Reflections 2020 w08

The problem with long depressive episodes is not caring where everything goes, and if you are sorting out your belongings to either sell or make room for something else at the time of the episode, you tend to place something you cannot find at a later date. Or worse you have cleared it out — for some, now unknown, reason.

It appears I have done this with a notepad I cannot find. Fast running out of places to rearrange once again, in a hope of finding it, a common side effect of coming out of a low dip, is leaving one perplexed. I know I have not thrown or destroyed the notebook, because it has a parker pen connected to it, my blue ink one.

I can only locate my black ink one, this has a different colour clip for identification purposes. The blue one originally had green ink, with really helped with the words not moving around, but had the annoying habit of  clumping ink on a regular basis before depositing  it to be smudged on the second pass of my hand. So I changed it to blue.

The black is just for coursework or form filling.

I like my blue pen, and I dislike the black hole of memories depression leaves.

Which is why I have the notebooks.

Box…#Poem

Box

I sit and I look,

inspiration t’ cook.

Poetry subject,

in my little book.

Scanned all around

for something to see.

Something of interest,

to set my pen free.

Blankly I look round, 

it then caught my eye.

A – foreign language,

in printed black dye.

Box made of cardboard

that once did hold fruit.

Having a move round,

by bloke in a suit.

Fruit came from Egypt,

to sell at this store.

Box is well traveled, 

But wait – there is more.

Box was made elsewhere,

Italy the start.

I shop in England,

now think of my part.

I will recycle,

to think myself green.

This sent to China,

reports one has seen.

How many miles,

does a box clock?

Time bomb a ticking.

Tic Toc,

Tic Toc,

Tic; Toc.

A § M 

15/06/2019

Lampost…#Poem

Lampost

Lamppost the challenge,

for writing these lines.

Honestly thought of;

not many times.

Switch on in evening,

and stay on all night.

Ill-um-in-at-ing,

when gone is sunlight.

Lean on at bus stop,

to share the long wait.

Dogs see a pee post,

unpleasant its fait.

Birds use as perch post

surrounding survey.

More stable, in winds,

than tree with sway.

Fog make things eerie,

defusing the light.

See wind a swirling,

such a strange sight.

Used by an artist,

to show a romance.

Seems more iconic,

than a tower in France.

Old type – not modern,

the style and the shape.

Maybe with side bars,

from bunting can drape.

Nighttime, or raining,

couples will walk.

Under umbrella,

whispers small talk.

Into the painting,

we follow their tracks.

Faces are not seen,

view only their backs.

A § M 

13/06/2019

Mare’s Field…#Poem

Mare’s Field

Tales of a pond,

Nay, there be two.

Whispers in playground

of what we should do.

Sneak over the road,

and find the red path.

Shrouded by talk trees,

we giggle and laugh.

Follow the leader,

who’s been there before.

Telling us stories 

of what is in store.

Frog spawn and tadpoles,

the stickle back fish.

Something called newt,

to see it we wish.

Crested the first hill

and broke through the trees.

masses of bankside,

our little eye sees.

Follow the footpath,

go down and go up.

Sharing a bottle,

each taking a sup.

Onward we venture,

to crest one more hill.

There in its glory,

Gleams pond water still.

This was our first time 

’twas never our last.

Mare’s field’s our future,

our present, our past.

Remember the pleasure

you had in this park.

Maybe go wander,

when life looking stark.

 

A § M 

05/06/2019

The Grum…#Poem

The Grum

I’m off to the Grum,

I’d shout through the door.

Horseshoe embankment,

red ash park floor.

Witches hat towering

over basic park ride.

Tunnel embankment,

for children to hide.

Swings made of old tyres,

on thick heavy chain.

Twisted to spin round,

n’ scramble one’s brain.

Fort made of thick logs,

to clamber about.

Or maybe to fumble,

hit floor with a clout.

But then there’s our favourite,

the forty foot slide.

With a bump in the middle,

gain air on the glide.

Waxed to perfection,

with candles we’d bring.

Riotous laughter,

in horseshoe would ring.

Butterflies and grasshoppers,

on banks we would catch.

Grazes and Grass stains,

our colours would match.

But grass banks we’d scramble,

or steep concrete climb.

For slide of excitement,

Time after time.

 

A § M 

24/5/2019

Grum…Poetry

Grum

I’m off to the grum,

I’d shout through the door.

The horseshoe embankment,

with red ash park floor.

Witches hat towering,

over basic park ride.

Tunnel embankment,

for children to hide.

Swings made of old tyres

on thick heavy chains.

Twisted to spin round,

n’ scramble one’s brain.

Fort made of thick log,

to clamber about.

Or maybe to fumble,

hit floor with a clout.

But then there’s our favourite.

The forty foot slide.

With a bump in the middle,

gain air on the glide.

