Writer’s Tears

writer's tears

 

Writer’ tears and

Writer’s fears

Bubble over the brain like lava

Hot on a flow with an

Undertow of emotions

That embrace the brain

Like a heated vice lock.

 

So I surf the web

As a distraction

And await

Inspiration

A needle in the brain

That sparks life and

Words on paper.

Sorry

(Intermediate step)

On the screen

Stored in memory

Finally

Printed to page

Where the words flow more freely

From the depths of the printer

And I am relieved that I have no more

Fears or tears.

Until tomorrow.

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Shades of me…

shades 2

The Common, Broadway, Worcestershire, England.

Light is a wonderful thing
But so too is the inverse.

Shades of me
Shadows, if you will?

Not reflections
But possibly reflective in nature.

A different view
A view of the darker side

But still worthy of consideration.

Shades of me
Set in time and place.

shades 1

On the Danforth, Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

Don’t Feel Sorry…

Don’t feel sorry for me
When I sit alone at the bar
I’ve my beer and my thoughts

And a whole lot more.

Writers are used to reflective thinking
Isolated but no less sure of themselves
And the space they occupy.

Awaiting inspiration
And a whole lot more.

Buy me a cask ale
And you might discover
A whole lot more.

Perhaps, a Hughey’s Gold?
(Said a voice from off stage.)
With some considerable feeling.

Hughey's Gold glasscoaster

 

 

Walking in the Toronto Botanical Garden

I turn into the garden freshened by morning rain

Inhale a damp, earthy smell.
Photographer with tripod blocks the path to the right.
I go left
Discover old chap rooting out last year’s rot and freshly sprouted weeds.
Usual suspects
Dandelions. Burdock. Stink grass.
His brow beads heavily with sweat.

He grunts as he flicks a dog turd at an unsuspecting pooch.

Casts an admonishing glance at the owner. I move on.

Bees are buzzing
Hovering over intoxicating purple spring wonders
Crocuses, flowering plants of the iris family
I take the mandatory picture
Of all things purple.
For a friend, Mary(notcontrary)
Noting to send later.

I shuffle to where a crowd has gathered
Watching a painter
Capture with deft brush strokes
What they too will grab with the swift
Push of a cell phone button.

Tai Chi is in full swing too.
Quiet movements of fluidity…

A child points in the direction of the garden cafe
Screams bloody blue murder
I want ice cream. Chocolate.

Not Neopolitan! Puts his foot down hard, grinding it in the gravel.

Kicks a stone into touch but is
Ignored by his parents who
Search for a particular shade of red rose not yet bloomed.
Or perhaps a way out?

I find a quiet place to meditate
Let the next lot of garden lovers
Have the path to themselves.
Free to observe
What I may have missed.

Hughey poet

Congratulations on the poem. Words as painting. A lovely evocation of pictures in a garden.

Julian Mulock, artist and illustrator, reacts to the poem.