The Poetry Club

I see the world split, two by two,

A doubled spark in every view.

Like someone paused to play a game,

And painted each scene twice the same.

Lines wobble, shimmy, twist, and sway,

Two shadows juggling in dismay.

The world is quiet, a silent place,

no whispers drift, no footsteps race.

Laughter, music, words that flow,

are shadows only you can know.

I watch your lips, I read the care,

a fleeting glance, a lifted stare.

(For Dawn)

Not a race, not just a trend,

But a journey, friend to friend.

Every step, a gentle choice,

Every breath, a brighter voice.

Plates of balance, colours shine,

Along the path where wildflowers grow,

The winds will sing, the rivers flow.

Your footsteps fade, the earth forgives,

Yet litter scars where nothing lives.

A bottle tossed, a wrapper torn,

Spoils the beauty of the dawn.

I’m deaf not broken just differently wired.

My ears went on strike and were never rehired.

They packed up and left not leaving a note,

Just departed my head without taking a coat.

I walk in a room, people chatter and play,

I nod like a expert, not a clue what they say.

The sky went still, a breath held tight,

As dusk crept in and stole the light.

A whisper stirred through waiting trees,

Storm Floris’ here, the thunder teased.

The wind, once shy, began to scream,

A shattered hush, a broken dream.

The gate latch opens in they walk,

humans, trampling along every fork.

With cans or crisp rappers that fall,

others, with dogs or maybe a ball.

All to have fun, to let off steam, shriek!

or maybe it’s solitude, an peace they seek.

They’re all chatting.

They’ve forgotten your there.

The conversation moves on

but you don’t know where.

Sat right in the middle.

You just have to stare,

What is a memory?

A snap shot of time,

A photograph stored

Like a vintage wine.

What is a memory?

It’s where we pine

A little brown at the edges,

Where once all crisp and white.

The strong stem still lie straight

The bow not quite so tight.

The leaves have begun to wilt

But not given up the fight

It’s not the storms that bring me down,

But sudden noise or violent sound

A cupboard slams, the coffee spills,

And I’m back among the distant hills.

A car backfires, an angry tone,

And I’m no longer here alone.