Robert the Bruce wordle #140

There is a story,a Scottish story,

of a great warrior,a leader,

Robert the Bruce.

His army was being pulverized

and he had retreated to a damp, mossy, cave,

with barely a thought left intact.

In the silence with just the echo

of dripping water he sat,

listening and grieving

for his country and his men.

He noticed a spider

attending to it's broken web.

Broken but not beyond repair.

To and fro the spider shuttled,

following it's instinct to mend,

without despair.

In this dark,damp place,

the unfaltering work

of a small spider

cleared his head

and leveled his thoughts,

enough to listen to his heart.

His men would follow if he would lead.

He would try

and try,

and try again.

There would be no defeat.

(Spider, echo, clear, attend, pulverize, intact, fly, shuttle, means, follow, listen, split.)

Parents' Nightmare

In the race

to grow up

I was fast.

Spitting out childhood

like spent chewing gum.

The whiskey.

The pain.

The befuddled brain.

Staggering home

in the murky dawn

with razor breath

and lanky dreams.

Mouth full of lies

and silky

half-truths.

Isolated memories,

an archipelago

of shame.

Puppy Love (wordle # 133)

Ah, the love for small, miraculous creations!

She's so tiny one's impulse is to whisper.

I kneel before her and stare

at each little whisker and claw.

She toddles, bandy-legged

under the sofa, where,

lost and invisible in the shadows,

she emits small whimpers.

Outside, in the infinite grandness,

she follows me

smelling new smells

and licking dew off the leaves.

I see afresh

the beauty of the simple things,

close to the ground.

When she wanders off

I feel the distance between us

and the precarious nature of being,

and being cared for.

A tender balance, not precise.

No bigger than my two fists

her little spark lights my day.

(Infinite, hit, invisible, emits, rhythm, impulse, distance, kneel, creation, whisperings, fists, precise. )

Home Alone in a Storm #132

Pebble dash dreams

rattle the window

sheet rain slashes

the inky mire.

I lie in my clay house,

my safe house,

still awake,

and yearn,

as the storm prowls

the walls,

yearn for his company

like a stove yearns a flame

(waking, sheet, safe, clay, still, inky, erode, flames, yearn, bend, immeasurable, pebble)

On Being Born - wordle 129

When the gentle, constant massage

of many months, changes,

becomes stronger

and more urgent,

and the nest,

this watery home

becomes too small,

this being, ripe and ready,

takes the chance,

the journey,

through that secret passage.

So clever, it knows the way.

With hands crossed and head down

it travels,

swept by muscles,

into the light.

The stars circle above

as s/he is born

and, shorn from that rope of flesh,

blinking, full of love,

one becomes two.

(Chance,blinked, hand, saw, swept, stars, flesh, ripe, secret, clever, basket, nest)

And here's a sideways view of how I began to put words together.

21 Days

She sits
in another dimension
oblivious to all.
She has found her centre
and only time
will shift her.

Sunset

Beyond words

Close Encounter

My brother and I took the rowing boat out across the bay. The sea was smooth, just a deep swell came rolling in, in long bars, from the North West. We rode the swells as we headed for the scarlet buoys that were bobbing near the reef on the far side. They shone out against the sombre greens and grays of water and light. 

I sat in the front, in readiness to grab a buoy and start to pull up a lobster pot. I could see the lasagna seaweed waving darkly, deep below us and shivered at my thoughts. On the shore line oyster catchers lamented at the rising tide and a sheep called out.

As we neared the first buoy, what we thought of as a swell became an inky black island that rose up from under us and let out a blast of air. We were so close we could see the blow hole. We could have leaned over and touched that oily black skin. A feathery excitement passed between us, though we dared not say a word. My brother held the oars up and the water ran off them, noisily, as we waited for something more to happen. The boat rocked, the water splashed off the oars, the oyster catcher continued it's song, but we were alone once more. The surface of the sea was smooth and secretive.

Later, as the evening was getting darker and we were nearing the last buoy, we heard that sound, of air shooting out of the blow hole, further away. The small whale was heading out to deeper waters. 

