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title: Jack Simcock | Poetry
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# Poetry

This is a poem I found in a small collection written in the 1960’s

### New Day

*So this is a new day*

*More like an old  
used cold second-hand day*

*So I never lived this one before*

*Nor did anyone else*

*A new day in everyone’s life*

*Yet to me it is much like the others*

*There’s time of course  
for the day to distinguish itself*

*There are also ways I could make this day  
quite unlike any other*

![jack-simcock-out-hiking](https://jacksimcock.com/hs-fs/hubfs/jack-simcock-out-hiking.webp?width=438&height=600&name=jack-simcock-out-hiking.webp "jack-simcock-out-hiking")

![jack-simcock-portrait-2](https://jacksimcock.com/hubfs/jack-simcock-portrait-2.webp "jack-simcock-portrait-2")

This poem is from A Broken String of Beads, a book of poetry written between 1974 and 2005 to accompany his earlier work Midnight Till Three. Jack had hoped to publish in 2010, but he was unable to do so in his lifetime.

### Night

*Time transcends my slumber  
and every star above  
suffers to please  
I wonder  
where is the gentle dove*

*Incoming tides  
will bring you  
face to face the moon*

*Then all the shine  
will slowly fade  
and she will die  
too soon*

The next three poems are taken from “Midnight Till Three”, a book of poems by Jack Simcock, published in 1975, available to purchase separately from the autobiography upon request.

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### Autumn

*One summer was their green life.*

*Yet in their dying  
they most please the eye.*

*Celebrated is their silent fall.*

*And as they lie,  
some sprinkled here,  
and feet plow through  
some drifted there,*

*eyes meet a winter sky.*

 

### Summer

*A Summer’s noon is on,  
emerald blush  
and blossom.*

*Seed plumes powder the hill.*

*A breeze sweeps the sun  
and a thigh quivers.*

*A head turns in the grass,  
back from a blue wilderness.*

*Love-green cows  
rust in a galaxy of buttercups.*

*Old lanes with their fresh white lovers  
tremble in mottled shade*

*and dandelions pine in a child’s hand.*

### Still Branches

*The day waits quietly  
as though nothing has ever happened before,  
as though all that will happen today  
will be for the first time.*

*In still branches the day waits.*

*I wake without memory,  
without anticipation.  
I wake with closed eyes  
from an ecstacy of pining  
unrequited love long ago,  
weak from a boy’s heart  
broken for life in dreams.*

*First love is lost and sought in dreams tearfully.  
The pleading is remembered,  
lived with.  
Morning is to accept the loss.*

*I rise and go about my day  
and again everything is old  
and I do everything the way I always do it.  
I say again what I said yesterday  
and everything I see I remember  
and everything is saturated in the past.*

*The day waits quietly to be remembered.*

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