In isolation since March 11, 2020. Ten weeks of being in the house with a crushing feeling of nothingness and helplessness and anger and fear. The overwhelming sorrow at taking those feelings out on the ones that I love. An inability to say, “I am sorry”. As if a giant wall, miles high and thick,... Continue Reading →
or should i say 11 weeks
and i wonder what happens next
so the horses were in the long grass this morning
while the farmers still go to market
i ordered the oil sadly as the can has changed
and i did not recognise it yet
have old ones here and can decant
if i feel necessary
it feels necessary to hold onto memories
and to repeat myself
we do not have pastors here that i know of
there are vicar things and i do not know them
i know kindness and common sense
and i like new sandals
i guess i will not need to buy shoes
for the summer as i am not going
my trip to alnwick castle is cancelled of course
along with the others
a refund or a transfer?
most of the ivy is gone so i embark on a new…
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Complaining seems to be as much a virus as Covid-19 and, although not fatal, can be debilitating. I know I am just as guilty of complaining from time… Perhaps….
I would tellwhat percolates within me,but it’s not grand enoughfor a pauper’s poem.The thing that rises from the breast,reddening the earsand brewing these tears.But I stay shut,and quit of speech.Held in the sway of regret,but warmed by your aureole.It is enough.
A winning rhyme from Ana Daksina.
Let’s walk up the hill
Let’s go see some life
Go witness some love
Some labor, some strife
Let’s walk by the water
Let’s let the sea air
Blow all the cobwebs
Out of our hair
Let’s walk in the meadow
Let its slumber remind us
How to leave dumb
Complications behind us
Let’s walk in the forest
In the timeless untold
Let’s go walk in the world
Gather up what we see
Then bring it all back
Write it in poetry!
The poet/editor of this website is physically disabled, and lives at a fraction of her nation’s poverty level. Contributions may be made at: https://www.gofundme.com/are-you-a-patron-of-the-arts
Confronted with mountains, I dredge up a dream. Of jumpers in bat suits, those stylish suicides.
What does it hurtto give way to imaginings,at least for a time?To close all the doors and windows,pull the drapes,and make some hot tea.To conjure some moorsand wuthering weather,hear a rap tap tappingat your chamber door,and the neighing and stampingof white horses.
https://hjdpoetry.wordpress.com/2020/05/23/illiterate/ https://hjdpoetry.wordpress.com/2020/05/23/illiterate/Every time I finish a sentence it sickens like a feral animal just outside the range of headlights stuck on a highway of what I couldn’t tell.Illiterate
From Gabriela at Short Prose Fiction I am thrilled that my poem “the world of our making” was published by Spillwords Press , and it was translated in Romanian by Virginia Mateias. … My poem “the world of our making” up at Spillwords, and translated in Romanian by Virginia Mateias