(Wordle words wet, sway, lost, sparks, oiled, feathery, inky, close, hole, scarlet, shoots.) 

Height of summer wordle 123

Enough
the word comes gusting out
like a sigh,
like a telling breeze
from the South
with the rattle of dry leaves
in the slipstream.
Still the sun keeps belting out
'though the shade netting
no longer filters
the fierce long fingers
of light.
The cows move through
the bitter, burnt dust,
and the figs drop to the ground
half ripe,
with pieces taken out
by the golden orioles -
their cries fill the valley.
This is the time
when I dream
of taking the train North,
to sit by a mountain spring
in the rain,
surrounded by moss and ferns
and green.

(fierce, filters, keep, enough, pieces, train, cries, gusting, bitter, springs south, out.)

My lucky stars Wordle 122

There was a period in my life

- years -

when my heart was numbed

and nailed to the floor.

I persuaded myself

to live a vision not my own

and by degrees

be slowly driven into the ground.

A few short, sharp words

loosened the nails

and I flew home

to a place I had dreamed

was lost and gone.

And now I stay, nestled,

in this hilly space.

My heart grows

and soars like a hawk.

I give tribute to the stars that be -

If not for them

there would be no me.

This is my Home! - Wordle 121

I've hitched my heart to a pocket of dirt

and my fragile, once,nay, twice, bruised self

cautiously grows tender tendrils

that twist around the trees and hills

and tangle me up 'til my pounding heart

beats to the same strains as the toll of cow bells

and the circling crows

on the edge.

'This is my home'

I nervously state.

Then louder -

This is my home,

and with wonder -

This is my home -

That in all my scattered days

I should have struck such luck

to find something concrete,

something whole,

which provides incentive

to grow.

The sun and the moon illuminate my days.

I feel my pace match theirs,

sowing seeds and growing roots

that tether me lightly

to this sweet place.

Scene from Above

The landscape below us becomes familiar

and I have a sense of homecoming

in my adopted land,

as we circle Faro,

defying gravity in this metal canister.

I see our shadow race below us

as the salt marshes come closer,

looking like blue-green curds

their organic shapes held together

by threads of green salt bush banks.

Along the edge of the land

there is the golden sand

and the white, lacy froth

and the blue, blue sea

wrinkling into the far distance.

I hold my breath as we roar

above the runway

and press down into my shoes,

head down, gripping hands

I clear away all plans

Then we're stopped

and standing on the tarmac.

New plans are made. Prayers are said. 

Bags are grabbed

'Thank you God for our daily bread'.

(Gravity,plans, thread, salt, breath shadow, sands, shoes, bread, sense, head, landscape)

wordle 118 'If'

If I had the key.

If I could tear through

the mesh of time.

If I could repair

what's done,

I would go back

to that night,

that room

and like a slate,

wipe it clean.

What would have become of us?

All that guilt and longing

driven out of our lives

with one simple word -

No.

(repair, time, think, no, tear, slate, driven, night, mesh, room, longing, key, become)

Island Home

I wish I could walk the track

back to my old island home.

Retreat to childhood haunts -

beech wood forests full of birds and briars

and the fantasy thrill of bears

living in the root rooms

made from fallen trees.

I'd wander from the village,

along the lane,beside the sea loch,

its greedy mouth

full of black rock teeth,

sucking sea and sea life

through its narrow gorge.

At the gate, the portal to day dreams,

I'd find my wellies in a bush,

and trudge down the track,

into the wood, past a bit that always smelled

of almonds. I never knew why.

Where the forest had not ventured,

a meadow, scattered with wild flowers,

and butterflies wove colours in the air,

and around the bend a small bridge

which gave way to the shore,

all mud and seaweed and seagulls

standing ankle deep,

their beady eyes, heartless.

And on the horizon were floating islands,

their unstable appearance

an optical illusion,

their names always alluring -

The Dutch Man's Cap, Eigg,

Canna, Muck and Rhum.

