Wishful Thinking

 

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https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/continue/

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“nutmeg”

“nutmeg” he                shouted
“nuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutmeg”

there was no answer……………
so he called “nutmeg”    again

“nutmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeg”
but  he couldnot     remember

why?     why was he calling  ?
why was he sat  on a bench  ?

surrounded by   greenhedges
feet shuffling on    greygravel

the clouds  dishevelled  above
the ground     opening   below

his brain a maze of  pathways
deadend doormats untrodden

he called again……………………..
was swallowed……………………..

high velocity v.1.

losing sight of you

the smell of your skin

the sound of your voice

 

walking on out

 

eyeline tilted horizon

one way test ticket

centrifugal pilot

 

staring about

 

nose cone

stripping the ozone

frosted in glass pain

 

blinking doubt

 

returning to leave

chemtrail blood trickle

waysigned signal

 

singles him out

 

cracked fuselage

flesh and bone metal

caged in oxygen mask

 

freaking out

 

out of reach panic button

communications breakdown

ether bound definitions

 

drifting without

 

switched off to silence

lolling head

delirious

 

total blackout

 

sustained g-force

loss of judgement

visual impairment

 

over and out
_
_
_
_
_
and further still

cast out into oblivion

banned from this dominion

 

finding you in a parachuting dream

disintegrating into your cloud wings

precipitated onwards

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farewell

this waiting
hopelessly hesitating
every second counting
minute by minute

grains of sand falling
clouds passing
words whispering
hour by hour

time slowly passing
thoughts drifting
waves crashing
day by day

love and hate making
friends disappearing
it’s hard understanding
week by week

the seasons changing
waxing waning
thunder lightning
month by month

clocks are ticking
memories fading
our elders dying
year by year

the grass in the top meadow was cut last night
a warm breeze today will blow dry it into hay
this is the time for renewal and taking stock of our lives
for winter will soon be upon us…

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(I took this photo this morning about 8.30 and messed around with it using my editing software. I like the way it now looks as if it’s from a bygone age. All that’s needed are a few people in period costume holding pitch forks next to a donkey and cart. Sometimes we find old photos that have no date, names or explanation. They are glimpsed reminders from the depths of our anonymous past. Mysterious and magical moments to celebrate)

our ancestral sunrise

golden rays of sunlight fill our eyes
every newborn sunrise from the dawn of time
captured in the blinking flick of a lens
time immemorial.     shuttershocked.
a video framed evolutionary existence
encapsulated in this blood beat gaze
primordial.     prehistorized.     passing.

a journey back and a glance forward
every stillborn sunrise from the dawn of time
eroded by the wash of infant tears
blushed naked fear.     photosnapped.
a moving mastery of previous lives
ancestors suspended in a torsioned vacuum
floating.     familiar.     future famished.

place your hand in mine and feel the warmth
every burning sunrise from the dawn of time
branded in the dna of chromosomed memories
double helixed.     magnetic resonanced.
an x-rayed nuclearoid double vision
twisted on a tendon thread of apprehension
spectre sacrificed.     ghostly galleried.

we move onward each day never knowing why
every clouded sunrise from the dawn of time
masked in the blinded misunderstandings of man
war torn.      bastard birthed.     heartbroken.
what lies beyond our sunlit eyes?
what golden rays fill our brilliant minds?
eternally everlasting.     understanding nothing.

ancestral sunrise

(sometimes I wake up with a line in my head repeating over and over and then another and another and I have no idea where each line will take me but I have to jump out of bed and crank up the lappy and take the journey if only to find out where and why and whatever. It doesn’t matter that it makes no sense at all or will never change the world one iota or even be widely read. A friend recently told me: appreciate what you do with this mangled stepchild we all dub poetry. Ha! I love his words and mind and inspired whackery. My cursor arrowed finger hovers over the publish button afraid to let this one go. Click. Gone. Published:)