always is thus; naked in my woods,
and a lake in spring; water and broken ice,
or so I tell myself; doubting my sincerity – serenity,
the path so often taken; today like all the yesterdays,
a rising sun without boundaries;
setting beyond the shards of reflection,
broken with truth in heart; through repetition,
I make my purchase swift; a new set of wings,
on credit; not expecting them to last,
the close encounter with a sun
I am the two worst people in this world,
common enough a folk; still dreaming,
I am the two worst people in this world,
the sand between my toes; medieval,
the drink in my hand; bloody red,
I am the two worst people in this world,
the words of God; translated,
the thoughts of common man; empty,
the turbulence inside one head; telling,
I am the two worst people in this world,
kissing; without lips,
slithering; without hips,
a snake in leopard skin,
fang-less
Once, now a mere fading
memory of a distant time
far beyond the realms of
that which seems possible;
reliable as a twitching thumb,
I carried a burden upon on
my finger; a ring made of metal,
precious; my precious ring
I do still posses yet never
wear; too brittle my mind,
too thick the finger,
once I proudly wore
a dream now
slowly
fading
as one that lives in a country
I do not regard as mine,
I see stupidity like never before
revealed before my saddened eyes,
where April will not be followed
by a May in bloom; just disarray,
though mind you I do not regret
staying away from the disjointed
states of the american planes,
with a puppet without strings
like a Muppet with a fist up
his ring; I would have suffered,
I would though have done something
about it; carried that gun so proudly
sold over a Mexican counter; undoubtedly,
I would have made my mind up,
I would have slaughtered the sheep,
I would have drunk the blood of the
innocent; then made my way home to the
house; without regret
Apparently it is valentine’s today. But without anyone to share with I’d just have to indulge in this tub on me own 🖖
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.~Elizabeth Barrett Browning- Sonnet 43 {1806 – 1861}
Photo: Morning greeting’ – Gloucestershire, Cotswolds, England by Cat Perkinton.
Hey guys, my book is out and ready and I can’t believe it!!!!!!
I have been working on this book for the last year or so, and I think it may be one of the first things I am proud of when it comes to my poetry. Thank you all for your support and help over this last year –
Look what just arrived!
Note to self: You know this worry that has been spinning and turning and rumbling around for a while. About being alive but not having a life. Well, tonight I learned that you can actually have a life without being alive! It is all about being an object, and to transition between contexts, just get made, get used, and find a suitable afterlife; you can live forever, without actually needing to be alive. Wicked.
It has now been ten years
since I kissed a pair of lips,
They were the only pair
I ever found worth kissing,
I have resigned the thought
of ever kiss such lips again,
Better to stay true to self
and linger; yet dreaming
So, I made the plan that was a requirement this time. The ‘Essay Plan’ that would revolutionise my career and take my writing to new heights. I then turned towards the actual work, the writing. The Conclusion came easy, followed by an Introduction fitting for royalties. With 20% of the essay completed I sighed; where’s the body of this essay suppose to come from? The ‘Essay Plan’ clearly stated from where but […] . So I ended up on the sofa; with a pizza and a bottle of wine… Hemingway never said ‘write drunk; edit sober’, but I think this is going to be one of those nights.