For a moment I am there.

(bird, unstable, bend, retreat, bridge, wild, rock, bear, lane, fallen, meadow, island)

Praca da Alegria , in Lisbon Wordle 112

Piss-stinking tramp

on the steps of the park

stops us at the curb,

his smell like a wall,

his voice spewing

through crumbled, rotting teeth.

We recoil from his filth

and the rest of his decay,

but from my heart

spills pity and dismay.

This man was a baby once

with smooth, perfect skin.

One day the thunder

took him away

rolled in a storm barrel.

The shimmering hope

that makes life livable,

that gives us status and aims,

was swilled and spat out

in jets through toothless gaps.

All sense of self

got struck off the page

once kept just for him.

Now this park is his yard

and we are both

potential providers

and proof of a heartless world.

*Praça da Alegria, which translates as Happiness Square, is a small, pretty square in the centre of Lisbon, where we were for the weekend, and where we came upon this man of misfortune.

(Status, park, rest, thunder, spill, steps, shimmering, yard, page, jets, spewing, curb.)

Wordle 110 Became two wordles

Wordle 110

Became two

First attempt.

Beam me up Scottie,

I think, is the phrase,

that gives a clear message -

I want to go home.

I've had enough excitement

on this shift

to keep me going for years.

So let's weigh anchor

and remove our good ship

from this current galaxy

to some new, fertile world

where the heart can grow fond

and we can see life

at close range.

Enough of space suits

and the many protective layers,

let me yield to soft greens

and connect with a place

where I feel I belong.

Second attempt

Below us lies the farm, deserted.

The mud house slowly being consumed

by brambles.

It's beams have yielded to gravity

and the fireplace,

once the heart of the home,

is buried beneath layers

of broken roof tile and lath.

I love to stand in the slanted light

and connect with the past.

I feel the fertile earth remember

as I shift an old pot, or a child's chair.

A current, a flash back, a whoosh,

a close encounter with another world.

Though firmly anchored in the present

I let my mind range

through the many voices that whisper

old familiar phrases.

Good night, God Bless, Good Bye.

(Beam, anchor, shift, close, heart, phrase, range, connect, current, fertile, layers, yield)

An Evening Wander Wordle 109

It was a bleak and cloudy afternoon. 'Nebuloso' they say in Portuguese. I walked across the old pasture, crushing curry plants and chamomile with each step. Nebulous. Hmmm. My mind drifted into that billowy sky for a while.

It was getting late when the clouds broke up and lo! The sun blazed through like a holy torch, its moted rays gilding all it touched. Breath-taking, this vision of an every day occurrence. Such timing!

A buzzard hovered over the ripening wheat field, its wings caught in the golden light.

Then the wind blew more black clouds over the bank of hills in the west. They moved over me, huge, violet, pink-frilled and gold-lined, like some fantastic Victorian lingerie.

The sun was gone.

The light became flat, opaque, and the buzzard swerved off towards the cork oak forest and merged. It, too, was gone.

I felt the cold wind cut through my thin clothes as I turned back, knowing that the night, like a cold wet slab, would soon follow.

(Nebulous, cut, timing, hover, opaque, torch, bleak, vision, touch, crush, blazing, slab, breath)

fear and faith wordle 108

The fear keeps circling

coming closer.

With a dry mouth I turn

to the dark cave wall

and wait for sunrise,

the promise of a new day.

A chance to start afresh.

With a vow of love

in my heart

I turn to the light

and feel the broken trust

mend.

There is space for hope,

binding the pieces together,

finding reason in the chaos.

I stop the drone of a fly

with my fist

then let it go.

It is as simple as that.

(space, mouth, circling, vow, binding, broken, cave, drone, sun, fist, crook, chants). I didn't manage 'crook' and changed 'chants 'to 'chance'.

Cold Spring Wordle 106

And then came March,

cold and thinly veiled

with damp mist.

I saw the rare birds return

and shiver on the lines

waiting for Spring.

