The Blackstart

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This popped out one afternoon on a day I’d just about resigned to being a blank page day. I read it to my audience of one, and it made her chuckle – which is always good enough for me.

The Blackstart

The Blackstart comes when she’s in town,

to peck at crumbs put on the ground

for sparrows, who come in fours and fives –

plus one to watch, plus one to cry, a warning

if Mrs B is by, or Maggie the magpie with the evil eye.

And sometimes doves will coo on down,

then button their lips to make no sound –

a couple: a wife, a husband, (or lover)

and help themselves to what’s left over.

But if they’re seen, they’re shooed away,

I’m not sure why. I couldn’t say.

The Blackstart always comes alone,

she takes her fill and then is gone

on flittered wing, for she’s made some plans,

to the beach perhaps to kick some sand,

or dip her feet,

or catch the sun,

to take a tea,

to meet someone…

Or does she always dine alone?

I’ll ask her… When she comes again.

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The journey of O

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GOD is GOOD without the O she borrowed to make LOVE

And travelled on to find itself in JOY

and then in HOPE

HATE without the E is a funny HAT to wear

and RAGE a RAG

to dry away

a tear.

ANGER is  an ANGEL that in a moment lost its way

turning Right instead of Left but not to say

she can’t turn back or change her path or start again

from here

With one tiny change FEAR is banished FAR away

And with that little E

WRATH becomes a WREATH …

something to consider…

And DEATH is not so far from EARTH, in which all flowers grow

coming HoME

coming HoME

Path Number 4

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If this is progress

I prefer to sit still, if you don’t mind.

 

From here, only do I see

all is take take take,

all is grasping, all is greed,

and the everything is me, me, me.

 

A truly happy man sits around a table, with simple food, wine and laughter,

sharing,

giving,

loving.

 

The other has no time for this

or that

only for some other.

At what price?

For the trinkets that show off a new found wealth, the wanton destruction of beautiful Earth,

Lives of man and beast an acceptable cost to those that only want to gloat

over what they will have and over what they have got.

And to show themselves great as they toke, and quaff.

 

Walk in nature.

Breathe.

Please.

 

If this is progress

I prefer to sit still.

If you don’t mind.

One day

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One day I’ll be a fisherman. Maybe angler is the word.

For I will not venture onto sea, but stay rooted to the earth.

First to learn this timeless craft, from one with many years on show.

In rugged hands and leathered face, the skills I wish to know.

To buy myself a rod and line and all the floats and weights I need.

But will have no care to take some hooks, such things don’t interest me.

To a quiet place I’ll set myself, and cast my line afar.

And watch the heavy weight disappear, beneath the shining glare.

I’ll sit and breathe and look on a view, of such majesty and awe.

And bathe in these oh, so simple things, the peace, the quiet, the pure.

And hear the purr of lapping waves, and distant birds in song.

Upon my lips taste salty air, upon my soul a calm.

And if you should ever pass me by and see me reeling in my line.

You will never see a fish caught there, for this is my design.

You may laugh and wish to question, what it is this thing I do?

I simply cast my line again and then smile back at you.

And when the sun sets across the mount and golden is the sky.

I’ll gather my things and shuffle off, leaving neither trace nor scar.