, Vietnam or Afghanistan
These are but a few.
Where man and boy were sent,
They said for ‘just’ intent!
To shore up ailing governments,
Their names we’ll never know.
Among the carnage of the war
These are the forgotten soldiers, few.

So when we pass those men,
With heads bowed down so low.
We say a silent pray,
And we think of those that died.
On rough-hewn blocks of stone, they’ll stand,
To hear ‘Last Post’ and ‘Buglers Call’.
But please remember who’ve fallen in their prime.
Around this world, so blue,
For all those men and women,
Who died through curse of war?



© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 16th July 2009

One Small Step

"One small step......" Buzz Aldrin said,
as he left the module
"One small step......" the doctor said,
when the lame started to walk
"One small step......" the mother said,
To the baby crawling on her knees.
"One small step......" the father said,
holding on to the bike, before the child started to ride.
"One small step......" the General said,
to his army before they left the trenches.
"One giant leap......" Mankind whispered in return.


© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 20 July 2009

Towards the Light

The orchestra it plays discordant notes,
On violin and cello.
They play in life their deathly throes,
Of man whose death comes near.
But what is this, the notes entwine
In music so sublime.
Discordant ends and harmony flies,
Like the end of man’s life dear.

A note is struck on Tibetan Bowl,
It’s ringing so very clear,
Above the notes of harmony
It strikes so mellow sound,
And meditation, its calling note
An OM appears quite clear.
The Light appears within the mind
As once the OM is said,
The meditation call is heard
Upon thine own deathbed.

I hear the constant sacred note
Of Tibetan Bowl so clear,
The light is getting brighter now
Its reach is calling me.
Such wonder, awe and loving light
It pulls me to its core,
But something calls me back again,
To my dear earth once more.

The droning ring of Tibetan Bowl,
Its sound, so very clear.
Its pulsating sound and rhythmic call
Starts pulling me again
Towards the Light and Omnipresent sight
His Will, you cannot evade
You meet your maker and family too
Among this light so clear.
That when you’re called from this earthly life
There is nothing for us to fear
Death is part of our make-up,
From child to old age, clear.
We stand in the midst of being called
To take our place, with Thee.

The Tibetan Bowl, it’s calling sound
That beckons towards the Light.
It sounds like the Buddhist ‘OM’
And will magnify the Light.
So fear not when our death draws near
We see the Light that beckons,
Just meditate on Sound and Light.
To withstand, we have no power,
This tunnelled Light, so clear.
We let it all surpass us
Our Soul is now with Thee.

© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 8th July 2009