Mislaid
Memory is like a broken mirror
Sometimes
Like purposefully misplaced shards
So that we are unable
To recall the pain
Some memories entail
Our lives
Are littered
With such shards.
©RobCullen
Voices on the Bridge
Voices on the Bridge at Pontypridd Museum.
What a venue for a night of poetry readings and music! Surrounded by Miners Lodge Banners and overlooked by a portrait of Lady Charlotte Guest! A successful night with a great turnout!
Bridging
Bridges aren’t just about getting somewhere
in this age of having to get somewhere
or to be somebody whatever that means.
Bridges are about connections
about joining one side to another
to join divides and separations.
Bridges span different views
bridges connect generations
make things come together
make old things new
bridges make life possible
bridges span and connect
bridges aren’t about divisions
bridges join and mend
the gulfs between us
help us speak to one another
allow us to bring things in
allow us to take things out
allow us to meet and share
allow us to see things anew
to span divides, connect, renew.
Bridges are life givers
so let’s join together
and not let divides
part us from life
or keep us away
from one another.
Bridges give meaning
so let’s build bridges together.
©RobCullen
Thanks to Mab Jones for photograph.
Build bridges!
Love this
40
“Meditate outdoors. The dark trees at night are not really the dark trees at night, it’s only the golden eternity.” Jack Kerouac The Scripture of the Golden Eternity.
Kerouac.
Found my 1970 copy of Jack Kerouac’s The Scripture of the Golden Eternity! Love books!
Corinth Press bought in Gotham Book Mart 16 East 46th Street and so much more to tell!
Bridges not walls!
Pussy hats are preferred on the bridge and always welcomed!
Poets in the valleys in Wales give us voices, verse and music not walls!
Source: Bridges not walls!
Bridges not walls!
Poets in the valleys in Wales give us voices, verse and music not walls!
Stand firm and organise
. trefiw .
the start of things, the making of the welsh cape. tapestry. we have none here, we have a blanket, washed and faded. we started the research and found he lived near the thing he wanted.
we have spoken before. the looms stand idle, some in store some with recognition. machines work less in cold, sheds and lack of encouragement. we worked the day with thread and needle, only turning forward, cutting cotton backward.
it is the softest white ply. woven correctly into squares. neat. colours merge, while patterns change through punctuation marks. those looms lay quiet.
seems we have not been to all the mills, never will. some are gone, yet we have seen them. seen things that are never there. lost our way, if there ever was one?
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Celfypridd 