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PTSD
PPE
BA 2.75.2
Ratios, numbers, percentages
“look after yourself…” they said.
We were all Marcel Marceau feeling the invisible walls closing in.
I was lucky, I could get out for 30 minutes
Music in the car on the way home from the crem.,
to those invisible walls carrying the grief of the world on my shoulders
and forever in my heart.
Ratios, numbers, percentages
“look after yourself…


Suzanne
Poetry Theme(s):

Currently Popular Poems:

Stones of Old

Tell me your song oh stones of old of the summers that warmed you and the strike of the cold the voices of song absorbed in your heart the anger and fear that tore you apart. Speak to me of church bells and whispered dreams the rough hands that gathered your broken seams the waterways that carried your bones of lime the soft crunch of bread and red rivers of wine. Who did you cradle in your shadowed arch as the songbirds heralded the soldiers march as battles raged in the skies ahead and you sheltered your spiders in a stony bed? Is the wear on your shoulders the marks of the wild or the scrape of a heel from a venturing child? Discarded windows frame the dance of time Oh tell me your stories great stalwarts of lime.     Emmalene  
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Pandemic

Piecing together all our hopes and dreams, joining the broken fragments of our lives, managing the pain of another loss, full of joy when finally together, society’s fabric hangs by a thread. Julia Duke
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In the Skip of the Moon

In the skip of the moon I felt my life lighten, Held between worlds, Drifting slowly to the shore. Fathomed to the flow, Secure in the depths Of the hidden undertow Revealing it’s current. Dragged along, The awakening of freshwater To the spit of Orford, I swam ashore. April
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Above a Sea of Fog

Caspar David Friedrich, 'Wanderer above a Sea of Fog' (c.1818) She once said I looked like a graceful swan drifting serene across the surface of the water, giving no clue to the feet paddling so furiously beneath me. It was a cliché, small comfort unless you are obsessed with appearances. His wandering, like mine, is threatened by the drifting mist that twists and turns, obscuring paths that lie ahead, decisions that weigh so heavily on lesser minds, not lightly made. Masterful he looks, above this boiling sea, so nicely turned out, so dapper in his neatly tailored coat, perched high above the reach of such disorder, never likely to muddy his resolve. Webbed feet paddle beneath me so constantly I am not always aware. I dress well, tie back my unruly hair leaving a wisp or two free to roam. I do not want to look severe. But the fog creeps. Julia
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Flickering Predictions

An age of drifting forecasts Tempers stabilising the existence A prequel sensation Accessing the conflicts of mind Offset against time. A random schedule. Broadened beyond an overhang Towards sanity An essence of rotations Of flickering predictions and fathoms and reasoning. Dave
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Change

As  I stand with my feet in the ocean, and look at the setting sun, I think of how many me's, have stood in how many seas, but always stared at the same one. A snapshot of scenes in the movie of me, at various times of my being. A new version of me every single time; the same star I'm always seeing. It fills me with curious wonder, for the places that I may go; And the life that has yet to happen, and the things I have yet to know. Jess
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Hope

What is hope Glistening frost on the pavement A hint of dawn in the east Small tits flitting, picking some seeds, hesitant first but soon bold. My hope, "light of the world" Shining in you, then reflecting in me. Nothing is lost, just sometimes, it is not so plain to see. Regina
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Ickworth Oaks

Those ancient tumbled oaks With intermittent decay the ridged thick bark clings to the base of striped ochre-gold. Silver-grey serpentine arms, outstretched lightning forks reaching to the tufted earth. Beetle channels deeply grooved beneath marks of a veteran striped bark, worn, crumbled and flaked. Amorphous hues, a forgotten silhouette of darkness revealed in Winter’s sun. Cameron
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