On Not Feeling Well

Background is yellow drawing paper with two pencils on it. The top of the paper is covered with coloured in and outlined poodle doodles. Below is the text which is repeated as text below the image. Sorry can’t grammar anymore. Did I say I am not feeling well?
I drew a silly doodle poodle on a silly snootle day,
where the chocolate is hot and the skys are grubby grey.
Where I am resting in bed feeling rotten throughout,
can barely move but will gladly shout out loud:
„Hey, look at my silly doodle poodle on a silly snootle day,
where the chocolate is hot and the skys are grubby grey.“
Before collapsing back into a sorry heap, and sniffle and snotter while I very loudly weep.

Poetry of the damned

Dressed in gaudy garments
That cost the world
A dandelion squashed
By heels that could feed the thousand
I scream in silence
As my sisters bleed in pain
Betrayed by man made deals
Signed by small hands and greedy fingers

The merry go round spins faster evermore
Permanent growth will starve us
We signed the death warrant
And follow the piper out of town
In a private jet
Proudly throwing our water bottle into the recycling bin on the way out

Homesick on Holiday

Hiding unobserved within.
Snug, unknown, silent.
Only to pounce unexpected in a moment of quiet beauty.
How is homesickness even a thing?
But there it was.

After all this time of longing to be away, to go on adventure, to experience else but the homely walks through rolling fields. I think lock-down has a lot to answer for. Perception of space, movement, away-ness, thereness, here-ness, place and space have changed. Home (if you were lucky. There are other stories as well.) became saver evermore and the outside stranger, disorientating. Adventures too much movement.

and yet …

Wordless Poetry

There should be words
Rushing out
Carrying with them
The light, smells, sounds of a summer
By the sea
You should be able to hear the echoes

Of an eagle cry, a dolphin splash
You should be able to see a seal
Head popping up in curiosity next to my kayak
And smoke rising
Steaming sand at low tide
Through my words

Yet they are empty
I can’t reach
Metaphors swirl
Wordlessly
Pictureless
Soundlessly
In empty space

I should draw the colours of sunsets
Thousands of diamond sparkles on top of waves
Silky water taken with long exposure shots
Dramatic rocks mirroring in retreating tide
Is what my words should draw
Yet
The paint dried in

Faces

We all are liminal spaces
Drawn to one another
Repelled by one another

Each interaction
Manifests a layer
Which face will I wear today?

We all are fluid spaces
Endless opportunities
Of being

A bubble forms
It grows slowly
Like air trapped in magma

Surface tensions
Becomes too much
The bubble bursts

Another face emerges
I notice
It looks
Like all the others

The faces are masks
I tried to hide behind
Not realising
They are all in my image

Today’s poem was inspired by a young artists evocative work.

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