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Photo by kind permission of Katrina the book buyer in Waterston’s Nottingham today
Preparing to put my book on sale.
Manners Bear And Friends is a children’s poetry book based on manners. The book is £6.95 plus p&p
ISBN No: 9780956400628
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My peat-free Grow-in-the-Bag has three new plants –
or implants – wound-in green plugs tied to willow canes.
‘Grown from seed?’ my friend asks, and I nod.
Truth is they’re as alien to this soil as I am.
I imagine their threaded roots unwinding from the ball,
separating, trying to spread, and wonder if they’ll hit
the bottom quickly. Well, what do I know about tomato roots?
For now they are pretty things, my Moneymakers
and Gardeners’ Delight – like three Scarlet O’Hara’s
dressed in their emerald curtains determined to grow food.
Though a little voice inside me says: you wait and see,
with no glasshouse and nothing but that fly-about willow
to cling to, this soil could easily spit them out. And you.
Root by root, toe by reddening toe.
Early May and half-bloomed,
green from the top down
to a burst of botoxed pink:
ballast for the thin green spires.
Leaves, broad as hands.
And all those flower-bells,
compact as a hive.
Something small could ring them.
Something small could live inside, or hide.
It could tremble them a while.
Become as mad as they,
A lovers heart beat ‘ can only beat once ‘ for the power of love ❤ ‘ will live on forever ‘ than a day .
I only saw her once ‘ and she stole my heart ‘ for I shall never love another ‘ as I do her ‘ for i shall marry her this night .🌃
Tis she is my angel ‘ she us my shining star 🌟 of my existence ‘ she is my love ‘ for my heart beat ‘ is for her alone ‘ as lovers at first sight .💏💘.
Patricia Bourne WordPress 2014.
This garden grows in a bed of shade
As the light is dim where the seeds were laid,
In places where the sun can only half invade…
So the flowers’ colors tend to fade.
From the rise of dawn till the start of night
There are more shadows than there is of light,
Yet this garden wills itself in spite
In the speckled patches where the shade is bright.
“How odd,” they said, “that you planted there
You could have planted anywhere.”
And even though that space was bare,
“What a waste,” they said, of time and care.”
But how many other things of matter
Whose initial worth were left in tatters,
Surpassed the first from beyond the latter;
Are now fertile grounds for furnished flatter?
No, this garden grows just where it should
Its roots took hold because they could.
Through droughts and storms it still withstood
To quiver light through trembling wood.
So by and by from time to time
That garden lingers in my mind,
On what else remains and poised to find…
Or what was lost when I was blind.
Still, I have a garden that lives in shade.
And it’s something pretty that I made
And though its colors tend to fade
Not for a 1000 other gardens would I trade.
With the image of a Flamenco dancer woman on the cover of the pack of my first fine cigars I smoked, when I was fourteen, a teen, it’s like the first time you fall in love, you cough, and eye-watering, you discover what are cigars and women like, then you get the habits with them, with time, the comfort, the company, and then suddenly, and as always, departing is such sweet sorrow. She was a ballet-dancer, and I, a Fine-Arts student in Paris, later on, looking for a model, I discovered Degas, and pastels so delicate, and volatile, as she was, elegant and whimsical, that I spent hours and hours, watching her performing pirouettes, pas-de-deux, and grand-equart, so wide with your eyes opened that you can hung your Beret , and your hearth pending to her movements, holding your breath, a piece of chalk in one hand and a cigarette-Gitannes on the other hand the smoke-filled the air, and laughers, trying to fix that moment on paper, in despair, drawing as she moved, before it disappears, listening to Charles Aznavour_” La Boehme,” once alone, at home.
I had a tiny studio on La Butte-Montmartre, then, we were all time hungry, and broke, and I more than ever waiting for her, one day she never came. Tired, I went to Spain–Flamenco, Bulls-fighting, Frederico Garcia Lorca, Manitas-De-Platas, Cervejas, then from there, Barcelona, Maria Rodriguez, the Fado, and Porto on the Taj, transported by a bittersweet sorrow, but in fact it was her, a dream that I pursued than, that It was a fascination by the quest. Like no tomorrow
“There is a smell on you later,
and laughers and silences,
that lingers longer
in the house and on things,
after she departed”_Kalimelo
The other day, at a corner of street, a vanishing scent of musk, and tabaco in the air, transported me to Paris, to the clime of lilacs trees, balconies and wisteria of Montmartre, it has been longtime that I quitted smoking, Quartiers-Latins, and its bistros, and moved to New York. They say, you rediscovered the subtleties of smells, perfumes, as you had lost your odorant sense while you’re smoking, they say, but what do they know about lost love? Othello , Shakespeare _”Depart is such sweet sorrow,” perchance.
