Today's poet

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Herakles

Death of Man.

Steel mills torn,
Down desolate east,
End broken town of,
Filth and noise to,
Be replaced by a,
Shopping mall somewhere,
To spend your,
Benefits instead of,
Booze just morally,
Bankrupt consumerism,
Turns the working,
Man into a red eyed,
Ghost ground down,
Pride forgot he finds,
His lifes meaning,
In daytime chat,
Shows laughing at,
The blue mouthed puppets,
As he waits around,
For impending death.

By Herakles

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Spot on Herkie, but I wish it was otherwise too. Maybe it's time for another 'Hope' poem?

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Alf

Agree wholeheartedly with that Mossdog and Herakles.

W.B. Yeats once movingly said he had no house but friendship.

Back to Patrick Kavanagh:

Innocence

They laughed at one I loved-
The triangular hill that hung
Under the Big Forth. They said
That I was bounded by the whitethorn hedges
Of the little farm and did not know the world.
But I knew that love's doorway to life
Is the same doorway everywhere.
Ashamed of what I loved
I flung her from me and called her a ditch
Although she was smiling at me with violets.

But now I am back in her briary arms
The dew of an Indian Summer lies
On bleached potato-stalks
What age am I?

I do not know what age I am,
I am no mortal age;
I know nothing of women,
Nothing of cities,
I cannot die
Unless I walk outside these whitethorn hedges.

---

This is really lovely, thanks all for your concern, i was touched, I am fine now was just "emoting".....I love this poem Alf, I love the idea of "not knowing what age I am"

I'm sure this has had at least one other posting before, but what the heck, it is very special.:)

Ode on a Grecian Urn

THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

John Keats

But Keats doesn't answer the question of how much does a grecian urn ?.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Mossdog

I'm sure this has had at least one other posting before, but what the heck, it is very special.:)

Ode on a Grecian Urn

THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

John Keats

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Brilliant Mossdog, everything comes to he/she who waits :D:cool:
Now if someone would just post 'La Belle Dame sans Merci' ;)

large flock of Curlew
migrating inland en masse
winter fades to spring

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Derby Tup

large flock of Curlew
migrating inland en masse
winter fades to spring

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Nice imagery DT, but I think they're in for a rude awakening if they try to grab little territories just yet - we've March to contend with, and I'm 'smelling' more snow.:eek:

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Herakles

But Keats doesn't answer the question of how much does a grecian urn ?.

---

You posted that nearly 2 hours ago and no ones taken the bait yet - amazing:D

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Mossdog

You posted that nearly 2 hours ago and no ones taken the bait yet - amazing:D

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Well if no one is then I will....."I don't know but I'm guessing it's a vase salary":D

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Mossdog

Nice imagery DT, but I think they're in for a rude awakening if they try to grab little territories just yet - we've March to contend with, and I'm 'smelling' more snow.:eek:

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You know Mossy, we've only really had two days of heavy snowfall over here but suspect you could be right :)

I texted a friend to tell him I'd seen the Curlews and he said they're spot on as they're usually back for his cousin's birthday, which is next Saturday :cool:

All You Who Sleep Tonight

All you who sleep tonight
Far from the ones you love,
No hand to left or right,
And emptiness above -

Know that you aren't alone.
The whole world shares your tears,
Some for two nights or one,
And some for all their lives.

Vikram Seth

Think I might have posted this before but hey ho :)

Surveying rooftops

Persistant rain pattering down
creates puddles on the worn out surface.
Note pad in hand I sketch and
take measurements, much to do,
no time to wait for the rain to pass.

Below, office workers go about
their daily chores, oblivious
to what goes on over their heads
damp slowly seeping towards them
through aged screed and concrete.

Seagulls soar overhead
construction continues on a neighbouring site
traffic negotiates a busy junction
shoppers hurry on below sporting
brightly coloured umbrellas and carrier bags

Up here I am alone,
far above the hustle and bustle
note pad in hand I go about my daily chores
oblivious to what goes on down below
happy to be left to my own devices

In with the wrong crowd.

