Keith & Elizabeth Stanley-Mallett - Poetry Books

Flies Now the Spirit: Alone Yet Complicit

Flies Now the Spirit: Alone Yet Complicit. Light VerseFlies Now the Spirit: Alone Yet Complicit. Light Verse is a collaboration. Part I presents poems by Keith Stanley-Mallett, while Part II includes poems by Elizabeth Stanley-Mallett. The book as a whole is 222 pages, and was published in October 2013.

Keith will once again satisfy every taste with his eclectic collection of topics gleaned from his observations of everyday events. Old England, the fast pace of modern life, the vagaries of the weather, and the secrets of nature are all given articulation in his entertaining and inimitable approach.

Elizabeth's poems are written with a woman's perspective and intuition. They reveal her love of animals and the country of her birth. Her experiences from earlier years are expressed with a somewhat nostalgic outlook on life.

Below you'll find a selection of poems excerpted from Flies Now the Spirit. To buy the book, please see the purchasing page.

Poems from Flies Now the Spirit
by Keith Stanley-Mallett

Fingers of Light

Darkness slowly fades away
With dawn's approaching fingers of light,
'Til the golden orb's full splendour
Burst forth, full star-bright.

Thus in answer to the dawn
Twilight shadows at dusk deepen
And darkening clouds are set aglow
By moonlit fingers, seeking.

Flies Now the Spirit

Flies now the spirit
Amongst the wide spaces,
Forever seeking
Hidden truth, time embraces.

With empathy felt,
From whatsoever the source,
Primeval of thought
Action, or nature's course.

Acknowledging fear
From whatever the source,
Primeval of thought
Action, or nature's course.

Then seek the beauty
In the sights and the sounds,
Of life around us
So sublime, yet abounds.

Thus flies the spirit
Wherever it will seek,
Even to the stars
And the spaces the keep.

A Million Gods?

What universal energies
Manipulate reality,
As if, in interpretation
Perchance are like humanity.

Energies of power and thought
Pervading all, yet so distant,
With god-like powers determine
Humanities own existence.

Both creative and destructive,
Multitudinous worlds and suns,
With such diverse creatures and minds
Are born and die over aeons.

So are there a million gods
For millions of the latter?
Or pure creative energy
Forming and transforming matter?

Old Laws and New

With thoughts of ages
And all they imply,
The immensity
Of history that lies —

In years long past
Creating the how,
For all who live
In old England now.

What of those days
That made England strong,
Is it to be
The nation's new song?

From such dither
And weakness spring forth
A strong people,
Who shall so endorse —

Old laws and new
That these thoughts persist,
Thus for those to come,
Mercy and justice.

Nature's Daughters

To walk the lane together,
Tread the meadows green,
Ramble through the woodlands
Joyful and serene.

Then stride in the pine-clad hills,
Rich in scented air,
Walk the stream-fed valleys
Which cottage and river share.

Or climb the reaching mountains
Thrusting darkly high,
With cloud covered summits
Hidden in the sky.

Perhaps to drift in silence
Upon calm waters,
Lost in dreamlike thoughts
Amidst nature's daughters.

In Secrecy

Where are those shining disks?
That travel silently
Across our wide blue skies
In unknown secrecy.

Appearing here and there
In ones, twos, sometimes more,
Of such diverse design
Can at speed, dip and roar.

What is their strange purpose?
Their final objective?
For they have been with us
Through time, long connected.

Their place or origin
Is still yet to be known,
Yet one day we'll know the truth
When in stature, are grown.

For But a Moment

Within all encompassing time
There lives for but a moment,
The beauty that nature brings forth
A gift from heaven brief sent.
Sparkling sunlight on blue waters
The rise of a harvest moon,
A flock of birds high on the wing
Meadows with horses in June.

Bloom of a rose with sweet perfume
Woodlands on a summer's eve
Cool rivers 'twixt banks of willow
Cornfields of gold serene.
The running murmur of a stream
A silver fish, leaping high,
Or a hedgerow's rich bloom in May
All, but a moment of life.

As August Becomes September

As September follows August
Dragonflies dart here and there,
While wayside fruiting hedgerows scent
The late warm, still summer air.

That finds the dog and cat asleep
Lying on the garden lawn,
Far too tired to run about
Looking now, so very worn.

Bloom and blossoms begin to droop
For they need a little rain,
Even the houseflies seem tired
Resting on the window pane.

Slowly the sun travels the day
And the shadows silent creep,
As August becomes September
With its bounty, fresh and sweet.

The Air of Life

In the year nineteen hundred
And thirty-four, in the morn,
In September air of life
At two a.m. I was born.

