Brightening day
Brightening day
Grey mist
on green hills
Shrouding woodland
I watch bees feed
From flowers
Sage in a blue pot
And the day begins
To brighten
RAC
. a place of bells .
on occasions we go further than we did before. the patch of dark is from the trees, a marking place. the field of bells beyond. we have not walked there since her mother died. we can hear th…
Source: . a place of bells .
Blood
Denver’s blood.
One night making the long drive home
after working with another damaged child.
My mobile rang. Denver’s voice:
“Hi can I ask you a question?”
“OK Denver you know you can.
What do you want to ask me?”
“Can I have a blood transfusion?
I don’t want my blood anymore”.
I asked why not. Denver replied
“She told me my dad isn’t my dad
and when the Court test my blood
it’ll prove my dad isn’t my dad.
So if I get my blood taken out
and put my dad’s blood in me
they won’t take me away from him”.
Denver was 9 years old
living with her sister and father.
They were asleep when her mother
broke into the house during
one wild drunken rampage
and killed all the children’s pets.
“My dad’s not my real dad
but he is my dad
he’s been there always.
He’s the only one I’ve known
If I have his blood
They won’t take me away.”
She sighed when I told her
I won’t let them take you away.
There is a poverty of the heart.
On the hill
The flocks been shorn
The ewes searching, calling
For lambs gone away
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Many of you who have been following this blog for some time know that I’ve always intended to form a community around ideas that poetry as an art form has to offer much more than it is usuall…
What’s my name?
What’s my name
He was four and didn’t know his name
He thought he knew what he was called
But when the teacher called “Ceri”
He didn’t say a thing.
She asked again
And looked at him.
He looked confused
And standing up
Said my names “boy”.
There’s a poverty of the heart.
The examination of time (excerpt).
We are the explorers
Of time.
In which
Our watchfulness
Reveals
A revelation
An awareness
Of life’s turning wheel.
We the silent sentinels
Examine time
Embracing
The glue that alloys
That anneals and binds
The eternal tick,
Hum and thrum
Of the Atomic.
Remembrance
An orchid alone in the orchard
A cuckoo calls in the oakwood
I long for the nightingales return
The Salon
Poetry, music and song and much more The Salon, ClwbyBont, Pontypridd.
Celfypridd 