Rich Roach
Rich Roach
Poet, Writer, Musician, Educator 
Shakespeare
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Poet, Writer, Musician, Educator 
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Rich Roach
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Winter Rime


I loved her hands, the careful way 
she poured the cream, as if she knew 
my eyes were yet upon her. 

How long I stared I cannot say, 
but when I glimpsed her eyes of blue, 
I knew I was a goner. 

Too long we'd struggled, side by side, 
to serve a heartless lord - our hearts 
told ribs that it was time. 

Our boat was waiting on the tide, 
as we ran past the stalls and carts 
bound fast in winter's rime. 



Rain’s End


What joy it is to view the dripping leaves
that play among the maples' sparkling boughs;
their midday bath is over, and with ease
the summer wakes again from its repose.

The air is cool and crisp, as blue peeks through
the widened lids of this fair afternoon;
freed children creak from doorways right on cue,
their liquid voices breathing summer's tune.

Yet I, amid this show, am strangely sad,
and all of nature seems a bit askew;
despite each rain-kissed leaf my thoughts run mad,
and focus on a child who'll never view

the wonders of a summer's day again,
if there be not an end to cancer’s reign.


Spring Breath


Choice air now greets the eager lung, 
full, hearty swigs of mellow sun 
tasting of maple sap and greens; 
or sweet, like those unfolding beans 
that seem to move with gentle ease 
along their angular trapeze. 
With salty lips I breathe it in, 
and hear my seasoned heart begin, 
as nature sings within my hands - 
I'll listen to her soft demands.





Autumnal Epiphany


I marvel at this morning, buttressed wide 
above the frosted dew, kissing the leaves, 
the outstretched arms of stubble fields and sheaves 
yet ripened rich with colour, heaven-dyed 
and full beneath my autumn eyes. 

Lithe shadows lick the windows, limbing panes 
through which I sense a stillness so refined 
that all dull, idle thoughts are left behind, 
and I am left with amber in my veins, 
and glories greater than the skies. 





 Sheaves of Harvest


Seal all the sins of earth inside your head,
and frame in gold sweet fragments of spare time;
discard the dregs and write the perfect rhyme -
go, do it now before you leave your bed. 

But no, my pen's a heavy lion's paw -
I can't escape soft night's alluring clutch;
ambition's zeal is now a feather's touch -
I'm bound within the lifeless womb of law. 

Reshape the world and give each stone a tongue,
each tree a name, each particle an end;
chop off those limbs you know will never mend,
and leave all petty verses to the young. 

A festered lily sits upon my brow,
while busy Autumn breathes upon the leaves;
I cannot see the sky beneath the sheaves
of harvest - there is nothing sacred now. 


First Fallen Branch


For years life was sublime, but now her sky 
was shrouded in a never-ending mist 
of frozen blue. Once happy lovers kissed 
beneath her youthful boughs - how they would sigh 

to see proud summer sport its tender leaves 
above their heads, or muse an hour on dreams 
that swam in the reflections, wat'ry beams 
of glories now undone, tied up like sheaves,

forgotten in the cold December air. 
She longed to grow, as she did in her prime, 
when sap gave strength to shoulder passing time, 
and branches stretched with pride, though they were bare.

From high above, the sky proclaimed, "This tree 
shall ever in love's heart remembered be!"


 For the second part of my triptych of poetry the theme is: 
“The Seasons”