In those days preceding war
With trolleybus and steam train,
Life was as a child could wish
Then came the enemy planes.

Slow and hard the years went by
'Til the tragedy ended,
Then did I begin my part
Still young, this realm defended.

Then began the march of years
And little did I notice,
The while, time raced on by
Regardless of such office —

Any labours past thus wrought,
Possessions and rewards earn'd,
Until within latter days
Took pen to write all I'd learn'd —

Of politics and wisdom
Stupidity and crassness,
Man's striving and endeavor
Old history and freshness.

Beauty of the countryside
The wonder of animals,
Trees in bloom, plants and flowers
Fungi and all that's fruitful.

Unending whys and wherefores
The meaning of living earth,
Such wonderous sights around us
On the planet of our birth.

So many stories to tell
Of people and tragedies,
With the goodness and the ills
Peacefulness and savagery.

All such as I have noted
In the long years since my birth,
So 'tis now I rest my pen
I hope I have been of worth.

Poems from Flies Now the Spirit
by Elizabeth Stanley-Mallett

Writing, Writing, Writing

It was not an easy task
In a garret damp,
Trying to write volumes
By dim light of lamp.

All good writers were poor
Never had a penny,
Short of food and clothing
Yet their works were many.

The very best of drama
Was written by simple men,
Self-educated and keen
Masters of the pen.

William Shakespeare, the bard
Did he really write his plays?
Some say his language was
Too literate for those days.

Modern writers fantasise
Involving sorcery and magic,
Heroes performing feats
Of rescues quite dramatic.

Lovers of mystery soak up
Crime stories galore
Finding in the writings,
An appetite for more.

Peas, Carrots and Taters

Favourites of the gardener
Who so carefully tends,
His earthly plot year round
Whatever the weather sends.

Lovingly digging up the soil
To make it loos and light
His plants will easier grow
If leaves avoid the blight.

Some consumers of vegetables
Like peas, carrots and taters,
Young folk in particular
Are Brussels-sprout haters.

But there is plenty of choice
Nothing is finer,
Fresh vegetables for lunch
For the gourmet diner.

Munching away contentedly
Peas, carrots and taters,
Enjoyed by some daily
Whenever the café caters.

Meat and two veg
The normal dinner platter,
Swamped by gravy rich
Soften crisp roast taters.


A drewdrop rolled
Stopped and hung,
Sparkling, to see
Lit by the sun.

Remaining suspended
A hanging tear,
Caught one moment
To then disappear.

Winter dewdrops
Falling below,
Off laurel leaves
Puncturing the snow.

Dewdrops we see
A moment in time,
Gems in sunlight
Sparklers sublime.

Rare is the glimpse
Of dewdrops bringing,
Nature's bright joy
Of dewdrops clinging.


My love for you is eternal
Today, tomorrow, always,
Formed by our meeting years ago
For the remainder of my days.

In spite of some differences
I balance them up and down,
Realising what a fool I am
My face in tears I drown.

Being a sensitive soul
Quite a burden it can be,
To understand both sides
And trying too hard to see —

Why an action has been taken
Why some words were spoken,
I'll always put you first
I pray and keep on hoping.

Maybe, in time I will spend
My final night in bed,
With you there beside me
Your arms cradling my head.

Today, tomorrow, always
My love constant and true,
To the end of my life on earth
No one else but you.

In the Whitehouse

Elections now are over
There is no new resident
Back to the same old recipe
There is no change in President.

The oval office rules America
Guided by he Democrats,
But they need cooperation
from Republican bureaucrats.

Will Americans unite in force
and henceforth pull together?
Hurricane Sandy proved a strain
With its terrible weather.

American leads the world
In humanitarian aid,
But can rush in too soon
So, many mistakes are made.

Friendly fire, there's no such thing
How can such fire be friendly?
Maiming one's own personnel
Mistaken for the enemy.

So the occupant of the Whitehouse
Must be a man of skill,
A true friend of Great Britain
Cherishing our firm goodwill.


I have a cat to love once more
Shadow is his name,
He is black and furry
Friendly and very tame.

His long and glossy coat
Sports just a few white hairs,
His eyes like bright diamonds
As straight at me he stares.

He prefers dried food
And a variety of cat treats,
Nibbled a few at at time
He's fussy what he eats.

His fomrer owner must have spoiled
And pampered him quite rotten,
I hope he will soon adapt
And bad habits soon forgotten.

He likes to hide away
Underneath a cupboard shelf,
With a lot of coaxing
He will come to myself.

After a few minutes
Back he hides again,
Right into the corner
Choosing to remain.