Here, Traveller, Are Verses Wrought in Fire and Foam
Below lie a handful of my chosen verses, some already set loose upon the world, others yet to find their wings. Whether cast upon the wind of print or waiting in the hush before the storm, each line carries its own tale, its own rhythm, its own song.
Read, wanderer, and let the words take root. Some may call to thee like an old friend’s voice, others may stir like distant thunder on the edge of thought. But all were born of ink and spirit, meant to be heard, meant to be felt.
Take them as they are, and may they find a home in thy heart.
The Watcher of the Fold
The frost lay bright on field and tree, the winter sun was thin and pale,
As timid finch and wren took flight to peck their meagre, scattered bale.
Yet from the eaves came thunder's wing, the pigeons swarmed with greedy might,
They thrust, they clashed, they drove away the weaker kin in ruthless fight.
They gorged and strutted, bold and vain, their cooing rose in mocking tone,
As helpless, cold, the small birds watched, their morning feast now picked to bone.
But near the barn, in golden light, where winter’s hush lay still and deep,
A watcher stirred with knowing eye, the farmstead’s hound woke from his sleep.
He stretched, he yawned, then bared his teeth, and through the yard his fury came,
A rush of claws, a thundered bark, a tempest wrapped in hunter’s frame!
The pigeons rose in frantic flight, their conquest lost, their feast denied,
And in their place the meek returned, with trust anew and hearts untied.
No tyrant dared to test his fangs, no shadow crept within his sight,
And so the little flock could feed, beneath his gaze, in calm delight.
The day grew old, the sun sank low, the birds in hedge and hollow lay,
While by the door the hound stood tall, his duty done, his foes away.
Then, drifting from the farmer’s hearth, there came a scent both rich and deep,
Of roasted meats and warming spice, a gift for him, his watch to keep.
He left the field, his charge at rest, and met the hand that knew his worth,
A scratch, a word, a fire’s glow: “Good dog,” they called, “Best dog on earth.”
(By John Shenton)
The Hound and the Crown
They came to seize old Buster, for his crimes were grave, you see,
He’d munched upon a rasher and had barked at tyranny.
A beast unfit for modern times, a relic of the past,
And so, by law, his kind must go, this meal would be his last.
The coppers stormed the garden gate, their warrants firm in hand,
“For peace,” they cried, “this cur must die, his porkish tastes are banned!”
Yet in the streets, a preacher roared, his sermon laced with hate,
But none dare touch his holy wrath, no law would seal his fate.
Oh Britain, land of muddled laws, where traitors lead the blind,
Where bacon’s banned and speech is chained to soothe the foreign mind.
Your fathers tamed an empire vast, but now your pride is gone,
You cower low, lest one should say your dinner gave them wrong!
(By John Shenton)
The Wisdom of the Wild
The squirrel leaps from branch to bough, with knowing eyes and steady paw,
It sorts the feast by sense and sight, by nature’s truth, by simple law.
No council speaks, no lord commands, yet still it knows, without debate,
That what is real remains unchanged, no matter how the scribes dictate.
But man, who boasts of wit and lore, now stumbles where the creature thrives,
He twists his tongue and clouds his mind, yet wonders why his wisdom dives.
For if the beast may judge the seed, yet man denies what plain eyes see,
Then folly reigns where reason stood, and darkened minds will cease to be.
(By John Shenton)
The Poppy’s Ghost
By trade and toil they built their might, the merchants of the East,
They smiled and sold, they lent and bought, their riches spread like yeast.
But war need not be cannon’s roar, nor steel that meets the chest,
A kingdom falls by silent means when poison does the rest.
The soldier need not load his gun, nor march upon the land,
For whispers work where weapons fail, as rulers stay their hand.
The poppy’s ghost, in powdered form, now seeps through every gate,
And men who once stood proud and strong now slumber in its fate.
No banners raised, no trumpets sound, no battle lines are drawn,
Yet towns lie bare and cities weep for sons who wake no dawn.
A thousand ships bring ruin’s dust, not cargoes bright with gold,
And still our leaders turn away, too timid to be bold.
