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Ordinary Miracle

gratitude for the toothpaste
pleasure at my soft mattress
joy of the first sip of tea
delight as my cat stretches

to remember the miracle
of ordinary things
unhook the small mind
move

into the space
where
miracles are happening
each second

my body is breathing me
in, out, every moment
in, out
in

Sarah Caddick
Poetry Theme(s):

Currently Popular Poems:

White Hawthorns

The day speaks of white hawthorn Sundays Long washed out road trips, reluctant relatives waving you off on arrival. Rain from decades passed, a swishing of glimpses. Parents cramped and fretful. Passing through a littered accompaniment of faceless outlines. Stretched out warming children, car sick, scrunch up weathered newspapers. Pungent smells of nostalgia, almost Springs bouncing forward hours. Eager sweet wrappers lunge for half opened windows to adorn the floating blossom clouds of hawthorn bushes, March’s winds step in much like a bone-chilled but amiable hitch hiker. A querulous sibling rolls over, sickening, falls out in a screeching of tires. Tearfully rain-splattered. Another weekend pulled out and pegged up, redolent of adolescences quickly traversed. Mark Ereira-Guyer
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Alone (with the birds)

I’m not good at numbers; words are more my thing but I dabble in statistics and the mathematics of probability. Chance I call it. I’m not often alone. Not often silent, except that companionable silence when you’re lost in your thoughts, but in good company. Surprised all at once by a squawk, a solitary moorhen deep in the reeds, minding its own business, today I’m out practising, sitting alone in the sunshine. Together, we come here often, striding up the cliff-top, dawdling through Kensington Gardens, pointing out fading displays of dahlias and falling leaves. We order americanos at the café, with a jug of hot milk on the side – ‘that’s hot milk, please’ – to make our stay last a bit longer. Today, though, it’s just coffee for one. I consider a cappuccino, a break from routine; old habits are hard to break. ‘Americano’ I say, ‘with hot milk, please’. Would I change if I were left alone? The moorhen seems content. Does it ponder the meaning of life? A seagull soars into the blue – doe
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The Funeral Arranger

The widow was strung up with tension The son’s body like a rag doll he held his mother’s hand as if with superglue -no tears-the air felt like treacle. “what sort of coffin would you like?”… Clare
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Erosion

Unerring yet erratic The weight of water never waits for readiness Sandstone is proven to be a two-faced liar a pretence of solidity written into the features of its rockface which crumbles under a wave’s supremacy and we wave goodbye to all we knew Lynne Nesbit
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Ravilious Rules

Yesterday’s heat evaporates taking with it the fierce glare of the sun. Yesterday, sunlight glanced off hills, danced on rivers, but I am used to this gentle Welsh spirit that now envelops the landscape, soft green mist that returns to the hills, softening edges, softening mood. Curvaceous, a line of grey green hills etched in waves of leafiness, dark green towering oaks, hedgerows draped with dog roses, flat, rounded clusters of elderflowers, the gracious sweep of the bronzed maple. Tutored by nature’s harmony, my eye picks out the tell-tale signs of human intervention, marks alien pylons astride hilltops. Tall, straight telegraph poles push their way up through trees, geometric road signs warn of hidden dangers, along straight, tarmacked roads. The sign for Maesmawr Farm shouts its rectilinear message, tempting me with luxury lodges. The arrow points straight to them. Even the forestry commission superimposes its orderly rows on nature’s wayward curves. But the rolling hills triumph,
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Breath

All round the world people are holding their breath Is it just an anomaly or are we in at the death? Our planet is hurting that we all can see Is this blip natural or caused by you and me? We have to trust scientists to tell us the truth You are our hope and you are our sleuth Do not ignore the cynics they’ll keep you on track Retest their theories, and find out what they lack Is it a sun spot that may cause the crash Or too much abuse, and things that we trash So tell us home truths, even things that we fear Especially those things we do not want to hear So all of the plastic we do not need to use All of our assets we need not abuse Will help just a little, we hope and we pray Seek a safe path, make some headway Let the whole world return to a safer course Let saving people be a founding force Be sure to travel just the trail that is true Lies come back to bite, like an old lover’s tattoo Let’s hope with every hope we’re not in at the death And slowly, slowly ..... release the world’s
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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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Spreading Health

How much better it is to use a hanky or tissue than to propel germs, bacteria, viruses. How much better to keep that hanky up your sleeve then to wash it in 30 degrees or to compost that tissue for bugs and worms to consume making soil to grow food for health. Sue Foster Photo by Diana Polekhina via Unsplash  
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The Skylark

A fletched fanfare to the field Pulses upward Ladders the air No regalia for this herald: A flickering tattered grey-brown speck Yet he cascades his song Like a million pieces of silver Glorying the sky Owning the hunkered down, machine-torn hedges, The tilled and tamed expanse beneath Daring the wind, taunting I’m here, he cries, I’m here Awakening the wild joy in our hearts Bone-bred memories of open heath and grassland. Robert Lindsay
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Hidden Depths of Strength

A hint of sadness Always in my eyes Reflecting the madness And chaos of the past. I long for normality To be rescued from the depths Don't step too close Always in my eyes. Keep others at a distance Hidden strength Always in my eyes Uncertainty and sadness. Rebecca
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