In with the wrong crowd,
Louts and layabouts,
Trashing the estate,
Brick through,
The window of the,
Cafe with the local girls,
Egging you on oh,
You hormonal clown,
Fighting to show her,
That your a man,
So you can have,
A house in the,
Wrong end of town,
And spend your time,
Shagging and drinking,
Your mild you have,
A child who with pride,
You see running wild,
Trashing the estate,
Remember the days.

By Herakles

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Derby Tup

All You Who Sleep Tonight

All you who sleep tonight
Far from the ones you love,
No hand to left or right,
And emptiness above -

Know that you aren't alone.
The whole world shares your tears,
Some for two nights or one,
And some for all their lives.

Vikram Seth

Think I might have posted this before but hey ho :)

---

You have and so have I but that is because it is soooo good! Glad you made it a hat trick.:)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Stef F

Surveying rooftops

Persistant rain pattering down
creates puddles on the worn out surface.
Note pad in hand I sketch and
take measurements, much to do,
no time to wait for the rain to pass.

Below, office workers go about
their daily chores, oblivious
to what goes on over their heads
damp slowly seeping towards them
through aged screed and concrete.

Seagulls soar overhead
construction continues on a neighbouring site
traffic negotiates a busy junction
shoppers hurry on below sporting
brightly coloured umbrellas and carrier bags

Up here I am alone,
far above the hustle and bustle
note pad in hand I go about my daily chores
oblivious to what goes on down below
happy to be left to my own devices

---

I like this Stef, i like the urban images you convey especially the umbrellas one...i also like the way you get a sense of different perspectives within the poem...thank you

I am just loitering for a bit on here whilst i try and write...

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Herakles

In with the wrong crowd.

In with the wrong crowd,
Louts and layabouts,
Trashing the estate,
Brick through,
The window of the,
Cafe with the local girls,
Egging you on oh,
You hormonal clown,
Fighting to show her,
That your a man,
So you can have,
A house in the,
Wrong end of town,
And spend your time,
Shagging and drinking,
Your mild you have,
A child who with pride,
You see running wild,
Trashing the estate,
Remember the days.

By Herakles

---

Your on a role again Matt , don't know how you do it!...nice one

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Hes

You have and so have I but that is because it is soooo good! Glad you made it a hat trick.:)

---

I love that poem, just beautiful , who cares if its been up twice before, still gorgeous!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Alf

Brilliant Mossdog, everything comes to he/she who waits :D:cool:
Now if someone would just post 'La Belle Dame sans Merci' ;)

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well Alf.... I would never need asking twice. This is the 1st poem I posted here. And as a 14 year old boy, given this to study for 'O' level English Lit, I would never in a million years have thought that 30+ years on, this poem would still haunt me. My fantasy, is a tad different from Keats' in that instead of clad in armour, it would be mudclaws, bum bag and sweaty synthetics, and collapsing at Sprinkling Tarn, the following would unfold....


Original version of La Belle Dame Sans Merci, 1819

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Old Whippet

well Alf.... I would never need asking twice. This is the 1st poem I posted here. And as a 14 year old boy, given this to study for 'O' level English Lit, I would never in a million years have thought that 30+ years on, this poem would still haunt me. My fantasy, is a tad different from Keats' in that instead of clad in armour, it would be mudclaws, bum bag and sweaty synthetics, and collapsing at Sprinkling Tarn, the following would unfold....


Original version of La Belle Dame Sans Merci, 1819

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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Gosh that takes me back to the early days of this thread!...........even more beautiful and beguiling now than the first time..............thanks for the reminder Alf and the posting OW...:)

There's something epic about geese at height - yesterdays were at about 4000 feet headed west towards Scafell


W shaped skein
high overhead morphs into
a broadening smile

i was geet fed up yesterday, but in the words of the song......