The youth they fall, the mothers wail, the fathers curse the day,
Yet still the merchants ply their trade and ask their price in pay.
For conquest need not fire and steel when greed and rot suffice,
What need of war when leaders sell their people for a price?
So wake, ye men of sense and strength, let not your homeland fade!
A nation lost by silent war is one too late to save.
For battles lost can yet be won, but not when none resist,
When ruin wears a smiling face and strikes you with a kiss.
(By John Shenton)
The Farmer’s Lament
Oh, what shall they tax when the harvest is gone,
When the fields lie fallow, the barns overdrawn?
Shall the ploughman be tithed for the soil that he toils,
While the rich man grows fat on the profit of spoils?
Shall the sons of the land sell their birthright for crumbs,
As the statesmen make laws to the beat of the drums?
For the lords of the ledger, the builders of stacks,
Have whispered their price and are sharpening the axe.
Who fattens their purse when the farmers must sell?
Who bids on the land as they toll the death knell?
Who winks at the council and greases the hand,
While the wheat-fields are turned into high-rise and sand?
And when come the days of the rationed and poor,
When the crates from abroad are delayed at the shore,
Will they tell us ‘twas fair, ‘twas the will of the wise,
As they dine upon bread that was baked in the skies?
Yet once, in the time of our fathers before,
This land fed its people, in peace and in war.
But now, by decree, it is parcelled and sold,
A harvest of debt for the hunger of gold.
(By John Shenton)
Depreciation's Wrath
A man may buy, and a man may sell,
But the ledger speaks with a tale to tell.
The steed that gleams in the morning’s sun
Will fetch but a fraction when years are done.
For the world moves fast in its mad parade,
And yesterday’s craft is today’s charade.
The cells grow weak, and the range runs short,
And the buyer shuns what the seller courts.
For the heart of the beast is a fleeting thing,
And gold is the weight on its weary wing.
So laugh if you must, at the man who waits,
But the wise count cost at their garden gates.
(By John Shenton)
The Muzzled Lion
When Saxon lips were free to speak, when truth could find its way,
The fields were green, the hearth was warm, and none had cause to stray.
But now the keepers of the land have made a cunning plan,
To bind the tongues, to blind the eyes, and silence every man.
They call it peace, they call it law, they mask it with pretence,
Yet whisper words of warning now, and face the consequence.
For speech once stood as England’s shield, her sword against the night,
But now the blade is turned within, hushed voices fear the light.
A man may see the garden burn, the roses choked with weeds,
Yet if he names the creeping blight, they call him vile for deeds.
And if he warns of wolves that prowl and sheep that disappear,
The watchmen come, not for the beasts, but him who spoke too clear.
They write new laws in twisted script where justice bends and sways,
Where truth must kneel and bow its head, lest it offend or blaze.
No word may pass unmeasured now, no question may be asked,
The lion’s roar is but a sigh, behind the iron mask.
But what becomes of England’s pride when speech is cast in chains?
What fate awaits the man who stands where silence now remains?
For lions caged do not forget, and those who weave deceit,
Should mind the day the bars break wide, and justice finds her feet.
(By John Shenton)
The Rock Unmoved
The winds may howl, the waves may rise, and shadows mock with scornful glee,
Yet on the rock where truth abides, no tide may steal my soul from me.
What need have I of fleeting praise, or whispers soft that shift like sand?
For light eternal crowns my days, and holds me fast with steady hand.
But woe to those who chase the night, who scorn the dawn and shun the way,
Who build their towers on brittle might, and smile while stone dissolves to clay.
Oh, may the veil be torn in twain, and mercy call before too late,
That they may stand, unchained from pain, and walk the path beyond the gate.
(By John Shenton)
The Plucked Rose
I grew where English roses grow, in hedgerow, field, and glade,
Beneath the sky’s forgiving blue, where none had cause to fade.
My petals closed in modest bud, my thorns stood sharp and true,
And in the sun’s embracing warmth, my crimson promise grew.
But hands that should have let me bloom, with whispered words drew near,
Soft voices wove a tender lie, and stripped away my fear.
