Lest

February 28, 2015 at 5:51 pm (Poems) (, , , , , )

There is no gap between the dark and light
No break of day, no falling of the night
Our hearts may ache but fingers still entwine
Your share of misplaced blame lies next to mine
There is no way to say a last goodbye
Though worlds apart, I feel it when you cry
Should mindless spin rotate the human race
Away from common problems we all face
We’ll split the cost no matter where we stand
Our imprint is co-authored on this land
Remember how I whisper in your ear
That love will always hold the hand of fear.

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Splits

February 17, 2015 at 3:04 pm (Stories) (, , )

She did the splits and it was so amazing
how far apart her feet were from each other
we stood out on the tarmac simply gazing
as those elastic legs bounced even further.

Our teachers sought to grant us inspiration
they said we all should work hard and would see
that everyone upon investigation
has something each is destined to achieve.

So Amanda still sits bouncing in that playground
whilst drinking in the wonder of the day
when all the class discovered she was gifted
in a most unusual quite peculiar way.

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Reassembly

February 10, 2015 at 8:29 pm (Poems) (, , )

Broken

pieces of my

personal history

aligned by astrological

co-incidence or something more than this

approach and wave salutations:

more real than remembered

more mended than

broken.

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Snow Break

February 8, 2015 at 1:01 pm (Poems) (, )

A thin veneer of frost or snow
serves well to cover
potholes and mistakes unrectified,
but temporarily;

serves well to cover
jagged edges
and debts unpaid.

Potholes and mistakes unrectified,
are not departed,
and will shortly reappear.

But temporarily,
go on and grant yourself
a snow break.

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Rushing

January 20, 2015 at 9:33 pm (Poems) (, , , , , )

Realisation: I’m not going to make it, even if I fly
Undoing: the benefits of sleep slipping away
Sensation: hot, cross and dangerous
Hold on: this is not going to happen
I‘m not: I won’t do this to myself
No more: no more rushing
Going to: breath a new dimension, going to slow things right on d
……………………………………………………………………………o
……………………………………………………………………………w
……………………………………………………………………………n

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River

January 16, 2015 at 10:13 pm (Poems)

My river is morning cups of tea,
comfy shoes and eyes that see,
blankets and warm underwear,
My river is clean hair.

My river is brightly coloured clothes,
to not forget; a car that goes;
has lips to kiss, a place to be,
to not be late, to flow as me.

It is calm and great excitement,
mute and then exuberant.
dinner on, fire lit, the lights down low,
the right pillow.

And now my river rocks me,
is your friend and our security,
My river is creation –
words, work, love, inspiration.

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May we

January 15, 2015 at 8:01 pm (Poems) (, , )

May river find sea
May sea meet with sand
May sand blow over mountains
May mountains reach cloud
May cloud release rain
May rain pour rivers

May we shift, dance and pass
with calm inevitability
Unharried by the storm.

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Around

January 10, 2015 at 3:25 pm (Poems) (, , , , , , )

Again, they bend to pick it up – a small flake of white gloss, bright on the ruby carpet, at the foot of the door frame. They haven’t time to wonder at the origin of the flake .
Each morning Alice removes an old-fashioned matchbox from the kitchen drawer, and steadying herself with one hand on the doorknob, uses the rough, striking edge to ever-so-slightly shave the frame.

Framed by familiar doors –
time to circumnavigate.
Hushed valediction.

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Bridge

January 7, 2015 at 7:40 pm (Poems) ()

On the way home, out of sheer necessity,
Geoffrey crossed the bridge between
his place of work, and his small parked car.

On Tuesday, it had remained dark,
hence it was gloomy indeed
when he crossed in the usual manner.

The young runners approached at pace,
cantering towards him, on the bridge,
potentially, he assessed, blocking his path.

Unaccustomed to this conundrum,
Geoffrey panicked, and climbed quickly
onto the wall, breaking his routine.

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Time at Christmas

December 25, 2014 at 1:57 pm (Poems) (, )

In the countdown to this Christmas,
in the mighty preparation,
the shopping rush, consumer crush,
I had the odd sensation
of hanging grim to fortune’s wheel,
defying gravity,
so thank you for the chance to land
beneath your Christmas tree.

For today I see the little things
that slip beneath the wheel,
take time to find the detail,
the care behind the meal.
And when again I venture,
I’ll walk slow, with a smile,
remembering how good it feels
to go the extra mile.

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