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Reflections 2018 w34

Well my short story was posted last Monday for the Writing Kiln’s Pottery Prize, my first ‘proper’ writing competition entry, hopefully this one will have more than two people entering it (last years Brighter Futures in-house writing competition).

True the last one may have been a disappointment in the participation and therefore the result, but it did get my ‘story head on’ and this years entry was written.

It was written for the Potteries Prize last year, but I got my dates wrong for the entry which meant I either just published it on my site or saved it for another competition it fit the criteria for. Obviously I saved it, not even knowing if the competition would be running this year.

With the poetry writing my usual routine is to write it, leave it, alter it, leave it, alter it some more…Maybe publish it, reread it and tweak a little. But this, after nearly a year, has had no more alterations, the Brighter future story I would rewrite swathes of.

I feel I could not have written it any better, at this time, in the future, as my skill increase, who knows. But now, it is the best story I have written.

Miss Ross would be proud that I have finally written a story and it has a beginning, middle and an end. She always liked my stories, but I only wrote the middle part at high school.

One day I will write the book she always said I had in me.

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/reflections-2018

 

 

 

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I Don’t Want To Go Outside …#Poetry#Prose#Poem

I Don’t Want, To Go Outside

 

I don’t want to go,

exposed outside.

But behind this door,

remain and hide.

What is it, out there,

I fear, to face?

Nought but the monster

in my own head space.

The door is where

the line is drawn.

Even though my mind’s,

where the monster’s born.

The fears in the fog,

where the shadows will hide.

Upon gusts of the wind,

will the monster ride.

The rain its tears,

as it passes overhead.

In the suns long shadows,

it will hide instead.

The ice its skin,

as it slithers under foot.

Its cold, cold hand,

on exposed skin put.

Hear the dogs a barking,

to scare it away.

Movement in the trees

and the branches will sway.

The birds are disturbed,

take flight with a shrill.

as the frost of its breath,

in my lungs will chill.

No there’s nothing out there,

but what’s in my mind.

And my mind’s made up;

We’re not going out.

 

A § M 

18/05/18

Once Upon a Time…#Poetry#Prose#Poem

Once Upon a Time

 

There once was a time that you did tear,

When ride me you told was your last year.

On a pier I’m quite quaint,

But I’m loosing my paint,

n you’ve still not returned me my left ear.

 

A § M 

19/05/2018

My Medical Experience …#Poetry#Poem#Prose

My Medical Experience

 

A broken leg will not be left,

pain killers just be given.

No gaping wound be stitch denied

a plaster handed out.

A foreign object pierced the skin

would not be left to fester.

And if your heart will have attack,

would lazy just be called?

An if to walk you need some help

would therapy be given?

 

But what if these you were denied, and only pills be given?

What if these will come with scorn, and government you blame?

How well would you become?

How soon would you to work return, if nothing was to change?

And if you’re told you choose that life, because you find it easy.

How welcome would you feel?

 

There is no magic pill to have, that is – what we are told.

But now they have a pill for that, it’s new, just look, behold!

Therapy supposed to be, to solve the problem had.

But all I do is take damn pills, and this i’m told be glad.

Side-effects to be ignored, or worse just be accepted.

But still I go and battle on, I’m drained, I have been emptied.

 

How long do I remain unwell, and better not be getting,

before you will accept your wrong, and your pills – they need a vetting?

 

A § M 

15/05/2018

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk

Plotting Time…#Poem#Poetry#Prose

Plotting Time

 

Sitting in the shed,

sorting all the seeds.

Making out the list,

writing all my needs.

 

Greenhouse needs a clean,

algae have to scrub.

The pots I have from last years plants,

I’m washing in a tub.

 

Swept remainder of the leaves,

pulled up first of this years weeds.

Plot of soil that’s been raked flat,

what is planted? This and that.

 

Blackbird watches in pear tree,

the robin sits on fork.

Keeps an eye out for the worms,

that show up where I walk.

 

Disturbing hiding frogs,

when moving bags and bins.

It looks like little mouse made home,

in old and rusty tins.

 

No room for ornament or light.

No place for garden gnome.

Few flowers round the edges are,

t’is mainly veg thats grown.

 

Now’s time for lead on Spot to put,

pack up and head off to home.

My dinner I have yet to eat,

and Spot she wants her bone. 

 

 

A § M 

21/04/2018

    

Food…#Poem#Poetry#Prose

Food

Something to eat.

To nourish the body.

Starvation to beat.

To cook or have cooked,
or have it delivered.
Are we in, or out, when we eat?.
Fancy or plain,
new or the same?
A cafe, a restaurant, a treat.

With family, with friends,
beginnings to ends,
and all of the ages between.
The happy the sad,
the good and the bad,
through all will food be it seen.

A birthday with tarts,
the joining of hearts,
a breakfast at end of the day.
A seasons event,
with food be it spent,
happy, as children at play.

A loss of a person,
is marked by a wake.
Tis needed to help heal a hole.
Tea and a sandwich,
and maybe some cake,
the food, it comforts the soul.

A connection is made,
of food and of pain,
the comfort of eating,
but weight will I gain.
So punish my body
with sugar and salt.
Eat till it’s painful,
it’s always my fault.

Habit accepted,
my self abuse.
Companies like it,
my habit they use.
Happy they sell us,
with every bite.
Adverts and sales teams,
flexing their might.

Make it addictive,
to profit increase.
Sell it as healthy,
new flavour release.
Turn on unhealthy,
it’s ‘choice’ that they say.
There’s no other reason,
we’ve ended this way.

Psychology and science
to sell food is used.
But treatment when asked for
is often refused.
Or if your accepted
theres often long wait.
So the cycle continues,
with the food that I’ve ate.

A § M 

18/03/2018

    

Woolly Hat…#Poetry#Poem#Prose

Woolly Hat

 

Woolly hat that’s filled with holes,

woolly hat brand new.

Woolly hat with bags of room,

woolly hat too small.

 

Woolly hat with bobble top,

woolly hat with none.

Woolly hat with patterns on,

woolly hat just plain.

 

Woolly hat with ear flaps,

woolly hat with ties.

Woolly hat of creatures heads,

woolly hat with tail.

 

So simple is the woolly hat,

Nanna knits at home.

For babies that are yet still fresh,

keep them toasty warm.

 

And yet when do I sit and look,

not a pair in sight.

Except for on the shopping rail,

they’re selling on my right.

A § M 

6/6/2017