They took my thorns, they clipped my stem, they bore me far away,
And in the dark, I felt them press where no warm sunlight lay.
One hand, then two, then three, then more, they turned me in the light,
Admired the colour of my skin, then passed me into night.
And when the dawn crept pale and cold, I lay upon the ground,
A fallen thing, a broken thing, where once I stood so proud.
I called upon the gardener, the keeper of the land,
But he just turned his hollow eyes and waved a trembling hand.
“The flowers fade, the seasons turn, what can be done?” he sighed,
And left me lying where I fell, alone and cast aside.
Then others came, with robes drawn tight, their petals kept from view,
They said, “No storm has passed this field, the earth is fresh with dew.
No hand has marred the garden’s peace, no blight has touched the stem,
And should you speak, you wound yourself, you must be still like them.”
But what becomes of England’s fields when all her flowers fade?
What happens when the hedgerows bare no buds in sun or shade?
When every bloom is plucked too soon or left to wilt unseen,
And every path once bright with life is shrouded in between?
Shall we let strangers bind the rose? Shall foreign hands decide,
What flower may grow, what wind may blow, what truth must be denied?
Or will the earth recall her own, and thorns rise sharp and free,
And England’s garden bloom once more, unbowed, unchained, and free?
(By John Shenton)
The Silence in the Halls
The hearth once roared with jest and song, where ale ran free and tongues were bold,
Where men could speak of right and wrong, and tales of kings and wars were told.
Yet now the whisper walks the floor, as shadowed laws like phantoms creep,
And landlords hush the voice of thought, lest they should wake the beast from sleep.
No jest, no quarrel, no debate, no challenge raised to power’s claim,
For fear now grips the common space, and silence walks where speech once came.
The landlord bows, the barkeep nods, their faces drawn with quiet dread,
For law has chained their alehouse walls, and bids them fear the words once said.
In workshops, markets, streets and squares, the hush of caution dulls the air,
No worker dares to voice his mind, lest speech should bring the lash to bear.
For those who talk must weigh their words, and glance behind with furtive eye,
For now the law does not defend, but stands to judge, to scold, to spy.
Where Cromwell’s voice once shook the land, where Churchill’s words the storm defied,
Where martyrs burned for conscience free, and truth was voiced though kings denied,
Shall we now bow to coward’s law? Let silence be our prison gate?
And stand as wretches, meek and cowed, beneath the weight of censors’ fate?
Oh, England, land of speech and thought! Will ye now kneel and bite the chain?
Shall tyrants rob the voice of men, and make their doubts unvoiced, in vain?
Or shall ye wake and shake the yoke, and cast these treacherous laws aside,
And speak as once ye dared to speak, with fearless hearts and English pride?
For those who yield their right to speak, shall wake to find their freedom dead,
And those who think to tame the word, shall rule a realm of ghosts instead.
No law, no leash, no iron bar, shall hold back thought for long untried,
The truth will rise, the voice will sound, and tyrants fall, as they have died.
(By John Shenton)
The Death of DEI
Oh, gather ye round, for a tale most grim,
Of a beast once mighty, now weak of limb.
D.E.I., with banners bright,
Once ruled the day and mocked the night.
It preached of equity, grand and bold,
Yet bartered merit, silver for gold.
With quotas fixed and minds constrained,
It crowned the feeble, the strong enchained.
But lo! The hour of reckoning came,
And whispers turned to shouts of blame.
The coffers drained, the people learned,
That fairness cannot be discerned.
The beast lay gasping, cold as stone,
Yet liberals wept in sorrowed tone.
"To Hades not! To Lethe nay!
We must revive it! Find a way!"
With silver coin in trembling hand,
They sought out Charon, grim and grand.
"Good ferryman, take not this shade!
We’ve speeches left! More games to play!"
But Charon, smirking, shook his head,
"The river’s deep, and it is dead.
No gold, no tears, no laws in haste,
Can resurrect this holy waste."
So sank the corpse to murky deeps,
Where hollow dogmas go to sleep.
And the world, at last, could breathe anew,
Where worth means more than skin or hue.
