“Born Old” featured by G. Jamie Dedes in The Poet By Day. Many thanks Jamie.
“Seasons of Becoming” and other poems in response to last Wednesday’s writing prompt https://jamiededes.com/2017/06/06/seasons-of-becoming-and-other-poems-in-response-to-last-wednesdays-writing-prompt/ via @JamieDedes
“Born Old” featured by G. Jamie Dedes in The Poet By Day. Many thanks Jamie.
Source: “Seasons of Becoming” and other poems in response to last Wednesday’s writing prompt
eyes are the same as your eyes, blood flows to a similar beat, hurt registers on a familiar pain scale. Distance does not need a special screen to filter experience. Bring them up close past your upbrought picture frame that defines borders, allows you to focus a magnifying glass, excuse responsibility with need to cope with what you have in the here and now. Bigger numbers seem.smaller when further away. Let those people who are closer act. Further away is not your responsibility. Care for all at arms length. Be professional in your care management before it all becomes too much.
labyrinths small page screens, numbered, corners turned, placemarked underlined pencilled comments in margins, highlighted passages into underground caves designs written on stone walls, maps historical paths, landscape tells, inscendance, weathered typography, spoor marks on snow, enters through the head’s holes, pixalled iris.
of inscendence. I dig into the core of my unknowing, become a stranger to you again. I dismember, dissolve. Rip off my arms and legs. Unscrew this head. My dismembered arms disembowel my internal organs. My mouth on my loosened head sucks up the blood out of my stomach’s wound. My teeth rip out my rib cage. The freed fingers take out my eyeballs, disconnects my tongue. All my deconstructed parts sit and wait. Pieces can never be put back exactly as they were when whole. I will assemble myself differently.
farmhouse kitchen, polished gold hangs on rich leather straps from white painted walls. He is farming stock. Inherited milk business and books on keeping horses from his dad, who kept stables until he could afford a small van in the sixties. Sold stables and horses. His son rides with the hunt now amid scowls and jeers from protesters. Once a pig farmer, lately returned to long haul drive of arctics. Gold waistcoat and fine moleskin trousers polished up a treat like his brasses. Twice divorced he says “I stand no nonsense.”
Many thanks to Tasha for publishing.
Source: A Guffaw by Paul Brookes
“A Guffaw” kindly featured by Tasha in Inbetween Hangovers
https://t.co/nTxlOdhvCx via @wordpressdotcom
Four poems, comprising some family history narrative | Paul Brookes | Meta/Phor(e)/Play
via We chose a day | Coffee Bruise Thursday | Paul Brookes — Meta / Phor(e) / Play
The Wombwell Rainbow 