The Poetry Marathon

He gave me a present,
Not bought,
Not pretty and gift wrapped in silvery paper,
Not shoved in a box with a card on top,
He will give me an idea.

Gift wrapped in words,
Only thought of, not thought through
I can make it my own.

Take my gift and make it something special, he said,
take that idea and make it something magical,
Then wrap it in words and re-gift it,
I won’t mind,
Spread the ideas and watch as they blossom,he said.

A gift can be more than a material object.

It can be creativity that changes the world…
…one idea at a time.

there’s someone inside

my body, who has

(on more than one occasion)

wept & from me,

independently; & from my eyes,

his own alien tears.

& all this, upon

a few events where I had

just exited from some vivid dream.

Unwritten paper,

Unused quill lies on the grass,

Waiting for him,

Waiting for his thoughts,

Waiting for his words,

But he left,

Never to return,

Never to write,

And there lies the quill,

Unused and untouched!!!

Another week of lockdown,
I’m concerned about my weight,
But it’s been hard to stay on track each day,
When things are not so great,
I’m trying not to worry though,
And I say that I feel fine.

I was pretty sure that I would know, When I needed to draw a line,
But each week quickly turned to two,
And while I act like I’m okay,
I know exactly what to do.

But it gets harder day by day,
You see I’m finding it pretty tough,
Though I really don’t know why,
I thought I should have known enough,
To be able to get by.

Now two months have already been and gone,
And I’m longing to go back,
I know I’ve put a few pounds on,
But I can’t get back on track.

I miss the inspiration,
And I miss the laughter too,
That feeling of elation,
That they feel the way I do.

I miss the friendship and the chat,
When things don’t go as planned,
I miss knowing as a matter of fact,
That they really understand.

And should this poem strike chords with you,
I now know what I need to do,
I need to see my troop.

You’ll be welcome back in group,
It doesn’t matter which space we share, It’s the smiles that mean the most,
That slimming world feeling is always there,
So get in touch when you read this post.

Mind’s a candle flame

Desireless, it is tame,

With gusts of passion,

Its vitality turns ashen before the light dims,

There’s much it brings wisdom, and knowledge gives the mind high wattage.

A candle can light many, if the flame is steady as the mind’s light spreads,

It gives knowledge legs,sheltering the mind’s flame and sharing becomes the aim.

The mind continues to remain bright, After the sun retires for the night.

you camera snatch

krill and mysids

stem zones

mirror colonies

bases loaded your

medusae locomotive

you know

snow on thorns

may memoir

an undead battery

dancing

you drift

daffodils near

prayer flags

across blinds

you taste

coffee grinds

on the sea floor

you might

miss a spot

pelagic not pandemic

you squint

sheets of eels

you gleam

beside shoal

facing flesh

you whisk

threads brine

lift bucket needles

westward ho

you lean in my

dream a cat

breathing sleeve

cuffs worn white

push delight

you stripe blue

that part thinking

shifts that one

this bit creating

more of your

jelly reed thin

Stroller parks
Evil eyes
Parents’ barks
Children cries
Crowded places
Gluttonous bites
Staring faces
Long-line rides
Not coming back
Till I know
It won’t be packed
Like a sold out show.

Crimson edifice, monument to a long-gone past;
Cast-iron anomaly that guards the village store.
What use have you today, whose last
call made was by someone trying to find a w h o r e;
a number picked at random from the posted cards?
The secrets that once it was your job to guard
are whispered now into a tiny mobile phone,
or sent by text, for the recipients’ eyes alone.

Do you still provide a place to call for taxi-hire;
the laggards rescue from the late-night long walk home?
Emergency requests for ambulance, police or fire,
or reporting out-of-order residential phones?
Perhaps you shelter still the teenage lovers’ kiss;
too self-wrapped-up to note the reek of drunkards’ p i s s
in puddled corners. And do runaways still strive to cheat the coinbox, telling parents that they are alive?

Although on town and country streets I see
now only clean-cut BT kiosks made of steel and glass,
the old red phone box still provides a memory
of times gone by; a once great British past.
And still in hidden corners or forgotten lanes
I find your crimson frame and tiny panes
recall own my misspent and happy youth. Oh yes, it’s true…
my teenage secret life was guarded well by you.

As blurring as heart’s broken tears,
As blinding as the first kiss.
As wild as that last fight,
As soothing as the one you miss.
As tempestuous as a bridal veil,
As calm as the silver in her hair.
As transient as that flicker of a smile
As eternal as, you and I were, for a while…

#snow – so many stories lie buried, some flaky, some not so much.

If I said I didn’t miss travel – I’d be lying.
I love vacations! But I don’t like flying.

I’ll tell you why I hate to fly.
It’s not because I think I’ll die.
Sure, it’s safe. I know we’ll make it.
It’s the other stuff. I just can’t take it!

Added fees for the extra bags.
Boarding passes. Luggage tags.
Long lines through security.
Showing passports and ID.

Taking off my belt and shoes.
Angry agents. Careless crews.
Long delays from wind and rain.
And that’s before I board the plane!

Once I board, it just gets worse.
Flight attendants acting terse.
Recycled air that stinks like feet.
Countless fart-stains on my seat.

Being stuck in the plane’s last row.
Middle seat. With no window.
A fat guy squished in next to me,
Who keeps on getting up to pee.

Broken seats that won’t recline.
The flashing “Fasten Seatbelt” sign.
Yapping dogs without a muzzle.
Half-completed crossword puzzles.

The old man who just drones and drones,
And doesn’t care that I wear headphones.
Who keeps on asking, “So, where ya headin?”
I just told him! But he keeps forgetting.

Constant bumps from peoples’ butts.
Snack bags “filled” with five peanuts.
Passengers who are barely dressed.
Fighting for that one armrest.

Being stuck in the plane’s back section,
Stressed about my tight connection,
As old folks with nowhere else to go,
Take their time and walk too slow.

Food that tastes like mushy wood.
In-flight movies that aren’t good.
Weirdos on my shoulder sleeping.
Constant whirs and dings and beeping.

That one dude eating a tuna sub,
Now the whole plane reeks like a sea lion cub.
Or the gal who packed her own bag lunch,
And is chomping pickles by the bunch.

Overhead bins that are always full.
Blankets made from itchy wool.
First time flyers scared of flying.
Babies who will not stop crying.

The jerk who won’t get off his phone
And makes his conversation known,
But when asked if he’s in “airplane mode”,
Gets loud and angry like he may explode.

Old tray tables that keep on sticking.
Toddlers who will not stop kicking
Not enough air, or way too much.
Plus, coughing, sneezing, germs and such.

All these things are the reasons why,
I absolutely hate to fly.
So many things that I can’t stand.
The one part I like though? When we land!