"What A Difference A Day Makes"

What a difference a day makes
Twenty-four little hours
Brought the sun and the flowers
Where there used to be rain

My yesterday was blue, dear
Today I'm a part of you, dear
My lonely nights are through, dear
Since you said you were mine

What a difference a day makes
There's a rainbow before me
Skies above can't be stormy
Since that moment of bliss, that thrilling kiss

It's heaven when you find romance on your menu
What a difference a day made
And the difference is you

What a difference a day makes
There's a rainbow before me
Skies above can't be stormy
Since that moment of bliss, that thrilling kiss

It's heaven when you find romance on your menu
What a difference a day made
And the difference is you

Na night all, see you tomoz....:)

spring thoughts suspended
Wharfedale blanketed in fog
dense, ethereal

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Old Whippet

well Alf.... I would never need asking twice. This is the 1st poem I posted here. And as a 14 year old boy, given this to study for 'O' level English Lit, I would never in a million years have thought that 30+ years on, this poem would still haunt me. My fantasy, is a tad different from Keats' in that instead of clad in armour, it would be mudclaws, bum bag and sweaty synthetics, and collapsing at Sprinkling Tarn, the following would unfold....


Original version of La Belle Dame Sans Merci, 1819

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

---

Thanks OW (by jove I needed that:D) I didn't realise it had already been posted. I like the idea of replacing the knight with a fellrunner though. I think I would much prefer an elfin grot to the big end of Pendle Hill :D

A bit of Milton to start the day off, pertinent as my alarm didn't go off this morning (or at least that's my excuse for getting in the office a bit late today :) )

On Time

Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets' pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,
And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine
About the supreme Throne
Of Him, t'whose happy-making sight alone,
When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall climb,
Then all this earthly grossness quit,
Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.

John Milton

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

A bit of Milton to start the day off, pertinent as my alarm didn't go off this morning (or at least that's my excuse for getting in the office a bit late today :) )

On Time

Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets' pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,
And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine
About the supreme Throne
Of Him, t'whose happy-making sight alone,
When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall climb,
Then all this earthly grossness quit,
Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.

John Milton

---

brilliant alf!!!!!!!! love it! DT likin the haiku too

A spot

In years defaced and lost,
Two sat here, transport-tossed,
Lit by a living love
The wilted world knew nothing of:
Scared momently
By gaingivings,
Then hoping things
That could not be.

Of love and us no trace
Abides upon the place;
The sun and shadows wheel,
Season and season sereward steal;
Foul days and fair
Here, too, prevail,
And gust and gale
As everywhere.

But lonely shepherd souls
Who bask amid these knolls
May catch a faery sound
On sleepy noontides from the ground:
"O not again
Till Earth outwears
Shall love like theirs
Suffuse this glen!"

Thomas Hardy

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

A spot

In years defaced and lost,
Two sat here, transport-tossed,
Lit by a living love
The wilted world knew nothing of:
Scared momently
By gaingivings,
Then hoping things
That could not be.

Of love and us no trace
Abides upon the place;
The sun and shadows wheel,
Season and season sereward steal;
Foul days and fair
Here, too, prevail,
And gust and gale
As everywhere.

But lonely shepherd souls
Who bask amid these knolls
May catch a faery sound
On sleepy noontides from the ground:
"O not again
Till Earth outwears
Shall love like theirs
Suffuse this glen!"

Thomas Hardy

---

Smashing poem that Freckle :D I always forget about Hardy the poet as well as the author. I wonder if he was thinking back to a personal relationship when he wrote that ?

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

Smashing poem that Freckle :D I always forget about Hardy the poet as well as the author. I wonder if he was thinking back to a personal relationship when he wrote that ?

---

Mmmmm not sure but i liked the reference to faeries...:)

Badge of Honour.

