I once knew a man who rose above the ordinary.
Who without a doubt thought before he spoke and read before he thought
Even though he is no longer with us,
He would live a thousand years and much more;
I write of blue, red and green, and sometimes of yellow and grey,
Sometimes I write of fields and mountains, and sometimes of dried rivers, instead.
Some days I write of battles and wars, and other days of duels raging in my mind,
All shades, and hues, and corners and caves, you will find in the rhymes I penned.
I live in anger, in hatred, I was born into
shouting, vile insults and outbursts,
and when I step out into the world
the world spits back just as worse.
The grass is only greener on the planet
where confusion, ammunition, panic,
murder, explosions, execution,
Gazing, into this small window of time,
I see stories unfold on crisp pages,
I see beauty in this window of mine,
Butterflies escaping cocoon cages,
Bright eyed wings uncurl all in a flutter,
on the branch of the tree with the green leaf
Browning, drifting, crinkling, joining clutter.
Dear window, in mind’s eye, such a brief
journey, to glimpse a faraway place
I know not when I shall see once again,
or feel the cold pinch, the hot slither lace
down to the fingers, wrapped around a pen;
In need I am of the window I see,
That gathers dust and is locked with a key.
by Mark Griffin
My memories make me me, don’t they?
The stories I tell; the loves I’ve known
and lost. But what if those memories fade and haze.
Where’s me then?
by Jem Tovey
When first we met I was quite young, still in primary school,
I liked to push the boundaries, always first to break the rule.
On my way home with schoolfriends we came across some crates,
Of illicit Bulmer’s cider, so we thought we’d have a taste. Continue reading “It Isn’t Me – It’s You!”