The Door


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there’s a door
I almost stepped through
a few years ago
almost closed
between the here and now
and the never more
I chose
at the last
to turn back
leave it for
another day
another time
that open door

For ~ Poets United Midweek Motif ~ The Door





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I saw a plane flying overhead
against a blue background
framed in pine
at the head of a white vapour trail
a manufactured comet
streaking across the heavens
no sound
too high
it took less than a minute
to cross diagonally
south east to north west
now there’s just
a pale blue canvas
waiting to be painted
with a bird
a storm
a sunset
or another plane
destination unknown

Poets United Poetry Pantry #335

The World In A Vase


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There’s a clear glass vase
on a windowsill in my kitchen,
belled like a trombone,
no more than twelve inches high,
but in that vase,
filled with emerald
and white translucent
glass pebbles,
I see the world.

In one, I see the clouds
scurrying along, above the
skylight in the roof.

In another, the golden glow
of the midday sun;
in another, the television
reflecting world events.

In another, a distorted depiction
of an old man sitting in a chair,
writing in a Waterstones notebook

Myriad worlds;

Condensed, captured
in a twelve inch vase
on a windowsill,
in a kitchen,
in a small apartment,
in a green and pleasant corner
of England;

My world.

Waiting For Inspiration


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Waiting for inspiration to strike
Requires a lot of patience and immobility
In place of actual work, or so it seems
To me. For
If writing depends on that flash of genius,
Nothing is happening here. I
Guess it’s more a matter of perspiration that
Success arises from, not the often mis-
Understood flash of brilliance that
Comes upon a person like lightning, but rather the
Knowledge that no work equals no writing equals no
Success. Simple, eh?

For Poets United – Poetry Pantry #336


I Took A Walk


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I took a walk down memory lane,
never thought I’d go that way again,
down the path around the bend;
thought my trip would never end.
Along the way I met a man
who said to me,
“I think I can.”
“You think you can?”
I said to him.
“Yes, but I don’t know where to begin.”
“Well, walk with me a little way,
maybe you’ll find your path this day.”
As we walked he shared his fears,
a field of pain watered with tears.
Then I was on the road alone
looking toward my childhood home,
but I didn’t want to go that far,
things past have passed, are what they are;
so I turned around, cast off the pain
and walked away from memory lane.