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Tag Archives: Poem

Have You Ever Been? …#Poem#Poetry#Prose

Have You Ever Been?

 

 

At nighttime a walking,

a wandering the street.

Looking back behind you,

you heard some feet.

Jumped just a little.

Or given out a shout.

Rustle of the bushes

as the birds fly out.

Passing of yard gate,

nearly at the park.

Skipping over to the side,

when angry dog bark.

Rounding of the corner,

into someone bump.

Skipping of a heartbeat,

thump, thump, thump.

Asking of a question,

 anticipate.

Critical the answer,

tortuous wait.

Then there are the butterflies

in ones full tum.

Physically sickened,

unlucky for some.

But, have you ever been,

in moment stuck?

Growing is the tension,

as each fears struck.

Unable to shake it,

you can’t turn away.

In every direction,

and every which way.

Each fear is added.

Stacking on the top.

It’s not like we want it.

We want it to stop.

Anxiety we all have,

it’s part of our mind.

Relief comes as normal,

when it’s left behind.

But when it is broken,

in it are trapped.

Help much is needed,

to get it unwrapped.

Don’t tell us that we need to,

out of it to snap.

If your helpful being not.

kindly shut your trap.

Pull ourselves together?

It’s just a state of mind.

Then from spiders you will run,

the bane of all mankind.

Heck it may be ladders,

under will not walk.

Superstitious sports routines,

or names we cannot talk.

All have been accepted,

treated as the norm.

But when the brain not work like that,

conform, conform, conform.

 

A § M 

20/08/2018

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

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
20/02/2018

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/poetry

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
3/12/2017

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing

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
3/12/2017

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/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

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