Month: January 2017

SOC: Would you like to live without wood?

Wouldn’t it, wouldn’t it
Wouldn’t it be funny
If a lady had a wooden tit
Wouldn’t it be funny

Ok so that isn’t a particuarly pc rhyme but this was triggered and remembered from an old poetry book I had as a kid (this happened before from a SOC) , though I’m starting to think that this wasn’t exactly a book meant for children, at least not the age I was anyhow. But regardless we are trailed off the subject matter here.

Would or wood? the same sounds yet very different meaning it just gets confusing as so many things in life can do. If only we could see the wood from the trees or perhaps we should be hoping we can see the trees instead of just wood as all I seem to be seeing recently are trees being pulled down to make way for roads and building, and one day soon I worry I will wake up to find that I’m living in a concrete street. Yes it might be easier to maintain with no gardening to worry about etc but surely we should be valuing nature surrounding us at a much higher price.

Recently I saw a blog post which made me smile as it gave me hope that Spring wasn’t too far off and I’m looking forward to the days getting longer and the crisp bright mornings. I’m even looking forward to seeing if I get a new family of starlings in the garden this year, wouldn’t that be grand.

Bring on the Spring!

This post was inspired by the prompt from Linda G Hill

And the lovely post from KIWINANA

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The truth about caring

The silence is the worst part.

I can deal with shouting, or abuse, even violence

– but it’s the silence that gets me.

That simple act of muteness,

cut off from the source, unable to decipher,

blinds drawn around the truth

 – this is the worst part

It cuts through ears and ideas,

slicing finely through facts and fiction,

tugging at heart cords and hope.

Spare Parts

A part of me is lost
Fragments of phalanx rise to the top
In a river of words
Blood splattered lettering
Smudged onto cartridge paper
Thick set and rolled
Ammunition for the brain

Firing rhymes
from the top of my head
Adjectives overflowing
Caressing cinnamon ledgers
Dusty tomes of epic tales
Offset with coffee stains
And sprinkled with sweat

Parts of me are misplaced
Welded to sheets of carbon copy
Skin speckled vellum
Thoughts chiseled into slate
Cold and haunting – unwanted
Exhausted ideas settle within grooves
Burnished in birchwood

Though the fountain is never stemmed
Poems pour forth,involuntarily
Inevitably, without fear
Raw and ready to be moulded
Fusing with my mind
Until possessed and weary
I submit to their will

Parts of me are missing
Yet I claim my soul, my own

A Drivers Graveyard

There’s an anger residing in hospital car parks
A hive of resentment for all that reside there
Centrical drivers in neat little boxes
Filling with fury while waiting for spaces
The stationary lane of vehicle drop offs
Stuck in defiance, wavering conventions
Growling at patients for daring to enter
A system denying all logic or sense
With scandalous charges for family penance