Trees tall and slender
sway gracefully in the breeze,
while creaks sound intermittently
from tree to tree -
natures fragility,
warning us,
acting as a reminder
of how delicate
the status quo can be.

As gusts surround,
an invisible chase takes place,
a game of hide and seek,
heard audibly through the low groaning
of those rooted to the ground.

Leaves rustling,
the energy is rising,
in this vast woodland.

The energy, the fragility; can be seen, heard and felt
if your open to it, in a forest, a wooded area near you,
breathe in the oxygen they secreet,
think how susceptible even the oldest tall tree;
may potentially be,

to the harshness of mother nature
and consider that we are but one and the same,
person and nature,
run down at times due to age.

Still we have our roots,
still we carry on, we wait to see
what hand we’re dealt,
how we react when pushed, whipped up into a frenzy
and in exchange we may also experience the beauty,
the amazement of the bright and colourful sunrise,
the dawning of better days.

When things go right,
look out your window, at the trees nearby -
they get the pleasure of experiencing the calm,
glorious sunrises and colourful sunsets
and so can we, if we stop and let ourselves.

Life can change in a moment,
appreciate the little things, for their everywhere,
as they say; blink and you’ll miss it, yet meanwhile
acknowledging and accepting that life is never perfect, is the best way to be.

Be thankful for the good things, the blessings we have,
acknowledge we are small beings on this planet
and things could change at any time,
everything is so very delicate;
yet here we are.

Life is not never ending, this is a beautiful place to be,
if you can see what is out there,
truly be a part of this fragile natural world.

Some are, some aren't. Thanks

It doesn't feel that way at the time though. Thankfully I've been gettng better nights sleep *knocks on wood* for the last few days or so.

It's all great but I really like this part. 'Rooted to the ground' that's what we all can feel like at times.

I walk over to the side-table and pick up your picture.
A fine film of dust has settled
on the top edge of the frame,
dulling the silver gild.
I slowly trace my finger across the surface,
restoring some of its shine, then look at my finger tip
and the powdery grey matter.
I blow it away.
Let it settle somewhere else.

10 x 8.
Black and white.
500th of a second at F4 to reduce the depth of field.
Blurred the background to set you in sharp relief

I remember the moment
I took this picture.
I used my old Pentax.
‘Go digital’ I was told.
And finally I have . . with some regret.

I touch the glass where your hair lies.
It’s cold.
A barrier.
But I can still feel the fine strands of your hair
and remember how they run between my fingers
perfect threads of white silk falling to your shoulders.
I remember its freshness,
like spring rain and honeysuckle
carrying the seductive whisper of musk.

Your skin: aged, flawed . . yet perfect.
Every line so familiar.
Every line slowly etched over time.
A record of your life’s journey.

My thumb lightly traces the flat contours of your face.
Down your cheek.
Across your mouth.
And along that strong jaw-line
– so set with purpose and pride –
then down to the curve of your neck.
I feel the brittle, pure glass.
I remember your warm soft, giving skin.
My smile is reflected in your lips – a natural easy smile,
always freely given.
And your lips . . .
I can hear your laugh. I can hear your words. Skipping softly across the air.

The monochrome grain of the picture holds you –
caught in that split second of time.
And yet you’re timeless
and I love you
and I know that love will last
for all the time I have left.

One final caress and I place you down to rest on the side-table.
Then turn as you come into the room and stand by my side.
I touch your hair, perfect threads of white silk,
fresh like spring rain and honeysuckle,
carrying that seductive whisper of musk.

That is so touching Scottie. I thought it was going to be tragic, but then came that lovely last verse.

How the tiredness drags on,
more of the same, day after day,
energy levels are low,
yet still I keep on,
keep on going, working, helping,
breathing, eating, drinking, doing,
hoping,
wondering,
when the routine will end
when lifes adventure will start,
when will be my time?.

Good things come to those who wait,
thats what they say,
so in the meantime, I console myself
by escaping, into the wondrous world of the imagination,
through the printed word,
books are fast becoming my solace.

My imagination sets me free, from the hum-drum,
brings stories to life,
through the words of others,
who expertly convey them -
authors who paint the canvas,
make us love and hate characters,
feel their pain and rejoice at their accomplishments,
back the underdogs
and hope for the villains to receive their due comeuppance.

