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Category Archives: Writing

Shoes…#Poem#Poetry#Prose

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
10/2017

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing

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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
6/6/2017

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing

Fall…#Poem#Poetry#Prose

The leaves are falling from the trees above,
covering the ground in a blanket of colour.
All around I see squirrels – hopping and jumping from one pile to another.
They stop, and sift through the leaves, searching for the nuts hidden bellow.
Some, they eat, right there where they found them,
others run up to a branch preferring to be out of sight,
only coming back down after the meal is had.

I observe one who takes his nuts to an old garden shed and enters in a hole not repaired.
I wonder how safe those nuts are, stored on a seed tray, left on the floor.
Not used for the winter, undisturbed, with a lock on the door.
Sheltered from the wind and the rain that has been so present of late,
and from the cold and the snow that winter promises to bring.
A bag of straw, saved for next year, makes for a comfy chair to lay back upon.
Relaxed, not having to remember where it was those nut were buried.

Yes, I think that this clever little squirrel has got winter sorted for this year.

 

A § M
10/2017

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing

Reflections…Week Forty Three

canstockphoto8630797Another week has gone by without a poetry posting, they are still being written but the ‘class’ has had no ‘leader’. The reason why is because of a cataract operation she has had, normal services should be resumed shorty.

One has continued to write them, or at least put the bones and flesh upon paper, ready to stitch up as a Frankensteinian creation. Plucking parts from here to place there, or discard altogether. Placing a little life into the body so as to see how it moves, graceful is the aim, but it rarely is anything other than clunky, lurching around the room, leaking.

What a lovely image.

However disturbed that vision, One cannot describe the process any other way. Swathes of text can be circled and arrowed to re-arange places, crossed out, reversed, placed back in again, slightly different, crossed back out again, and given life through voice. Only then will one decide whether the life be removed and the process restated or left to heal and bloom.

One then ends up asking…”Is this a blessing or a curse?”

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/reflections-2017

It’s Easy to Speak… #poem #poetry

 

Words,
that was what failed me,
at my breakdown.
My mind it did care not,
for adverb nor noun.

Twisted, contorted,
my body did bend.
Painful the motion,
for word it to send.

Of fear and of panic,
I – was to feel.
Blow from the madness,
I – was to reel.

That it was my speech,
would fail me so.
Pain felt with each word,
a sentence to sow.

Questions were asked,
and answers were pained.
Though for the DR’s,
no answers were gained.

Why did my speech change,
I still do not know.
Just came and then stayed,
will it not go?

Thankful my body,
no longer writhe.
Though when I’m speaking,
still it’s not lithe.

Stiffly it does move,
whilst limping on.
On words it will stick,
n stumble upon.

So not always easy,
then just to speak.
For me, was a big change,
one day, of one week.

A § M
15/10/2017

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing

Man… #poetry #poem

A ‘Man’ cannot cry.
Emotion not show.
This is the lesson,
we learn as we grow.

Ridiculed in the school,
and ‘Gay” are we called.
If tears we do show,
for names that are called.

Character building,
is said it to be.
The spit in my hair,
and the blood on my knee.

The victim fights back,
and wins my first fight.
Then I get punished,
just how is that right?

The one became two,
and then became three.
I am the week one,
that’s what they tell me.

Complain I dare not,
and get called a ‘Girl.’
Try now to hide it,
will give it a whirl.

Now it is bottled,
tis working well.
Take home the pressure,
still we don’t tell.

__

If it leaks out,
you’r not a ‘Man.’
Too much to carry,
you’r not a ‘Man.’

Asking for help,
you’r not a ‘Man.’
Bought to your knees,
you’r not a ‘Man.’

__

We don’t ask for your help,
as it shows that we’re weak.
Admitting our problems,
tis a trait of the meek.

Then there’s the ‘New Man,’
we try to be both.
Still short of  – the ‘Man’s Man.’
it brings down his wroth.

I can’t be a ‘Man,’
and neither be ‘Me.’
To take one’s own life,
a chance to be “Free.’

Free from the standard,
of the word – ‘Man.’
But then it’s to late to,
find out it’s a sham.

On medication,
we hide out of sight.
Avoiding the questions,
ashamed of our plight.

Courage it takes us
from – ‘Man’ – now to walk.
Open our feelings,
in therapy – talk.

Become our own person,
in our own right.
Finding my own me,
and leaving the fight.

I stand on my own ground.
My battle cry – I – sound.
From ‘Man’ – now – I am – free.
Before you, stands —
ME.

A § M
8/10/2017

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing

Supermarket Meeting… #poetry #poem

Supermarket Meeting

I have just seen you,
or maybe I didn’t.
Could be illusion,
of someone who isn’t.

Style of the Eighties,
a decade – long past.
I stand enchanted,
my heartbeat, is fast.

Black T-shirt knotted,
not front, but round back.
Classic are blue jeans,
they’re skinny, not slack.

Mouse blonde is your hair,
T-pau is the style.
Ends with white trainers,
you’ve had for a while.

Sparkling are your eyes,
when flashed with that smile.
I felt a feeling,
not had in a while.

For time that was happy,
I feel my heart pine.
Should I approach you,
deliver that line.

Then is reflected,
the age that I am.
Time of the asking,
has gone with that ham.

Real or remembered,
illusion or not.
You woke a feeling,
I’d left there to rot.

Silent a thank-you,
is sent with a smile.
For thinking that I could;
for just a short while.

A § M
3/10/2017