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Poet’s Morning


Sipping early tea
Savouring another’s words
Fresh inspiration
Old farmer ploughs his meadow
Rich tang of freshly turned soil

Another Another


Reaching out for …
… no response
Left in limbo
Hung out to dry

Fed on assumptions
Clutching at straws
Mighty thin gruel
Sans nourishment

The best? … Insufficient
While not at all sure of
Understanding the rules
(A longstanding habit)

A kindly silver lining
When the smoke clears
When the pain has dulled
A poem lurking in there

Marching Or Hobbling?


Time’s mysterious mysteries
Reveal themselves slowly
And only a bit at a time
Just as shy teen maidens

Poesy, its heralds likewise
Sweet William and daffodils
Shook Shakespeare awake
Romantics now called the shots!

This town today, Cockermouth
Resonates with connections
Largely leapfrogging steam
Safely retaining its fertility

Presently social mediates creation
Advising: seek Like or Comment
Masked insidious cattle prods
Torchbearers disdain and bleed

No past nor future not imaginary
Writer, reader, listener one breath
Caught riding the crest of the wave
In hopes of grasping immanence

Me As Esme


Meanders Esme
As cloud she says
More like to as planet
A stone(d) throw(n) away
A queenly throne bestowed
From whence at whim descend
As yet unthought, as unlikely
Words plucked betimely
Mischievous bedfellows
Beckoning pause for
Notions embowelled
Beneath the bric-à-brac
Littering the quotidian
Out-the-box conjectures
Jasmin sweet upon the air
Breathe deeply and sigh
Momentous moment
Immortalised, free

~~~~~ ~ ~~~~~


You may well enjoy and find nourishment in Esme’s Cloud:

Mary Oliver: In Memoriam


Flesh and bone may decay
Her words, all the thoughts
All the feelings they evoke
Shall remain to nourish us

Poems Lead Poets


This poem as emerged is actually
far more bitter and anguished
than its writer. Or far less …
What the hell. Let’s let it go;
it’s just the way it grew.

The initial germ here sprouted out
from a piece of Sarah’s weeks ago
that somehow caught my interest.
I’d have trouble locating it now;
it’s transmorphed completely.

Laboured at it for hours; it wouldn’t let go.
Clearly it’s determined to have its say.
As for you, happening by readers
looking out for an explanation
dream on, friends, dream on.

Poetry n Motion


This planet we stand on
Hurtling through space
With its wobbly spin …
We’re almost oblivious

Enough so to proclaim
That we can stand still

We surrender to motion
Car, bus, plane or boat
Forgetting after a while
That we’re moving at all

Until some sudden jerk
Serves as if to remind us

Poetess: Haiku


Ageing observer
Leaves replacing butterflies
Means nothing to her

A Shapely Verse


I see you may be my kind of poet
I may be your kind – Who knows?

The future is just around the corner
We could explore – Become followers

We can unfollow – No damage done
Been there, done that, survived

Maybe you are my kind of poet
Or maybe I simply like the shape

Lightly Felt Tips (Republished)


When you learn to distinguish
between what is truly good in poetry
(especially your own)
and what is – shall we say – not so good
then you are almost there.

The rest is just practice, daring,
risk taking and self confidence.
Satisfying yourself is the foundation.
Rules are there to follow or break;
pleasing others a welcome bonus.

So leave the back door wide open
and invite the Musey Lady in for a brew.
She loves to take a load off.
If she’s silent, it’s only ‘cos she’s thinking.
She’s just observing, sipping her tea.

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