The harrowing began

Vast vistas of brown corduroy,

with egrets in the wake

of tractors, finding grubs.

The wind, a transparent knife

cut through to the marrow.

I guess this is either

climate change,

or Earth's oath to us

for borrowing her mantle

and wearing it too thin.

Thin, marrow, oath, borrow, saw, march, harrowing, guess, grubs, transparent, either, rare.

News from Nowhere - Wordle 105

I am hardening,

building up

a resilience to shock.

Every bomb

a conspiracy.

Every struggle

contrived.

My sympathies

are all spent.

I thrive on the promise

that the land provides

and under the shelter

of fig trees, newly leafed,

I feel joy and hope arise.

The nearest I get to war

is the fight against goats -

the infidels in my war of attrition.

And for now, there is peace.

They have been sold,

shipped off

to pastures new.

I replant and re-fence

in confidence.

(Shipped, against, shock, shelter, struggle, promise, thrive, infidels, harden, land, bomb, spent, resilience.)

Becoming One

There is unity
in the global village
that technology
creates.

I sit
cross-legged.
The mantra I sing
is one
that activates
love

I project myself
on an inquisitive
inter-stellar journey.
It's delicious.

It urges me further,
until I am one,
merged with the universe,
a smudge
on the big screen.
OM

Sing, technology, smudge, project, urge, unity, stellar, mantra, merge, inquisitive, activate, delicious

Wordle 102 Bits and Pieces

Staff of life

she said

as she broke the baguette

-

Stone the crows.

Watch them

caw and soar

-

Moon shine and music

set the mood.

Dawn breaks

-

Calls are free

if you are

telepathic

-

Written

but not spoken.

White noise

-

Peak rates

speak

of use

-

After the flood

what was there

but mud?

-

Petals open.

The jewel

revealed

-

Powders

with promise.

Anti-acid

-

Pit.

Spit it

out

-

Locks of hair

need

no key

-

Lost

but not

missed

(Staff, stone, moon, calls, written, peak, after, petals, powders, pit, locks, lost )

Forgotten Country

I stand by a tree in the playground

of a deserted primary school.

One of thousands that education emptied.

Contraception, emigration

left the land with a wound

that may never heal.

The sound of laughter

torn from the heart.

These thoughts jar.

I kick the sand on the path,

my mind stirred.

The sadness of desertion

cannot be disguised.

.

I walk, there is no hurry,

across the valley

where the barefoot children

of yesterday, ran,

thinking of the stories children made

dying in the mouths of those

who stayed.

(disguised, forgotten, country, hurry, tree, wound, mind, sand, stirred, jar, across, yesterday)

Day Dream Location (wordle 100)

At home on a hilltop,

far from any street,

I stretch my eyes

across blue distant

folding hills.

.

The buzzard circles and calls

and March lambs

run through young grass.

Faint voices drift up,

of neighbours

in the valley below.

I train my eyes on them.

They check their mail boxes

and share news.

Their words die

before they reach this height.

Master of my own reality,

I create their conversations

and day dream.

Change places?

Not I

In my home

in the sky.

(Change, faint, street, stretch, places, calls, march, train, create, words, die, master, share.)

Outside the Patisserie - Wordle 99

Every move tells a story

of habit and use.

It's written on the body.

Intimate, we think we know,

but from an outsider,

a video,

or through a window glancing,

the story we knotted together

or our self

unravels.

The paint, the wraps,

(the fearsome parts

we think we have

so cleverly disguised),

fall away

and there, in the reflection

of a shop window

we see our mother,

our father.

Our 'take' on life

uncovered, raw, shocking.

Deep down in our hearts

or handbags

we have reserves -

building blocks of ego.

It may be chocolate

or prayers.

Om mani padmi om.

Enter and buy

chocolate eclairs.

Paint, use, outsider, away, fearsome, part, reserves, body, intimate, written, window

Highs and Lows

Wordle 98

Blue, blessed, deserves, first, gasps, instant, slap, snare, dust, unbalance, ride, wings.

