"The Authentic Reader"
I wrote the old woman down
and thought, for one foolish minute,
that the words were mine.
She sat there holding her afternoon together
with a shopping bag, a blue coat,
and a patience only from cracked hands.
......
Through the eyes of a stranger,
I walk the crowded streets,
My thoughts hidden behind
A façade of indifference.
Always writing under breath
Each step the rhythm of a song
I listen for the murmurs,
The stories left half-told,
And with borrowed breath,
......
“The Cupboard Light”
It was nearly midnight
when he slipped out of bed,
careful not to wake her.
The house exhaled its silence—
walls warm with sleep,
timber creaking
from the day’s last heat.
......
They cling to the weight of their quill,
the tactile sensation, grounding them,
yet, the digital tide pulls at their resolve,
urging them to adapt or be left behind.
Nostalgia blooms in the scent of old books,
memories of applause, now distant echoes,
the poet's dilemma, a struggle within,
to honour tradition or embrace the new.
......
"where it came from"
To speak only for myself
is a kind of shelter,
to speak so another can meet me
is a kind of risk.
So, I do what I’ve always done:
......
"The Authentic Reader"
I wrote the old woman down
and thought, for one foolish minute,
that the words were mine.
She sat there holding her afternoon together
with a shopping bag, a blue coat,
and a patience only from cracked hands.
......
"where it came from"
To speak only for myself
is a kind of shelter,
to speak so another can meet me
is a kind of risk.
So, I do what I’ve always done:
......
“The Cupboard Light”
It was nearly midnight
when he slipped out of bed,
careful not to wake her.
The house exhaled its silence—
walls warm with sleep,
timber creaking
from the day’s last heat.
......
there was a time
when thoughts
were pencilled in
by flashlight or nightlight
well after the house
has shut down for the night
there was a time
when poems
were extensions
......
They cling to the weight of their quill,
the tactile sensation, grounding them,
yet, the digital tide pulls at their resolve,
urging them to adapt or be left behind.
Nostalgia blooms in the scent of old books,
memories of applause, now distant echoes,
the poet's dilemma, a struggle within,
to honour tradition or embrace the new.
......