Reading can open a whole new world,
to those who take the time to let themselves get absorbed,
it can be a brilliant ability,
to calm the dullness of an unfruitful, even dreary routine,
to give yourself a bit of time each day,
to be taken away,
see what alternative life you could have been living
and hope all ends well.

Freudian Slippery

Is ego your amigo
And your id somewhere hid
Super- ego , super hero ?
Can you find out what it did
Why split it to a trio
So make one become a three
I don’t think I’m that complex
I’m just a simple me.

Is ignorance bliss?
I quietly ponder...wondering,
wishing, fed up of worrying,
not knowing but fearing,
something may be a warning
things may be about to go terribly wrong.

There's always something,
that something which is not quite right,
something that seems to stick out to my senses,
like a metaphorical sore thumb...
quick, sound the siren! something isn't right,
it can't be! not again?!

the physical pain may barely or not at all even be felt;
yet my brain screeches at me, tugging at my attention,
swearing that what I've noticed, felt, detected
is a clear sign of some sort of impending doom -
there must be SOMETHING wrong.

I must act now, mustn't I? but what will this mean?
there are so many different types of pain,
the potential hanging over me can be dizzying.

If only I didn't keep worrying, about the 'what if's?',
seemingly presume the worst could always be possible,
no matter what I come across,
big or small,
it all takes a tiring toll.

Have you thought about getting new pillows? sometimes new pillows help a little.

Please don't think me foolish

Please don't think me foolish
as I talk about my day
I've been here and there
and then I'll be on my way

Please don't think me foolish
as we wander though the place
observing pretty details there
as of such made of lace.

Always

Treasure can be lost and found
said the pirate to his lady

Like a coin in sand in time
asked the lady to her pirate

Of course but with a map
answered the pirate to his lady

Do I read the map wisely
questioned the lady to her pirate

Always was the reply.

Apologies for my absence again - the glorious weather made it hard to stay in I had a barbecue with a friend in a forest on Wednesday, it were grand I'll try to catch up a bit today, after posting a poem

The New Recruit's First Day

'Hello there mate, I see you're new,
Don't worry, you'll soon settle.
Take in the atmospheric view
And I'll put on the kettle.'

'Oh thanks, I'm gasping for a tea!
What month is it, November?
Apart from flashbacks baffling me
There's not much I remember.'

'I was the same on my first day
But rehabilitation
And time in this place where we stay
Brings back lost information.

I left a trench and never did
Return from foreign regions,
Some fought, some died, some even hid
Among our British legions.

My final vision is the blood
Of Henderson and Sanders
And laying face-down in the mud
When I got hit in Flanders.'

'But that was many years ago
And you look barely twenty!
Is this the place where heroes go?
Is this the land of plenty?'

'Well, someone has to pay the toll
And numbers I can't tally,
Come on now son, let's take a stroll
Across the sunlit valley.

Although we're still in uniform
We have no other duty
Than resting where the poppies form
Enchanting plains of beauty.'


©

Beautiful Izzy - the need to fly seems to be a universal one. I wrote a similar piece called Flying once. 'The sinkening sun' is a lovely term, it sounds ancient

Another great write - I like the way this goes from negative to positive. 'Seize The Day' as Mr Keating said in Dead Poets Society

I remember having a discussion years ago about this BB The chap I spoke to said it was arrogant of us to think there's no sound because we're not present

It remains a perplexing thought and I enjoyed your take on it

This made me laugh BB It reminded me a bit of Archiver's style and no, you're not thick

You're one of life's great observers Sandy - which is always an advantage when you write poetry I love squirrels too and your ode filled my mind with them! Excellent

All the nasties go on Facebook and Twitter, I'm glad they're not here


Thanks Sandy


I'm going to hide me nuts

How strange BB I needed a phrase, so I opened up The Lord Of The Rings at random. 'Dwindling elves' jumped out at me and I nicked it, just like you did with Coldplay

It may actually have been 'The dwindling of the elves' - good old JRR

Hopefully I'll pop in on Tuesday to catch up on the rest of the thread.

Bye for now my friends

Have you ever seen the mission impossible squirrel?

Enjoy the lovely weather.

Is poetry a dead art?
Is poetry an art?
Is poetry dead?

Yes! Yes! Yes!

Is poetry a dead language?
Is poetry a language?
Is poetry dead?

Yes! Yes! Yes!

Who speaketh this nonesense?
Start the CPR
Revive this curmudgeonly art

It's ALIVE!