Highs and lows

How can you unbalance

the scales

and tip them to touch heaven,

to feel the draught

from angels' wings,

without them swinging

down into the dust,

to feel the slap

the instant you hit the ground?

From the blessed blue heaven

to the snare of dark depression

the ride of life goes on.

At first one gasps

and screams and cries

and thinks it is only what one deserves,

but later, or sooner,

through thoughtful introspection

the balance

can be found.

Discipline, wordle 97

Discipline.

I wish I had it.

I missed it as a child,

rebelled against it as a teenager

and forgot all about it as an adult.

I flitted through marriages,

children, friends, work,

feeling heroic for moments,

but lacking patience

for the long haul.

I sit here gazing into my past,

remembering the sublime -

writhing in guilt at my follies

and when my heart is like fit to burst

I stare at a stone – ancient, veined -

from a time when prophets roamed

and spoke of love

and I feel tears stealing out.

Maybe I have reached my limits

of self abuse.

Perhaps now, as the swallows fly back

and the Spring sun warms my bones,

I can see some definition,

something akin to discipline,

threaded through the years.

wild spirit wordle 96

faces, door, naked, lack, candlelight, imaginary, hiding, held, scurries, under, birth, root.

Preferring candlelight to sun, she went down,

away from the angry faces,

underground,

where the constant earth

cradles her.

Roots and leaves

cover her naked curves.

She scurries out

in the half light

to leave offerings

by the door

of herbs, roots, seeds

in exchange for her needs-

candle stubs, matches.

Little does she lack.

The birth of Spring will bring

her out of hiding.

When the cuckoo calls

across the wooded valley,
her imaginary chains will fall,

she will soar,

she will bloom and roar.

Her wild spirit

finally free.

Lost and Found

I was inspired by Estes book 'Women who Run with the Wolves'. One of the stories she recounts is an Inuit tale called 'Skelaton Woman' and this is what I came up with.

Lost and Found

Once upon a time, a long time ago, far, far away, where the Northern lights dance in the sky, where the summer sun shines at midnight, and the winters are as long as a grey tomb, there lived a girl called Mara, daughter of a proud chieftain. Her hair rippled down her back like ripe, summer corn, and her eyes were as blue as the sea on Christmas day.

In her joyful innocence she loved, and was loved by the son of her father's worst enemy. The jealousy and the shame that her father felt when he discovered them together led him to take her out in a small boat, and, with her hair like a rope round his wrist, to throw her into the depths of the Bay of Lost Souls.

The shock of the cold water took her breath away. As she tried to scream a trail of bubbles came out of her mouth. She was surrounded by bubbles. They clung to her clothes. They streamed past her eyes. She could hear them rush past her ears. She started to kick, writhing in the cold water, struggling to free her tied hands. Her long hair wrapped itself around her face. Then the rage and panic she had felt when she had tried to wrestle free of her father's grip left her and cold fear began to take hold. Desperately she tried to lift her face to the surface and catch a last breath, but instead of air, the sea poured into her lungs, and she began the slow descent. Down, down, down she went, into the gloomy depths, keeping her eyes focused on the silvery surface. Her thoughts turned from fear to wonder at the graceful movements of the kelp that grew on the rocks. She sank lower and lower, until gently she was laid on the sandy floor, her golden hair streaming around her and moving like the kelp, to the rhythmic pulse of the sea.

All through the cold dark winter she lay on the sand, surrounded by the long graceful strands of seaweed. While storms raged and dark skies prevailed she lay there losing parts of herself. Her clothes left her, her skin left her. Her hair left her. She had nothing but her bones to hold onto in that murky world. She moved gently with the motion of the sea, to and fro, to and fro, in the fields of kelp. Small fish darted through her ribcage, kelp took hold on her scull,

Gradually the days began to lengthen and summer came. Mara could see the sun shining in long golden rays through the green sea, lighting up the kelp and giving colour to the ocean bed. Shadows of dolphins flitted across her. The fine grains of sand stroked her bones, gently reminding her of the skin she had once had. Her kelpen hair grew long and fine. The rippling silver-blue surface was the colour her eyes had been. She felt that her body had not deserted her, but had moved out side of her and now she could see parts of her old self about her, in her watery home

The years went by. Times of famine and plenty came and went. Old feuds were forgotten, new links were formed. People began to move away, to find a new way of life, away from the sea. With no young grandchildren to listen, the clan stories and songs died in the mouths of the old. The tragic death of the chieftain’s daughter became nothing more than a name of a rock on the headland. Marasend.

