the trouble with poetry is thunderous clouds of uncertainty in the room as well as the sky souls laid bare visible to the naked eye
Image from Daniel Stewart
Whatsappoem2
Category: Orphaned Verse
Simple Things
there is no greater joy than saturday tea toast telly in bed with my boy
Inside
inside i'm no scribe can't hide monotonous diatribe no windowed world view just a faded watercolour of shifting hues watching grey's melt into blues
Memories of memories
Real photos lived in dusty frames or well thumbed leatherette albums Expectations of two dozen memories developed and delivered No immediate gratification Shared with a cuppa and a story Not a pithy quip to a digital nation
Eton Mess
We are just pawns in a game of chess. We've all been left in an Eton Mess.
Generation Gap-ped
Who cares what I have to say Just a middle aged dad with a mortgage to pay Who am I, well if you listen to the rumours I'm to old to be millennial, to young to be a boomer.
But Daddy?
But daddy what? This one's got me on the spot But daddy why? I long for the days when you just cried. But daddy how? Your up to 300 questions now But daddy when? You just keep asking again and again But daddy who? The answer me, always me.
A Bear and His Kitten
Better half could better see A better you, to better me You are my reason to try The only one to make me cry Better still and best of all A better friend to break my fall Love speaks exactly what it see's Without that loves just fantasy
Image by Pantalanium
The Belgian Quarter
I like the morning The path untrodden and the flag firmly furled They clean the detritus of the night before When I hid behind my hotel room door The wilderland forged from clay and sand Fresh foliage from a spray can Gives up it's starting role as, The bustle steals my quiet stroll
Untitled Winter Verse
There's a harsh beauty in her her fairer sister can never hope to possess. It can't be replicated only worn in over time like a fine patina Stews of rich red wine with musky herbs of depth and desire added slowly over time A beauty that creeps on you like a dreich November fog Settling the silence of a soft Sunday lie in. Tea, toast and icy cuddles
(image by dark777fairy)
Accidental Poet 