See my tag,
Badge of honour,
That his ruffian,
Friends look up,
To him,
For they give him,
A fag and slap,
His back,
King of the Teenage,
Tearaways.

By Herakles.

Evening all
Just a thought
Whose read Keep the Aspistra flying? If not it's a gritty story of a poet whose chosen poverty instead of the life that was planned for him. Good film adaptation of it to boot.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by N-dubya

Evening all
Just a thought
Whose read Keep the Aspistra flying? If not it's a gritty story of a poet whose chosen poverty instead of the life that was planned for him. Good film adaptation of it to boot.

---

Oooo that sounds good...your not thinking of giving up the day job are you?...i haven't read a book in ages, keep meaning to then i get distracted by poetry, one of these days in between work stuff and poetry i will read a novel again!:)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Old Whippet

There's something epic about geese at height - yesterdays were at about 4000 feet headed west towards Scafell


W shaped skein
high overhead morphs into
a broadening smile

---

That's lovely OW - thanks

From the forward book of poetry 2010..i think this a sad but beautifully constructed poem

That life
Kevin Hart

There is a life I've barely lived at all
And, summer afternoons, I feel it brush
Against me, heading somewhere far away,

Up in the north perhaps where the rain comes down
As if just thrown in vengeance for some wrong
No one remembers now, though people talk,

And in that life I stroll through open doors
And take the darkness offered every night
And am bewildered still by clocks and eyes.

It touches me, that breath, say once a year,
When ran hits thick and hard against the door,
When I have let my darkness have its way,

And then I almost know that other world,
And live in small hard words from years ago
And cannot be at peace in any life.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

From the forward book of poetry 2010..i think this a sad but beautifully constructed poem

That life
Kevin Hart

There is a life I've barely lived at all
And, summer afternoons, I feel it brush
Against me, heading somewhere far away,

Up in the north perhaps where the rain comes down
As if just thrown in vengeance for some wrong
No one remembers now, though people talk,

And in that life I stroll through open doors
And take the darkness offered every night
And am bewildered still by clocks and eyes.

It touches me, that breath, say once a year,
When ran hits thick and hard against the door,
When I have let my darkness have its way,

And then I almost know that other world,
And live in small hard words from years ago
And cannot be at peace in any life.

---

A very moving poem Freckle - I've re-read several times and while I can relate to parts I can't seem to follow the whole. Is this about regret? Choices not taken? A past misdeed? A fear of the fragility of the present?:confused:

A Basho Classic.....

When I look carefully
I see the nazuna blooming
by the hedge!

All that remains.

Dog eared sepia,
Photos old,
Clothes that,
Smothered,
A young mans,
Dream LP's and,
Books wait in,
Rows never to be,
Heard or seen,
At the end we're,
All reduced to,
Nothing but fuel,
For a bonfire.

By Herakles

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Herakles

All that remains.

Dog eared sepia,
Photos old,
Clothes that,
Smothered,
A young mans,
Dream LP's and,
Books wait in,
Rows never to be,
Heard or seen,
At the end we're,
All reduced to,
Nothing but fuel,
For a bonfire.

By Herakles

---

I lovethe imagery in this one, nice one Matt

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Old Whippet

There's something epic about geese at height - yesterdays were at about 4000 feet headed west towards Scafell


W shaped skein
high overhead morphs into
a broadening smile

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That's gorgeous OW. What a lovely image. Very apt for me too as I have just been given an artist's residency working with a museum and art studio on the theme of birds and migration. I'm going to start researching Yorkshire bird folklore so if anyone has any stories...do let me know!

Well done Hes.

Journey to Bedlam.

Vacant empty,
Passing the factory,
It's grimy filth laden,
Walls reflect in his,
Soulless orbs,
Acrid smoke pumping,
From the chimney,
Filling his lungs,
Taste like hell,
He doesn't care,
No reaction awaiting,
A living death,
Behind the gates of bedlam.

By Herakles