One night near the end of the summer, the moon in its fullness, shone through the calm waters and lit up the sand. Mara lay bathed in the silver light. She was listening to the constant heartbeat of the sea, looking up at the luminous globe, weaving in and out of the ripples on the surface, when a shadow crossed her bones. It was a boat, floating directly above, turning slowly and returning. In all her time here she had not seen a boat of any kind. She had been thrown into forbidden waters, a cursed bay where no fishermen dared to fish lest they land a catch that would taint their lives.

She watched as something was thrown in. A silver lure, glinting in the moonlight. It spiralled down, down, down. She could see the big hook. It was coming for her. It landed on her chest and caught in her ribs. Then she felt the line tighten and her bones begin to move. Up, up, up. She recognized the regular pull that a fisherman makes, smoothly, calmly, lest they lose their catch, ever upwards. The glittering surface came closer and closer. She could feel the water rushing through her, the drag of her kelp hair, until suddenly she was rattling on the floor of a boat, stripped of the protective water that had been her air, her skin, her eyes, her heartbeat, her home.

Antoine had been out for hours, dreaming of catching a big fish; a fish that would impress the local fishermen. He was not local, but his mother had lived here many years ago. She had told him stories from her childhood and he wanted to be a hunter like her people were. He had come to stay in their small summer house, a wooden shack with a veranda. He hired a boat and went out on the sea. He was careful not to encroach upon the serious fishing grounds. They might be kin, but where fishing was concerned, he knew to be respectful of their territories. A man in the bar had recommended this lonesome bay. He said it was good fishing, but that no one used it due to some old superstition.

Night fishing was the best. Antoine loved to sit alone in his small wooden boat feeling the swell of the sea under him, and listening to the water lapping at the sides. He loved to row in a steady rhythm, the row-locks rattling in their holes, and to see the phosphorescence drip off the oars in silver beads. Tonight there was a full moon, and the sea was as still as glass. The sky was a luminous blue, still quite light in the west. Antoine pulled at the oars and rowed out into the bay. The tall, silent cliffs looked on, faceless in the monochrome light of the moon. In the wake of the boat the water rippled silver and black.

He parked his oars and took out his tackle and began to spin it down into the water. Down, down, down went the shining lure. Then he waited, in his small wooden boat, out in the glassy sea, alone.

When he felt the catch his heart leapt into his throat. This was a big one! With adrenalin pumping, he went into action. He stood up, legs braced. Steadily he pulled his catch in. Steady, steady. No sudden movements or else he would lose it. Hand on hand he drew in the line. There! He could see something coming up to the surface! Something big!

And then it surfaced and seemed to leap into the boat. A luminous skeleton with wide staring eyes and a screaming mouth, smothered in seaweed.

Antoine screamed and ran to the other end of the boat, tangling himself in his line as he tried to distance himself from this spectre. The skeleton followed him, jerked along by the same line, her bones rattling on the duck-boards. Terrified, Antoine dived into the sea and swam towards the shore. The skeleton jerked out of the boat and followed.

When Antoine reached the stony shore he dragged himself out. He looked back to the water, and saw the bones moving toward him on the crest of a small wave. He got up and ran as fast as his legs could take him. He could hardly breath he was so scared. All he could hear was the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. When he reached his house he ran in and slammed the door. The sound of the bones landing on the veranda froze him to the spot.

