Category Archives: Poem – Not Written By Me Though

Cryptic Search

Journey of Reflections

Slithering old

private investigator

searches for

clues to use

on a double

shield family force.

His obsession

castigated by

police force.

He decrypts

evidence by

an emotional

mystery kit

misused

left and right,

from distraction

on warning signs

signaled by

dashboards.

Money gadgets

twists

polished knobs

by trustees

hand prints

on safe

seated in flight,

bound by

loyalty blood

seat belted

locked tight,

flock starling in

murmuration.

Clean house,

inside and out,

abandoned.

Palm leaves

falls

for gardener to

pruned out

to trash pile,

investigated.

Surveillance

on birch trees

empty nested birds

chirping pleas for

hatchlings mouths

captured and

wings clipped

to rusty cages

down South.

More dirt to dig

he was convinced

using a shovel

in a chemical landfill

as the

family maneuvers above soaring.

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Llangammarch Blaze

simonhlilly

Llangammarch Blaze

There now, lay it all down,
The soft memory and the memory of hard bone.
After the year’s first true frost
A dead sheep lies in the field becoming a dance of hawks and ravens.
And on a lonely hillside unremarked
A blaze has born the babies away.
A smudge of smoke and the light of morning
Is no prayer of peace to ones who wait
Empty-hearted for better news.
The village, warm now in sun, silent.
Thoughts unthought of before – friends vanished,
Those known, now unplaced, a hollowness
Around memory clung to.
It is an uncertain anchor to hold on to –
This world that blinks apart from day to day.
Should we rise and flow like the oak leaves
On the cold dark currents of the Irfon?
Or wrap around like ivy, cling like lichen bloom
To this weathered stone.
We are a thin soil…

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Remember The Wind…

In memoriam Kimberly Wilhelmina Floria.

seyisandradavid

(Fly With The Wind KIM)

Yesterday, I found out about the passing of my friend, a prolific writer, and a wonderful poet,  Kimberly Wilhelmina Floria https://silentlyheardonce.wordpress.com/ and my heart broke into a million pieces. Kim fought a brave battle but has decided to rest. However, she has left us with several words of wisdom. While reading her poignant poem below, I felt a searing pain in my chest thinking of all the times I’ve wasted fighting needless battles, blocking the sun and escaping the breeze.

Three weeks ago I was wheeled out of the operating theatre after an emergency surgery, for a fleeting moment, the thought passed through my mind, ‘what if this is the end?’

All that’s going to change now. To celebrate her life, we need to ponder on now, this moment, we should imprint every memories so that when our time comes, we would have lived!

I think what Kim was trying to say is…

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Last night

“How will I say where I end
Or where you begin” – Robin Williamson.

Lyrics:

http://www.metrolyrics.com/queen-of-love-lyrics-incredible-string-band.html

TheFeatheredSleep


Last night, The Devil called

He said

I’m calling in my marker

You have the wrong stiff, I replied

I’ve been scared stiff too long

I calcified

Turned into crystal

Split apart under armadillo sun

Melted and became a resin lingua, beneath surface, hearing murmur

Of half forgotten plea
Smoke me if you must

You’ve got the flame

Though displeased not to gain my soul, ponder this …

What you cannot snap in two

What resists

Will one day be called beautiful

And all that pain it took

Just to keep walking

When the sun burned you to clay and turned you finally to river mud

When the last ounce of yes I can

Si su puede

Became Holy Lord I cannot endure

When you felt yourself

Wilt like wax candle of the saints, in midday sun

From alive, to oil, to fire and back again to blood

When Demi-Devil’s…

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Past Time

The best tribute I can pay to this piece, Betty, is to repost it so that others can stumble upon it – and you. The best poems are timeless.

Seasonings

.

She whittles

on a block

of solitude

until it’s gone

and pieces lie

about her feet

and slivers

bleed her hands

carving

out another poem

that only he

will understand.

.

.

(c) 1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

.

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Remembering Of A Something

simonhlilly

REMEMBERING OF A SOMETHING

I shall not remember this,
Nor shall be remembered for this.
And yet for a moment I am here,
Settled between grey hills in slow rain.
My love, still sleeping, her dreaming breath
A slow mist down by the river.

Where did it begin?
Moving on, just so,
As a shifting sunset.

Stone stretched thin until i admits hollowed light.
Dark cliffs wane, and here we are:
Saints as numberless as sheep,
Sheep as numerous as clouds.
Clouds piling to heaven then whispering to nothing,
Pushed by hills older than themselves.
The river runs thick and dark, naming each stone.
It is as easy to forget, sometimes, as to remember.
(Bitter ashes, black soot, husks huddled that once had faces).
How fast the grass covers it all, takes away cause and reason.

Here we are:
A silted green valley down to the sea at Llantwit,
Where…

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St Ives

How unexpected to find a second poem containing the word pilchard in such close (relative) proximity. And a fine poem too.

mindfoxblog

image

Where is the tang of salt,

the reek of the sea’s harvest?

No more the seafarer’s roll

caresses my pier side stones;

no more the women’s red hands

bear fish stained air to cellars,

to chapel, to marriage beds.

I am left to the idle,

the fanciful escapees

that smother my golden sands,

and the sea only knows rage

or seduction – picturesque

to the exclusion of life.


Pilchards were my life – “pilchards”!

Even the word lacks beauty –

‘a devious shining worm

of a man’ this oily fish

has become in a packaged age.

Eyes have turned to the shining

light, springing into the air,

to the translucent turquoise,

to shapes of leisured gesture,

and the abstraction of form.

But beneath, I lie silent,

founded in oil and offal,

grieving for the days of fish,

the certainty of produce,

of sea, land and working hands –

plain, factual…

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criticism

along the interstice

you’re a bull in my shop
believing yourself to be
companionately brutal

and each time
bone china flies

and each time
i am left
to sweep up my aisles
littered with shards of pellucid and greige

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Tick Tock

Tick tock clock click
Clunk click every trip*
Locked in up tight
Count down to zero

~~~~~~~

*https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clunk_Click_Every_Trip

Seasonings

.

Time is no straight line,

it is a serpent

crossing the room sideways

like a glance.

It burns rubber

careening

around every corner

tossing irony,

like bits of confetti

into our pockets.

Time dances a circle

around the fire of desire

then churns out to sea

on a wave of kelp,

unraveling one dream

weaving another.

It flip flops

in crazy eights,

bounces like a rubber ball

on a hot sidewalk

reflecting all angles

oblique and acute

but always right.

At its best

time is a spiral

lifting our vision

until the end

when it shrinks into a dot

in the palm of our hand,

and with one breath

blows us away

into the heart of forever.

.

© 2014, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

.

(a re-post)

.

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Literary ‘dead’

Brooding Secrets

Pen; a shamefully legalized sword and
a paper of forced reflections, I am just
a rented massacre frantically walking on a narrow lane,
burdened with ostracized thoughts and glimpses of reality;
denied, I was once told that my words have the power
to change the stagnant and uplift the meek voices,
but I am a fiction; dead, poetry; marginalized,
a novel unheard
for all they wear is white and all I know is to stain.

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