I sit cross-legged on a sunlight coated lawn
as Mother Nature strokes my forehead,
her silk caress lulls me into a daydream
commanding silence and slow breath
with my worries suspended in a sunbeam
she draws out every weight in my chest
Sunday morning quiet – A poem
They surface in quiet moments. Starting small, with a spark,
with a glimpse into something else, a flash of mind,
like a blink going the other way, but they build in an exponential
crescendo and soon I’m stopping every minute to take my gloves off
and write something down because the thoughts just keep coming,
and by the time all the dishes are clean, the bubbles have all disappeared
and the water is only on the verge of being warm.
The view from a dream – A poem
Echoed thoughts in a deep dream, speak
Of splendour in a mirrored world mind –
At the close of day, and the dawn of sleep.
Hopes of a tree – A poem
We tried asking politely,
Quietly, talking amongst ourselves
Hoping you’d overhear in hushed
Rustles, a subliminal message
In your ear (save us).
On writing a poem every day
I think I’ve maybe learned more from this experience ending than I did during the actual writing. Now I’m reflecting rather than being caught up in it and I’ve realised the importance in making time for myself that isn’t just mindlessly watching Netflix or YouTube. So, this is something I’m going to try and make an effort to incorporate into my life, because I think it has an impact for the better.
Read More
Fleeting Flowers – A poem
Even the pinkest pinks will fade
Eventually, perhaps to a dusty rose,
The open becomes closed, even
The prettiest flower will cease to glow.
Bold days turn to cold days, even the smoothest
Petals fold, soon brown replaces gold,
A shrivelled insignificance falls to the dirt,
But leaves space for a new bud to grow.
Squeaky Clean – A poem
Immersed in bubble bath scents
And sensations, I breathe,
I breathe, I breathe deeply,
And the water softens my skin
And the warmth softens my mind.
In with fresh oxygen and out with
A build up of grime.
All eyes but my own – A poem
a rusted reflection,
speckled and smudged
to wipe away is only
to smear the picture
a sun-bright ghost
in a hazy window
obscured by the dusty
remnants of raindrops
The state of it all – A poem
we stumble home through
dully lamp lit streets at 1 am
hand in hand with wobbly feet
cool night air cleansing fuzzy heads,
sometimes we sit on the edge of
the world (or it feels like it),
the city glitters, it’s colourful
even in the darkness,
window glows and street lamps
are mere scintillas of light
trying to mirror the stars,
and if they look small, then what am I?
Another sleepless full moon – A poem
I can never sleep when the moon is full
Sometimes I wonder if part of me is wolf.
Maybe just a bud of wolf’s-heart that could
Flower if I let it, or maybe it’s a key in a lock
That I just need to turn to let the wolf in.
Lauren Kathleen 