time comes with a lid no handles to hold the night was a thief dark thumbs to wear kept dreams to count love without doors leaves but feathers till days break aloud to let in theives for their tall times
you are the wall you are the mother you are the duck you are the music you are the night you are the sound you are the silence
There’s a place in my house where I sit
and, if I chose to lose myself I can
Be it with reading or writing
or music or game
Sometimes Obi joins me
as it is for him safe haven
when there is something loud downstairs
My little brown comfort blanket
snuggled up and sleeping
in my chair beside me
A writer of modest talent can only hope one day to put together a word or two—on on a rare week, a phrase—that’s worth keeping. This is not the conceit of perfectionism. This is just the reality of a mediocre vision that cannot totally grasp and share what floats in and out of view. It’s the frustration that has to be managed—The gap between what might be glimpsed, a brief impression of something sublime, and the skill that, were it a painting, only produces stick figure drawings.
So the experience is one of enduring a sense of constant failure, working to press my cheek up against the foggy glass that keeps me from the truth, but still trying to catch a scent of it and convey it honestly….Throwing the lariat a thousand times at a stallion that prances just out of reach, hoping that one more throw will tame the beast and bring him nearer to feel the heat and the true wild life of him.
That’s the job. (Neurotic? Of course it is. But what’s a little neurosis among friends?). It’s just a matter of putting up with failure long enough to feel the hot breath of something beautiful. It is insanity. But oh, so seductive.
These words on a page
in my little book
I’ll return to again
for another good look
As I’ll craft them and
often I’ll rearrange
for the syntax to work
from a nuance or change
The smoke from chimneys climbing high
Form cloud like objects in the sky
The mist lies hovering over a field
Logs for fires in gardens build
The smell of cooking through the air
With bonfire smoke, they mix and share
The sun is out but cooler now
The farmers put away the plough
Trees undressed and waiting for,
Submitted by Sasha Deppen
.
They say your in a better place
But what the hell do they know
They say your always with me
As I shake my head real slow
There is no better place for you,
The elephant sitting in a sycamore tree
Lazily peeling a banana for his tea
Pauses to wonder why ants are free
To march with banners extolling
Demands to ban pesticides that are
Harmful to them and pollenating bees.
What is it I elude to
Within the complexities of time.
The arrows of time,
The linearity of time,
Or is it space time,
Or the simple neglectful
Waste of anyone’s’ time?
The creative well is all dried out
Hiding the truth in plain sight
Seasons change and so do we
In this dysfunctional paradise.
Another day about to be wasted
As a fading youth
Trapped within these ink-splattered pages.
What once was Brighton’s bead shop
now sells stationary
Upmarket and pretentious
but good enough for me
For on a shelf, bright colours
a row of writing pens
So I just had to have one
as I do that now and then
.
Another slam poem about love right,
But the thing ill never understand is the way that your hand;
Can fit so perfectly into another’s.
that happiness is monumental but so momentary.
I don’t know maybe it’s just me or my inability to see the cracks and creases in the broken pieces of your smile.