Waxed to perfection,

with candles we’d bring.

Riotous laughter,

in horseshoe would ring.

Butterflies and grasshoppers,

on banks we would catch.

With Grazes and grass stains,

our colours would match.

But grass banks we’d scramble,

or steep concrete stairs.

Slide time go slo-mo,

no worries – no cares.

 

A§M

24/05/2019

The Life and Death of a Puppet…#Poem

The life and death of a puppet 

For some a creation,

A whisper, a glance.

Subconscious of builder,

With puppet will dance.

 

From stacks of materials

All gathered around.

Working together,

Its form to be found.

 

But some from a plan,

A pattern that’s bought.

Clone of another,

Its character – no thought.

 

For it is for another,

Its life them to give.

When built for the sale

With other, to live.

 

Patiently waiting

Whilst stored on a stand.

Vacant and lifeless,

Till given a hand.

 

Bought by another

And taken to home.

So starts the magic,

In fabric and foam.

 

Some lovingly cared for

And attention is paid.

But none last forever,

If repairs are not made.

 

Some though are just placed,

In a box with a lid.

Glass eyes in darkness,

Its character hid.

 

Waiting and hoping

To once more see light.

And view new horizons

Through eyes with no sight.

 

But a puppet left lonely

From memory, will fade.

Cause it’s only through contact,

A connection be made. 

 

A§M

10/05/2019

Unknown Destination …Prose

Unknown Destination

 

The sun 

it shines

through a break in the clouds.

 

Illuminated

shoreline

far off into the distance.

 

Sand glows

sea glistens

my mind perceives the warmth.

 

I want

heart longs

to be in that place.

 

Bitting 

cold

return

as dark clouds swirl around.

 

Soft mud

knee deep

still river sits between.

 

Grass tufts

firm ground

a hopscotch of hope.

 

Some false

sink down

when on them I stand.

 

Mistakes made

miss-steps

in mud river slide.

 

Strength

sapping

embrace

this marsh that I’m in.

 

Mud coats

each time

I pull myself out.

 

Constant 

reminder

of times that I’ve failed.

 

I carry 

the weight

it drags to the ground.

 

Hard work

to move

to get myself out.

 

Respite

reprieve

come to dry land.

 

A fire can be built.

 

Shelter

warming

mud flakes as it dries.

 

Lifted 

in spirit,

watch flames in a  dance.

 

Muscles

relax

shake off the mud.

 

Lightning

the load

before moving on.

 

Journey 

continues

Unknown the path.

 

Look forward,

see lights,

of campfires dotted around.

 

I’m not here alone.

 

A § M 

01/03/2019

Time to Feel…Poem

Time to Feel

 

Shunned,

Belittled.

Low,

Depressed.

I hide, become avoidant.

 

You say,

I feel.

Words cut,

I reel.

It tarnishes the moment.

 

To be seen,

Dismissed.

Self-esteem,

Suppressed.

My achievements you belittle.

 

Uphill,

I climb.

Down hill,

I’m pushed.

Why do I even bother?

 

Get angry,

Keep hold.

Keep quiet,

Explode.

Immediately guilty, thats fine.

 

Play down,

Your part.

You hold,

Your heart.

Why is your hurt worth more than mine?

 

Your hurtful,

And spiteful.

With Speech,

Predictable.

Tis a nasty catchphrase.

 

When pattens,

Repeat.

I try to,

Retreat.

But I’m trapped in your maze.

 

With a wall,

Of thorns tall.

And a path,

Of glass shattered.

I have to have my freedom.

 

Can’t ask for,

Assistance.

Punch drunk,

Til Conceded.

My mind is in a maelstrom.

 

My ego’s,

Deflated.

Suppressed,

Self-belief.

That’s what your control has left me.

 

An answer,

It’s found.

An end

Can be seen.

My life it has to leave me.

 

I quit playing,

your game.

But I can’t see

all the pain.

That I would leave behind me.

 

Shrouded,

In mist.

Fate took,

A slight twist.

A second chance it gave me.

 

A chance

To get well.

And break from,

Your spell.

Deflect; nay end, negativity.

 

A § M 

6/6/2017

Pennies…Poem

Pennies

 

Why is saving, the pennies

to put away,

I find, much harder

than what people say?

 

My wallet – is sturdy

of material stout.

The holes, I can find none

where the money falls out.

 

Why is – the more that I save,

the bigger the bills?

Left with only the coppers

to pay at the tills.

 

Always I scrape by,

the sofa will tip.

Hoping for coinage,

with the stray, apple pip.

 

But that’s where I found some,

in a week that’s gone bye.

If I was faithful,

I’d turn to the sky.

 

And ask why it’s raining,

day after day.

To swallow the money,

and flush it away.

 

A § M 

11/05/2018