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Category Archives: poetry

Dear Doctor…#Poem#Poetry#Prose

Dear Doctor

What pain do you seek of me,
in screams that can be heard?
How can I make it crystal clear,
with each, and every word?

My medication, poison pills,
upon prescription slip.
Tis all that you will give to me,
T’ help with bumpy trip.

Sodden I do slump in place
in tears that I have cried.
What will the treatment cost me now,
if not the suicide?

My veins should I give to you?
For payment in my blood.
Or would you just inject a drug,
I rather think you would.

You say that I am just unwell,
my mind it needs to heal.
Then medicate me to the hilt,
til nowt there is to feel.

Emotions that’re now suppressed,
always will break free.
Fix the problem at the source,
supply the therapy.

But this thing to me denied,
the reasons are unknown.
And then you go and wonder why,
I feel I stand – alone.


A § M


Poetic Release

When one first went the writing and poetry session at Echo it was set within my mind that how to write would be taught. Instead was found a small pile of poetry books and very little else.

The hour passed with the reading of a poem and then being asked on the thoughts and feelings that was elicited for that piece, “it’s ok” was not an acceptable answer. The lady running the session made it clear from the start she preferred poetry and that is what she would bring to the group, as for us we just had to write.

One did not think that in less than a year the therapeutic effects of the release of thought would be in the preferred form of poetry or prose. Calming the language down in order to have more impact through pace and emphasis on a word or line allows the anger to subside as well.

Sometimes a poem will start in the dark, stay in the dark and end in the dark. One has quite literally read a poem one week and never seen a person from that group come back to another, my words having taken them somewhere they did not want to go.

It’s not like I start out with the poem plan – lets make this one really dark, they go wherever my mind needs them to go. And the next poem – Dear Doctor – is a release of my frustration with the ever decreasing hoops one is being shoved through. I had to write it out before seeing the Dr today so I did not end up saying something I should not have said.

The frustration I think still came over when I was talking, but it was not directed at him.

Neither is my next poem – Dear Doctor…



Pitter Patter, pitter pat,
rain is landing on my hat.
Pitter Patter, pitter pat,
lightning strikes to scare the cat.
Pitter Patter, pitter pat,
in little brook there swims a rat.
Pitter Patter, pitter pat,
through the soft mud, splat, splat, splat.
Pitter Patter, pitter pat,
make a splash in puddle flat.

Drip by drip and drop by drop,
from hat falling, plop, plop, plop.
Drip by drip and drop by drop,
in sheltered doorway, little stop.
Drip by drip and drop by drop,
floats on past a bottle top.
Drip by drip and drop by drop,
soaks the litter by the shop.
Drip by drip and drop by drop,
back to home – with a hoppity hop.


A § M

The Old Men … #Poem#Poetry#Prose

The Old Men

The old men in this isle will stop,
when they’re on their weekly shop.
Magazines they read, for a while,
as one by one – stand single file.

A trolley they have with nowt within,
appears their shopping, yet to begin.
Partners will come and take it away,
glance up they will – with nothing to say.

They make no move, their partners to chase,
’tis not yet read, may loose their place.
When finished they will dawdle on,
’tis then they think – where have they gone?

A § M

A Stokie Thanksgiving… #Poem#Poetry#Prose

A Stokie Thanksgiving


The American flag flaps with a vigour in strong gusts,
gently retuning to rest in the sparse lulls of the Stoke wind.
Thanksgiving the celebration, for the Clubhouse Network.

As burgers are flipped and ‘dogs’ are turned,
fat drips and lands with a sizzle.
Flames from the hot coals lick the burgers edge.
The smell is carried on plumes of smoke.

Joyful chatter is carried also with the wind as spirits are high,
but few stay outside, braving the nip in the air of winters approach.
I sit on the bench, taking the one dry section left,
covered it seems from the rain of the morn.

Downwind of it all I sit, watching, observing.
Being part of it all, yet ever so separate.
Until, unnoticed, I slip away.


A § M


Black buckled boots that old ladies wear, polished, clean and smart,
walk with the brown leather shoes that old men wear, with pride in their heart.
Tan lines of stress marble the surface.

Tassels on toes, with every step jiggle and sway,
child with soles flashing, around checkout will play.
Exhaustion on the mothers voice.

Sandals paired with socks are made to walk alone!

Trainers are common, rarely are clean.
Except fro the old folk, who keep them pristine.
Even the soles show no dirt.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Doc Martin’s on mans feet are worn,
paired with ladies battered pink Converse, looking lovelorn.
Neither look happy.

Then there are walking boots, my choice of footwear,
from supermarket to hilltop, they go anywhere.
— But here they do sit.



A § M

Blank Blank Blank…#Poetry#Poem#Prose

There is nothing to write,
I’ve been at it all night.
Here is pen, and pa-per,
and there’s notes, to re-fere.

But with no inspiration,
there is just desperation.
I scratch head for a thought,
brings forth nothing, nada — nought.

I stare unto the page,
for what seems like an age.
But nothing will come,
and nothing is done.

I scribble at the top of the page.

A § M