The Room #Quadrille


A ruddy gown of
paper hearts
flutter – strewn once across bare
boards – creaking ceased
a long time ago
in this
dimly lit room.
Now, tired paint peels
where love faded and old passions were burned
with the last of the blackest coal.

A Quadrille is a 44 word poem.

Dimly Lit

light-bulb-and-puzzle-pieces-157740076-58ba2bed3df78c353c9b052f.jpg                                                      Picture found at The Spruce

When light bulbs shatter
Don’t be afraid of the dark
Pick up the pieces

Weeping Psychedelics

Weeping Psychadelics  picture.jpg

To those who weep when
laughter sleeps,

for those whose days
are stolen by black dogs –

and even to those who keep
sanity all to themselves,

or those who sleep
half jacked up to avoid Mondays

all jazzed up on life, hot on the tail
of a trail behind blazing Mars.

To those who Sunday is the day to bleed,
and for those who wept when Jesus slept,

but sigh for those of us who weep
for humanity on its path to oblivion,

but have nowhere left to go,
I raise my glass.

A brighter future from you and Cancer Research – fundraising – For the moment it does require you to give your details but it is safe. I am working on a more streamlined alternative option. Meanwhile, bear with it – every little bit helps – even the price of your next coffee?

As it Comes

In aid of CR

Hi.  Periodically, I will be calling on friends here and the writing community at WordPress for your support and ask that you either simply text BGON64 to 70070(for those here in the UK) and donate a small amount or use my donation button below (any country) to give whatever you can (even your next cuppa) to help us at Cancer Research and Breast Cancer Research.  As a breast cancer survivor, I can sincerely say that your help is more than appreciated.

Cancer Research is not government funded and is responsible for a high percentage of the major breakthroughs we have seen to date.  Without you and me, those breakthroughs will not happen.  So don’t let this being UK based put you off donating. Regardless of your country, your generosity will one day give the gift of life to the world.

The Just Giving page is verification and will also tell you all…

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Stark strangers loiter to scavenge thoughts once hid;
both now bustle briskly under this fair poplar

my muse, she blows keenly to rustle up these tired
parchments – not scratched e’er since autumn

closed its eyes to shades of green. Before I woke
under dreaming spires, I wrote a sonnet for you.

Me thinks to keep it safe in heart, away from her prying eyes
and strangers’ judgement, at least until summer comes.

Racism’s Green Thumb


Should we
smell so sweet
in tolerant nature
when within its walls
lie death and victims’ cries?
To scent this growth would be criminal, yet
we do, and we douse it with water – the flame
that gives it fragrance –
and when it blossoms wide enough to flourish,
we are as doomed as a black thumb should be.