He stood, listening for a long time, while his body recovered from the physical exertion, and his mind began to calm. It was then that he felt something tight on his leg and saw the fishing line twisted round his ankle. He began to laugh hysterically. He sat down on the floor with his back against the door, drew out a knife from his pocket and cut the string. After a few minutes he began to feel cold. Quickly he took off his clothes and rubbed himself with a towel, all the time thinking of the skeleton that must be on the other side of the door. Finally, dressed and feeling the warmth of a large brandy coursing through his veins, he went to inspect his catch. In the light of the storm lantern which he held in front of him, he looked at the sorry pile of jumbled bones that lay on the weathered boards. He put the lamp down on the table and sat down next to the bones, wondering who it could have been? Why had it been out in that bay?

Antoine began to arrange the bones, to untangle them. He took the hook from the ribcage. He laid the arms out, and straightened the legs. He stroked back the slippery seaweed hair. A cool breeze made him shiver. He reached out and drew a blanket off the hammock and wrapped it round the skeleton. Then he went to his hammock and sighed as his body sank into the net. He lay looking up at the night sky, trying to make sense of what had happened this night. Gradually, the stars lulled his senses, and he fell into a deep sleep.

Mara lay unblinking, staring at the blinking stars. She had felt the gentle hands of Antoine as he rearranged her bones. She had felt the warmth of his fingers touch her cold bones and thaw the frozen marrow. She could smell the brandy on his breath, a warm earthy smell. Then the blanket came, the final act of kindness that stirred her spirit. In the silence of the night she heard him sleeping, and she felt his dreams come seeping into her. Dreams of dislocation and loss, of searching and loneliness. She saw tears trickle down his face. She drew the blanket round her as she stood up, and went over to the hammock. She reached over and drank his tears. She drank up his sorrow, it became her joy. She drank up his loneliness, it became her faith. Her love-starved body drank, and filled with warmth and life. She felt her skin return. She felt her loving heart grow strong. Gently, she slipped in beside him and curved her new body into his curves. His out breath became her in breath. The hammock barely rocked as their hearts beat in rhythm. Lost and found. Lost and found.

Beware! Beware! Beware! wordle 92

(Art,pearls, sticky, filaments, bone, charge, beware, skin, call, air, linen, call, knocks.)

Goats on the horizon
their bells ringing
in the fresh morning air.
Dew in the cobwebs,
filaments of silver
beaded with pearls,
and a welcome sun
like linen on the skin.
Every cell soaks up the warmth,
sends a charge,
refuels the sense of hope.

So out we go,
focussed on the art of living lightly
only to return later
to find the goats
out of their field.
Down in the garden
the sticky mud is full of hoof marks.
I scream and call those beasts
names that will never hurt them
wishing I had sticks and stones
to throw at their cocky, clever selves.

Weeks of slow travail
decimated in an hour.
It knocks me back.
All the sun's rays -
fuel spent
in RAGE.

A Drunk Blames the Drink. wordle 91

You wish that you had said no

to that last bottle.

Oh a miserable Micky Finn

was slipped in

The night didn't end.

Rather, your memory of it

diminished

to a painful lump on your forehead

and the smell of vomit.

There is no virtue in drinking.

Why do we do it?

To break down the barriers.

To bend the rules.

To see beauty in the bottom

of the glass.

The bar becomes a palace

and Dutch courage brings you closer to your wish.

The steps you take

to recite your poetry

and fill the room with your words.

Now there is only pain

and the burden of knowing

you failed yourself.

So as a consolation

let's open another bottle

and toast the muse

peruse the scrawling in the notebook.

See the genius that resides within.

A little more Dutch courage

before you begin.

Winter Bonfire

The snap of ice in the air

The crackle of frost underfoot

The pop of chestnuts roasting.

Leaping shadows cast by flames

Make our company more,

And more animated than we are.

A delivery of sparks soars

to join the stars

Strewn in the inky sky.

We knead our cold hands

And begin to brood,

Our thoughts caught

In some creek or backwater

As the fire lessens it's grip.

We feel the winter press in

The year's gathered branches burnt.

The point and tangent

Of New Year