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

To Think Another Thought Today

To think another thought today
My mind's on other things
Shall I write just now
or see what writing brings.
My thoughts are muddled
They're thinking of -
All manner of strange things!

To fill out forms
To make some tea
To think of poetry.
To have a bath, in
hot water, glea.....
I think I need some tea.

I've had my thoughts
Some words it's brought
But not my poetry.
I feel so glum
I thought I'd have fun.
Oh! Another cup of tea!!

© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 22-07-09

Routine - a poem

Routine, on Monday, I thought, my
routine is pleasurable
my tasks are so small,
clean, polish, for some,
book meetings for others.

Routine, come Tuesday, I thought, I
am getting on well, my
work is progressing, my
tasks have been, well?

Routine, come Wednesday, I thought, I’d
change my old habits, the
Sun it did shine and
I thought I would grab it, and
Oh! What a tan.

Routine, come Thursday, I thought, if
I rush this small job
Some time I could make up, but,
Oh! !****! Hell!

Routine, come Friday, I thought, the
end of the week, my
boss has gone anal
He will see me next week!

Routine, come Saturday, I thought,
I would be with the kids
Go to MacDonald’s for burgers,
then out to the flixs.

Routine, come Sunday, I thought, there’s
so much to do.
I’ll leave it till Monday,
Let’s go to the zoo.

© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 21 July 2009

Don’t Go Down The Mine, Dad.

Don’t go down the mine, Dad,
Was the little one’s plea?
Don’t go down the mine, Dad,
For I have had a dream, Dad,
Which could make you leave me.
The father he didn’t listen,
When to his work he trod,
And whilst waiting for the mine lift,
He remembered what was said.

Don’t go down the mine, Dad,
He remembered his son’s plea.
Don’t go down the mine, Dad,
He returned to home, to see,
His little lad’s eyes light up,
To see his Dad was well.
For he had heard of the fire,
That took his Dad’s mates to hell.
Don’t go down the mine, Dad,
Or you’ll be dead as well.


© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 17/07/2009 15:18

Taken from the song ‘Don’t Go Down The Mine, Dad’
by Robert Donnely and Will Gedes

Our Wonderful Gardener

The gardener comes just once a month
To tidy up the plot,
Roses, weeds and camomile
She certainly trims the lot.
The grass is cut with mower,
The edges are edged clean,
And when it comes to weeding
She really is the queen.
The two hours that she toils
Is really not quite long,
She bends and kneels and crouches,
She cuts and trims and digs,
And quickly gets the job done
And then off to home she ‘jigs’.
The gardeners name is Carey,
She really is the biz,
She wears a leather belt
For all her tools she needs.
She wears her shorts in summer
They’re in shades of green or brown,
Her hair is bright and curly
As she potters out of town.
I hear that she is busy
Other gardens she keeps clean,
She is very nymph like
And looks fit as a new pin.
But talking to her daughter
Last night upon the ‘phone’,
Gardening is not her only pleasure
For she toils down at the gym!


© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 18 July 2009

The Decorator - The Tea

The decorator has a lonely job, when

climbing up his ladder.

He has to sort out all his paint, or

he won’t have enough. With

sander first he smoothes the wood, of

old paint, flakes and dirt. He

then rubs down with sanding block, to

get to corners better.

Once this is done, he ascends again, too

paint the undercoat. This

coat that will keep the paint, from

flaking like the latter. He

dabs and daubs the undercoat, with

the skill of a seasoned vet. He

smoothes the paint of all its runs, he

takes care of every drip. He

must not over do the brush, or

the paint will be quite thin.

The clouds are building in the sky, the

weather is still sunny, the

winds are picking up a bit, I

hope it doesn’t matter. The

weather forecaster said, “It

may be raining in the west, but

a shower or two may be had - today,

but definitely tomorrow.”

The decorator likes a drink, of

tea, but very strong. He

likes one every hour, to

keep him moist for long, for

he gets very dry, when

painting wood and wall, he

is like the blooming weather, both

wet and dry, forlorn.

The rendered wall is next to do, it

is cracked in several places. He

said that it is very fast, so

filling will be the thing. Re-

rendering will come later, when

more money is required. So

filler in hand, scraper too, to

fill the very job, that

the lady of the household, thought

would be the harder job.

Day two arrives, he

starts to paint the top coat, that

will define, the

colour of woodwork, Gardenia

and Sandstone for wall – sublime.

But first some tea, to quench the thirst, of

decorator, he

will need some time to

paint – this time, for quality’s the key.

Up ladder, once more to the top, to

check the work is right, then

dab and daub, smooth and slide, the

paint brush over wall. It’s

nearly done – but wait

another cup of tea!

“The job has taken two days” it’s

right by what he said. With

drops of rain now falling, “I’ll

have some tea instead.”

“The job has now been finished, the

rain held off, somewhat, but

before you pay me for the job, I’ll

have another pot – of tea.”

© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 20 July 2009