The stream (all workshops)
FOOTSTEPS IN THE SNOW
3rd December 2012.
Smooth sheet
stretched between the posts
a silken fabric ready to be disturbed
by nature's bustle
lying silent, white, asleep
so still,
so unperturbed,
existing in its virgin quiet
when no winds blow.
Below the crystals beautiful,
the grass succumbs,
still green,
unseen to grow
the sky that changes
from the indigo of night
is slashed with light
as dawn begins to show
across the plains of Salisbury.
The exciting, nail-biting finale
Oh, playing time has finally arrived
Family competition of Scrabble
Ah, over dictionaries we have strived
It often finishes in a squabble
Someone’s vocabulary has nose-dived
Tommy's poor lip quivering and trembles
All because Robbie chanted, mocked and jived
The whole table begins to dissemble
An argument from where the word derived
Oh dear, watching all good spirit crumble
Hopefully, harmony can be revived
Next time, one of these ideas I hatch
Bribery sins…
.Spurns and prides are taking passes.
Passing balances all are cases and tasks.
Some retakes are warrants put.
Pick the tough ropes not only straws to last.
PINKO god-some will need the disciplines.
Doors to Eden just are door ajar.
Some things harmonic needed our justices to cohere.
Feels are fear alarms that mighty come.
Something uprights needed our uprising.
China premier WENJIABO bribery sins then some of them must also sinning with so.
lost to a dream merchant
the counter a bed
the lights wink in the chrome sink
and the clever skill wrists
are slunk to the pocket depths
an ear exposed beyond the thick
shine of dyed black hair
anonymous grifter colour
like a great wing
laying shinning down the
length of wool
the tiny back
Snow and rain caress
the plate glass
and there is joy in the voice
of the bell
that cries arrivals
and departures
an aviary angel sleeps
in weary wings
and working soul
Plastic magic Pen…..
I once had a plastic magic pen,
that sought the stories of heroes
way back when.
Each hero was to be of a different
breed, it would be good if all you
Poets, writer’s would take heed. .
This pen was interested in gathering
their stories, and writing them into
the futures glories.
He needed to find men and women
who’d been brave, even if they were
now in their grave.
EMPTY SPACES
I stand in an empty place
reaching far and wide
no horizons to hold onto,
and I am lost in vertigo.
useless are recollections
short flashes of life done
replayed in Death’s refraction.
meaningless are words
for they only say, never truly tell.
fearful is the silence I hear
hollow echoes of my prayers
into infinite spaces. *
*BLAISE PASCAL: “Le silence éternel de ces espaces infinis m’effraie” [The eternal silence of these infinite spaces frightens me.” ]
Drifting in slowly, the early morning fog of
love’s heat colliding softly with the chill of emptiness.
The total being wrapped within a deep damp mist.
Thoughts just drunken derelicts bumping
together in the haze, adding nothing but confusion.
Mental compass points obscured.
Loneliness the soul mate now.
The stillness finally shattered by the
silent scream for help that only God can hear.
The room is dank and stale,
bedsheets and underwear shudder
in the closet bottom.
There, mucus stains
and bits of broken chicken bones
lie strewn as the slain
after Troy was sacked.
Windows are dark and dirty,
haunting curtains fly
as the lonesome winds sigh.
Pretentious music faintly sings:
bit-sized string quartets
chime a jolly melody
to an imaginary audience.
The mind grows faint from
pleasure's distress,
and foreboding what
may never come.
Tenuous grasp on reality
slipping into the bliss of fantasy
wrapped in dreams so cosily
everythings looking rosy
Lulled into a sense of security
forgetting about office CCTV
caught napping secretly
boss eyeing me sternly
Oh, dear woe is me
now there'll be no break for tea
atmosphere shrouded in hostility
reality gripping me firmly
The air is absolutely still
on this cool late autumn day
and such a cloudless crystal blue
one sneeze could blow it all away
It's Thanksgiving and the limbs are bare
each tree a sketch of varied gray
save scattered green cedars and pines
where the finches flit and play
Far shore's reflected on the pond
standing the whole world on its head
where the red hawks soar inverted
and rising sun turns the ground red
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