(By John Shenton)
The Road to Mars
We set our boots on lunar dust,
We rode the fire, defied the rust.
We left the Earth, so small, so bright,
And danced upon the edge of night!
With hands of steel and minds of flame,
We forged ahead and staked our claim.
The Moon was but a stepping-stone,
To redder sands and worlds unknown!
So stoke the flames and brace the keel,
The stars await, the engines reel!
For men must roam where none have been,
To Mars, to Mars, and far between!
(By John Shenton)
The Trinkets of Time
Oh woe, for the youth with their heads bent low, entranced by the flickering screen,
Who scoff at the jade and the porcelain old, where emperors' whispers have been.
The hands that once carved with a patient grace now tap at a glass-lit gloom,
And treasures lie bare in the dust of the past, unheeded in shadowed tomb.
Where once stood a chest with its marquetry fine, and mahogany deep as the sea,
Now lingers the gleam of a featureless slab, as lifeless as lifeless can be.
The amphora rests in a case all alone, its beauty no longer adored,
For who seeks the craft of the ancients now, when pixels and plastics are stored?
The kiln’s gentle breath and the glassblower’s song are lost in the hum of the hive,
And lacquered wood, with its tales untold, is spurned where the circuits thrive.
The gods of old, once cast in bronze, are banished for blinking lights,
And furniture built to outlive its man is traded for things of bytes.
Oh blind are the young to the soul in stone, to the spirit in celadon pale,
To the whispers that dance in the weave of a rug, in the glint of a Grecian grail.
They barter their time for the latest device, a trinket to last but a year,
While the art of the past, untouched, remains, a muse for the few who revere.
But hush! Let them scorn, let them drift, let them chase what will soon be dust,
For Time, like the potter, shapes all anew, and wisdom will teach them to trust.
One day they shall pause, in a hall dim-lit, where relics of splendour gleam,
And there in the hush of the ages past, they’ll wake from their hollow dream.
(By John Shenton)
The Watchers of the Fold
The wind runs light across the hills, where golden daffodils now gleam,
And bluebells dance in shaded glades beside the brook’s meandering stream.
The robin sings upon the thorn, the blackbird pipes its morning tune,
And over all, the watchful hounds stand steadfast 'neath the sun and moon.
The ewes lie calm upon the field, their lambs new-born, so frail, so white,
Soft shadows stretch as evening falls, yet all is safe within the light.
For through the dusk and through the dawn, the shepherd’s hounds patrol the land,
No fox may creep, no wolf may lurk, while keen-eyed sentries make their stand.
The woodland stirs beyond the hedge, the night’s dark whispers softly call,
Yet glowing eyes and bristling fur shall never breach the farmyard wall.
The hounds know well their noble task, to guard, to ward, to hold the line,
And while they stand, the flock may rest, beneath the stars that brightly shine.
O loyal hearts and fearless souls, with bounding step and steady will,
Through frost of night and mist of morn, they serve their master’s purpose still.
No whispered fear, no shadowed threat, can shake them from their honoured place,
For duty calls, and in their eyes, a love untamed yet full of grace.
And so, as lambs find trembling feet, as petals burst and robins sing,
The world renews, the earth delights, in golden glow of fleeting spring.
Yet while the flowers bloom and fade, the hounds remain, so proud, so true,
For through the years, through all the storms, they guard the land as they must do.
The shepherd walks, his staff in hand, and nods to those who share his way,
His watchful sentinels of night, his comrades in the light of day.
And as he turns, the valley hums, the world at peace, both bright and strong,
For where the hounds still guard the fold, the land shall echo yet with song.
(By John Shenton)
The Watchmen Lost Their Way
Oh once there stood a noble breed, the stalwart guards of law,
Who walked the streets with steady tread and held the rogues in awe.
But now they prowl the shadowed net, where words, not knives, draw blood,
And wade through whispers, tweets, and jest, while crime still swells the flood.
The cutpurse laughs, the burglar grins, the groomer works unchecked,
The maiden clutches at her keys, her path by fear bedecked.
