1969 ~ Samantha Rose

MORALITY PARK

The wheels on the wagon don’t work like they used to,

they’ve stopped turning around the axel.

Rust has collected between the hinges

of about the same shade his hair used to be

long ago

when the war began

and bombs fell from grey skies

as dust settled amongst the cries of the wounded.

Newspapers sang of the death toll

as she waited to see his name

buried among the obituaries

or for the day

she would stop receiving tattered letters

scrawled in cheap ink in his damaged handwriting.

They’re saying the war was unjustified,

she felt so too.

And she waited for him to come home,

and he did

one day, long ago

when all hope dissipated

from her azure eyes.

And she waits for him again now

at the side of the hospital bed

but the wheels on the wagon don’t work like they used to.

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Pretense of acorn

Björn Rudbergs writings

Today I picked an acorn from the ground;
lost it laid, a cast-away,
a sentence halfway crushed;
it’s shedded early, shunned by mother oak,
a nut and nothing but still pretending
smooth and brown.

It’s midriff almost open,
a broken shell with bitter flesh exposed,
yet carries in itself
a warmth from summer when still
it was a mother’s … hope.

Sarah hosts poetics at dVerse tonight and she asks us to write a poem in two stages.
1. Take an object in your hand and feel it with all your senses for a couple of minutes.
2. Freewrite about the object for a couple of minutes.

From that you form your poem.

I will also link up to Tuesday Platform at toads

September 25, 2018

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Fairy Muse

Midwest Fantasy Writes

fairy muse1

Hide me

within your poetry

let me sneak between words

and lie between lines

giggle among ink blots

fairy muse

you cannot catch

yet teases and taunts

every waking moment

draws from your pen

thoughts not of this world

caresses from your soul

longing aches and desires

calls from your mind

moonlight emotions

searching for daybreak

in a world bleak with gray

grabs from your heart

beats forgotten and dusty

crying for life

rhythm within melody

yes hide me

within your poetry

so I too

may feel alive

©MidwestFantasy

08/21/2018

PH-Pinterest

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Wetland Blues

A poem that is a wakeup call! Well done!

parallax

Riparian – Word of the Day

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Locally known as the Big Swamp, which is a misnomer because it is not a swamp, it is a wetland in the true sense. I believe that in our Australian context the use of the word swamp is government/developer code for waste land – you can guess why. But to call it a wetland is to honour it and which of course leads to its protection. This a true riparian juncture between creeks and wetlands, and a wonderful ecosystem.

Wetland Blues

I had a thirst like no other I’d had
so I went to the bar and asked for a drink.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.
“Whiskey”I replied.
“What mixer?” he enquired.
“O just give me some strychnine.” I said
and his jaw hit the ground with a, like,
that’s weird, are you completely mad
ain’t gonna happen kinda look.
“Just joking mate.”…

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