The stream (all workshops)
It’s raining so hard outside
and the wind is blowing too
As I look out of the window
the dark clouds spoil my view.
I’m feeling a little bit bored
wondering what I can do.
So with my pen, I’m trying
to write a word or two.
I’d like to write a little poem
but I don’t know how to start.
I could write about the weather
or just something from the heart.
Maybe I should try really hard
to make my poem rhyme.
But that could be rather difficult
it could take me quite some time.
Somewhere a heart is breaking
as a young girl is left all alone.
Friends call round to comfort her
as she sits there by her phone.
She’s just waiting there for him
in the hope that it’s not goodbye
But he’s not coming home again
he’s leaving her there to cry.
flare of albino sun
the cold flask
ablaze
drowsy comes
the glitter
all the brave new
moves
like paper
in the empty falls
like fingerprints
on rain stained halls
how you move me
in the cold
mystery of
enthrall
Nothing left but an old well
just off a dim road overgrown
to hint where others used to dwell
and tend the crops that they had sown
Where once fields grew and a home stood
this hole is all that's left
all overcome by hoary wood
of all but wanderers bereft
Whose forefathers worked this land
such a long, long time ago ?
where the tall pine trees now stand
I guess I'll never know
My Ring Finger
The fingers I see,
Long, pointed and soft,
As a lotus flowers,
Distant memory fades
It graces the face
The fingers once did trace,
As it leaves a churning
Whirl in me
I look beyond my window
Many passers by I see
Who perhaps have yet to do?
Many a chores that await me
The fourth finger
A remembrance of the love
Then so pure
Now in eyes a tear
A quivering sore
Flowers feed on the rain
and I lean on your name
sunshine warm the earth
my heart burning with thirst
Twilight dances with the moon
and I wanna dance with you
rainbows form in my heart
my heart rain from the start
Quiet meal, just the two of us
is something we still like to share.
It’s always easier to be ourselves
When no one else is there.
Slow dance, is still our favourite dance.
you and I together, me holding you near.
While you listen as I softly whisper
words of love in your ear.
Gentle passion, that’s how we want it
when you share your love with me.
Still romantic and always tender.
That’s how we like it to be.
It was cold and windy, always seemed to be the same
whenever he dug out a grave and often it would rain.
Grave digging was something he knew someone had to do
that was his job and he always took pride in doing it too.
People knew him in the village where he’d made his home
this strange young man, who was always on his own.
Sometimes it feels like the pulsing energy of the sun
Other times there is barely a spark
Or is it really a rotation of night and day
Where does it go, where does it go?
I feel the flow from head to toe
Yet it passes in time, as if I were dead
Is it life or is it death
Where does it go, where does it go?
Sometimes it’s one, at times it’s two
Or can two be like one
Then what of two in simple repose
Where does it go, where does it go?
There are other things besides writing,
but the pen loves me like no other;
never holding back
unless being watched
by those over-the-shoulder-fuckers ...
scared rabbits;
don't offer me no carrots.
Freeing, isn't it;
saying it out loud,
writing it down,
getting lost in the ink,
the lines on the page;
giving in to the rage.
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