I have maybe three events before the end of the year. I have met my target for 2019 with lots of help. Onto next year, she says prematurely. Above all, I do hope you are all well… and happy.
Take care, all.
I have always pictured us
but often, I see a smirk
or a frown, then raillery
invades – not a lot, but
just enough to
make me sink –
right down, down, down
to deeper depths
where even right sharks can’t breathe,
and they too ignore
forced to think again, and
between the lines
of a complex mind
as my life treads water, it should be simple,
but it is, ironically, hanging by a simple,
Or is it more?
So, lose me, please,
since I am perpetually in between,
but don’t –
as, I will be so lost
in between –
the abuse of me –
I have seen the realm
and the inner me,
will never believe
so, trust me, please –
and all I can ask
is that you hold me,
so that I can try
and feel all of these lines…
I fear, I am the one
who will be lost,
I will be gone soon,
but never not yours.
Believe me, I will not go for free.
I will be still be there for you,
But, will you be ever be
there for me?
Theresa May – Traitor in action. Hypocrite.
A little rant and a p-o-e-m in light of increasing domestic abuse and even unrecognised domestic abuse depending on perspective and bribes. With the embodiment of the courts, and this time, the realm, our ex fuckwit prime minister, who by her actions, has condoned domestic abuse – is saying that it is ok to beat up women – by recommending that an ex con and domestic abuser should get a medal (a Knighthood). That is not right. He played cricket for England, and he was/is a hero? But, in reality, he is an arsehole and a criminal.
It is not OK to say that women are here to be beaten, abused and trod on. So, I thought, nah, I cannot stand for this either, and I won’t.
I emailed my local MP. And, I will keep emailing until she stands up in parliament and speaks. Our ex PM granted an honour in her resignation honours list (an archaic entitlement, which is highly immoral in this case) to an abuser and ex crim. But she, as a privileged, right wing B******* gave it to this one, her pal. With that, she has let another vicious genie out from its bottle – again, that is ok to beat up a women.
Bury me deeply
so that the sun can’t find
and its sting cannot oblige
by tearing from my smouldering flesh,
small, peeling shadows of my life, or wisdom
and memories, or the pearls
of my faith that now run as sweat that cries, while streaming down
my ashen face;
my soul is already on fire,
and your hands are burning.
Bury me deeply
so that the crows you tame
will not abuse me,
until solace is no longer
a sacred place,
or death an arbitrary mulch.
Bury me deeply,
so that when your fists rage and pound
against the rise of dank, dark soil,
I will be blessed, and will not feel you.
And when you scream and shout,
begging for grief because I am not
there to blame –
crows scatter once again,
only to befriend me, oddly –
and because you will watch them shield me –
you should bury
Drink up my wine
since these dead and lonely dark nights prevail,
and countless, luminous stars will make you ordinary;
and you will yearn
whilst you struggle outside of me,
especially when caught up in these heaving times,
when precious ills pressed closest
to your undulating
chest, might cause you to succumb
or be fed whilst I am lost –
but you will learn that I am made up of hundreds,
and that you knew who I was –
till I married you –
but, please worship me still
amid cold comforts lost –
pray, come back inside,
leave naivety at the door
and, please beckon it not.
Let us be as it once was –
let us be as it should be.
Let us be love.
A pick from this time 2 years ago. I’m still busy doing my thing and making lots of money to help beat cancer sooner. I smashed last year’s target and I am a third of the way through the one set for 2019. I will have more faith and raise it! Next event is this Saturday. I hope you are all well and gearing up for a wonderful spring and its inspiration! Take care.
Her skin is fair, lightly freckled and starkly
contrasts her ambiguous demeanour.
I always tip my cap, ‘Good day, Miss,’
but she never casts a glance.
I carry on my way, meandering
deep in wild thoughts that are always
honeysuckle, blue grass, rosehips
and my Miss.
The sun beats down on she and us,
but when my Miss smiles, the heavens open
and it pours, dare I say, it rains tears.
My thinking is, it can not compete
with the lovely lady who does not care
if I live or die, because I know us to be just
a part of my wildest dreams –
the place I go to swiftly as I pass
the dingy, rusted via duct
on my way to work –
I pass that way often, my dreams,
so as not to be seduced by the muggy
waters of brown stench lying along my trail.
Deep down, I think…
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Just wondering at the miracle called LIFE .
Author River Dixon
poetry by Robert Ford
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