paint, cream, and water, fire and dusty oil. You heard the water dreaming in its large kneed pipes, up from the weir. And the cordwood our fathers cut for the furnace stood in walls like the sleeper-stacks of a continental railway. The cream arrived in lorried tides; its procession crossed a platform of workers' stagecraft: Come here Friday-Legs! Or I'll feel your hernia-- Overalled in milk's colour, men moved the heart of milk, separated into thousands, along a roller track--Trucks? That one of mine, son, it pulls like a sixteen-year-old-- to the tester who broached the can lids, causing fat tears, who tasted, dipped and did his thin stoppered chemistry on our labour, as the empties chattered downstage and fumed. Under the high roof, black-crusted and stainless steels were walled apart: black romped with leather belts but paddlewheels sailed the silvery vats where muscles of the one deep cream were exercised to a bullion to be blocked in paper. And between waves of delivery the men trod on water, hosing the rainbows of a shift. It was damp April even at Christmas round every margin of the factory. Also it opened the mouth to see tackles on glibbed gravel, and the mossed char louvres of the ice-plant's timber tower streaming with heavy rain all day, above the droughty paddocks of the totem cows round whom our lives were dancing. Written by: Les Murray
I went to a place where penguins were sliding down a chocolate mountain
Where monkeys bathed in a marshmallow fountain,
Where sea – lions swam in an ice cream sea
At the side of a bench, lions were writing poetry,
As I walked along the sands I found
A giraffe singing, it was the most beautiful sound,
A butterfly kissed my nose,
A lama handed me a red rose.
It was almost like they had been expecting me
Like they had invited me for tea,
When I looked up into the sky
I could not believe my eyes,
Angels flew beneath the clouds
I heard one shout out loud,
Although this is only a dream
Capture every moment and believe,
You can create what you want to achieve
That life is for living the impossible dream
By Gillian Sims
I am lost, I am falling, I am now living in a world with no sleep; The night has become an ocean and I am drowning in the deep
The moon has become my sun, The stars bring light to my sky; Staring at a ceiling unable to sleep, no matter how hard I try
I am living in a silent world full of artificial light; Words fall from this pen, as pages are filled with these darks verses that I write
My eye lids are feeling heavy now, But are my eyes already closed? Or is this just a longer blink; My mattress is turning into quicksand, As I slowly begin to sink
Soft whispers start to tumble and fall down, I wonder am I asleep or am I still awake; Maybe this is all a daydream, and I am laying here just waiting for yet another dawn to break
As I fall deeper I feel my body lifting up high, as soft voices whisper they have heard me calling; But just as the sun begins to rise I wake up screaming as I feel my body falling.
BARRY MOWLES ©2012
eyes have stoned,
The tears have run out,
In the endless wait
You are lucky
have a dream
Those brooks of fresh
The apple orchards..
I, a cultural destitute
Don’t know what heaven on earth is,
It is a
mere chapter in my history book,
family holiday that is being planned for years…
These four walls,
Manic, busy schedules
A place I
It suffocates me
There is pain
That seethes within
Where is home?
A life is filled with things we might have done
Choices not taken that we later wish we’d picked
Other times there were things said or actions
In retrospect, our own behind we should have kicked.
Yet none of us are perfect so we do make mistakes
Too many times we overreact and have our minds set
Whether just a wrong course or feelings gets hurt
We can’t dwell, spending our days living with regret.
We must learn from the past and look to the future
Not everyone will accept that we can change course
Those are the ones that will never let go of doubt
All you can do is move on, not making things worse.
We look to ones that will accept us as we truly are
Realizing the person we are inside, offering a hand
Look through the windshield, not the rearview mirror
Find those that will, by your side, always stand.
When I see it happening around me, and I have to stop
take a breath, make a choice
do I respond, because when I do,
you know, they will retaliate, speak out loud
make a point that is that universal language
that shouts with vengeance, screams a throttling,
When I feel,
it all unravels so quickly I can only sit back
and resign, let the wind hit me with stride
hope my balance, hope my center,
can withstand the scrutiny, piece of myself
that always believes there is something wrong
because the world around me constantly,
If when I respond to the circus that plays me,
I might not always feel a shelf below
the polished instruments that eyes take notice,
letting those in the dust become a secondary after-thought.
Yet when sunlight strikes the silver lining,
that is the peace that drives me forward,
knows I can love with compassion,
knows there is truth and discovery,
allows change to become a practice,
a remarkable challenge toward realizing
So when I cry,
please don’t ask me why,
just let me be there,
in the moment underneath all of my fear,
lies a vision, an honest reckoning,
perhaps a quiet travel through life’s intrigue,
while searching the endless avenues,
those difficult stumbling blocks
that when surpassed may speak …
© Thom Amundsen
All ready I’ve
To try and write it out
My feelings flowing
On this unforgiving page.
See I once
While i plotted lives
With a cold hearted
Now my hands
Only to my
There is no longer
Solace in a
It is now
A cold dead tomb
In which i am burdened
By its weight
With dark skies
And overdue consequences
Time has finally caught on
The price of lies
I sit at home
No-one there but me,
The house is dark I’m frightened
There is no electricity.
Mum has not paid the bill
I wish my mum was here
I can’t stop these rolling tears,
All I can see is an empty bottle
On the table in front of me.
The clock strikes twelve
She must have lost track,
Because mum is not back.
Mum’s hitting the Gin.
It’s not fair life like this
Because I’m only six.
My father left some time ago
Because he didn’t wont to know,
I can’t really blame him
He tried but couldn’t stop mum from drinking,
So I’m home alone once again
Living the pain and loneliness.