Yet watch! The coppers scan the waves, not for the villain’s trail,
But for a jest on foreign shores, a joke they’ll call "a jail."
"A threat to peace!" the watchmen cry, "this speech we shall suppress!"
Yet murder stalks the weeping lanes in bloodstains and distress.
No thief is chased, no thug pursued, while tyrants stoke their wrath,
And gentle folk are hauled away for thoughts they never hath.
"We’ll come for you!" the Watchmen snarl, as tyrants oft have said,
Yet know they not, on distant shores, free men will not be led.
No lawman born of London town shall cross the ocean wide,
To shackle those who mock their kings or wound their paper pride.
Oh, what of London’s bleeding streets, where justice stands undone?
Where women shrink from looming shapes and dare not trust the sun?
What of the hearths where fear takes root, where law is but a name?
Shall empty words be met with force, while lawless men walk tame?
Turn back, turn back, ye wayward hounds, and loose these phantom chains,
No truncheon raised at spoken thought shall ever break its reigns.
The task you swore, the pledge you made, was not to chase the free,
But to defend, to shield, to serve, return to what must be!
For when the watchman scorns his post and leaves the flock betrayed,
The wolves come howling through the night, and none shall bring them aid.
But speech runs swifter than the hound, and truth shall find its way,
No tyrant’s hand, nor coward’s rule, shall bid the dawn delay.
(By John Shenton)
Poems and Ballads of a Fading Crown
In this evocative collection of poetry, history's echoes resound through verse, warning of the perils of forgotten lessons and the fate of empires that grow complacent. From the rolling tides of Albion to the distant frontier of Mars, these poems explore sovereignty, sacrifice, and the unseen forces shaping our world.
At its heart, this collection is a lament for a fading world order. The once-mighty spirit of empire wanes under the weight of fractured leadership, vanishing crowns, and the silent erosion of liberty. The Spirit of Albion, The Vanishing Crown, and The Muzzled Lion speak to the loss of national identity and the slow march of decline.
History's cycles are laid bare in The Barbarians at the Gate and The Empire's Warning, where past and present converge, reminding us that civilizations fall not with a single blow, but with a series of quiet surrenders. Economic folly, unchecked migration, and political gamesmanship form the foundation of The Tariff's Toll, The Price of Their Games, and The Ballad of Two Laws, where justice is not blind but led by a craven hand.
Contains 60 original poems and ballads by John Shenton.
ISBN: 9798227876638
(By John Shenton)
The Farmer’s Wife and Hearth So Bright
Oh, who shall sing the steadfast heart that keeps the farmhouse warm?
Not wind nor rain, nor spiteful hand shall break her steadfast form.
Through dawning light and twilight dim, she treads the flagstones old,
Where kettle hums and oven glows, and bread is baked in gold.
She wakes before the cock has crowed, before the cows give call,
With apron tied and hair pinned high, she heeds the farmstead’s thrall.
The butter churn, the kneading board, the dough beneath her hand,
All spin the wheel of work and love that steadies home and land.
She tends the babes with lullaby, she mends the farmer’s coat,
She sets the fire against the frost, the broth against his throat.
The farm dogs rest beside her feet, yet stir at morning’s peal,
For well they know her guiding voice is sharper than the steel.
The chickens cluck, the robins flit, the wrens weave nests anew,
For hedgerow, wall, and garden plot all blossom ‘neath her view.
The cabbage thick, the carrots bright, the herbs in ordered rows,
She keeps them all with careful hand, and still the baking flows.
Upon the lintel roses climb, their petals soft with dew,
While stone walls stout and ivy-clad hold secrets old and true.
Through garden gate and orchard path the scent of honey sways,
And where her fingers plant the seed, the earth gives forth in praise.
Yet lo! A shadow at the door, a whisper from the gate,
A grasping hand, a prying eye, the taxman tall and straight.
"Your hearth is warm, your table full, your barns brim bright with store,
And what you have, by right of crown, should now be ours the more!"
But laugh she does, and scorns his greed, and wipes her hands so clean,
"For every loaf, for every yield, was wrought by toil unseen!
Not yours the sweat, nor yours the care, nor yours the season’s fight,
So take your parchment, take your pen, I'll keep my hearth alight!"
And so she stirs the rising dough, and so she steeps the tea,
While outside, past the garden wall, the world turns wild and free.
For empire shifts, and tyrants fall, and gold will turn to rust,
But warm shall beat the farmer’s hearth, and strong shall stand her trust.
(By John Shenton)
The Crescent’s Climb and the Minster’s Fall
By Canterbury’s hallowed nave, where saints in stone still stand,
And Chartres’ rose of coloured glass once blessed a Christian land,
Now hush the bells, let voices bow, for fear the winds should wail,
That truth once carved in gilded spires must now be draped in veil.
Oh, Cologne’s high vaults once rang bold with monk and martyr’s song,
Yet silence walks its nave today, lest hymns be deemed a wrong.
Where incense curled in holy air and candles bathed the stone,
Now cowed are those who dare to speak, their tongue is not their own.
From Seville’s tower to Notre Dame, the prayers once soared on high,
Yet now the crescent climbs the peaks where once the cross did lie.
And York Minster, with ancient walls that weathered war and time,
Now watches meek as voices fade beneath the law’s new rhyme.
For lo! The scribes in mighty halls, those crowned by trembling quill,
Now hush the crowds, decree the words, command the lips be still.
Not all faiths shall be as one, not all shall kneel the same,
For some may guard their ancient ways, and some must take the blame.
Oh, justice now is but a blade that cuts the truth in twain,
It spares the one who calls offence, but strikes the one in pain.
And so the walls of Christendom, once built with toil and grace,
Are left to dust, while cowards bow and call their chains embrace.
Yet heed ye well, for tides may turn, as tides have turned before,
And spires that fall to hushéd lips shall one day rise once more.
For silence is a fleeting shroud, and time will lift the veil,
And when it does, the bells shall ring, against the winds that wail.
(By John Shenton)
The Weeds Among the Flowers
In meadows bright where bluebells swayed, where daisies crowned the lea,
The woodland shone in golden light, a realm both proud and free.
Yet creeping through the forest fair, with roots both thick and wide,
The choking weeds took silent hold and clung on every side.
The poppies stood in crimson bold, the violets soft with grace,
Yet thorns arose in twisted ranks and stole their hallowed place.
The oaks, once strong, in whispers groaned, their leaves now starved of air,
While tendrils coiled with grasping greed, and none would stop nor care.
The shepherd’s staff lay cast aside, the garden left untamed,
For those who once had pulled the weeds now feared to be defamed.
“They too must grow!” the rulers cried, “To pluck them is a sin!”
And so the nettles climbed unchecked, while flowers grew frail and thin.
Yet hark! A voice upon the wind, a call both stern and deep,
“Awake, ye men of leaf and root, before ye fall asleep!
For weeds shall not be woodland’s fate if hands are firm and true,
But wait too long, and all is lost, the sun shall cease to view.”
Oh, will the violets claim their ground, the oaks stand tall once more?
Or shall the thistles choke them out and rot the forest floor?
The hour wanes, the time is short, yet still a choice remains,
To cut the weeds or bow to them, and watch the flowers wane.
(By John Shenton)
The Word and the Sword
They gather now in halls of might,
To shape the words we say,
To guard one creed from slight or scorn,
And cast the rest away.
The scribes will write, the lords will nod,
And law shall have its sway.
Yet where was care for English kin,
Or heed for church and bell?
Where burned the lamps for those who bled,
When hatred round them fell?
A clash of worlds, a clash of faiths,
Yet silence greets the knell.
For words, not deeds, shall weigh the scale,
And tongues shall pay the price,
For fear offends, and truth now bends,
To gild a creed in vice.
Speak soft, speak low, lest watchmen come,
With chains for their device.
But let them write, and let them rule,
And let them bind with law,
Yet men will speak, and men will think,
As men have done before.
And time will show what words conceal,
Beneath the gilded lore.
For fear may reign, and law may chain,
And hush the heretic's cry,
Yet when one creed holds all the shield,
The sword is sure to fly.
(John Shenton)