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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

Poetry Theme(s):

Currently Popular Poems:

Forever Searching

Search the walls Scan the corridors Express the highs Scribble the lows Writing explores The state of my mind.   Judith  
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Let Me Play

Children at play filled with innocence, Trees in the playground where they hide. Running, shouting no cares in the world, Waves of freedom flows higher than the tide. In that playground stands a child all alone, Fraught with sadness, with nobody to play. His dejection surges as his tears threaten, Just wishing a shrill of a whistle would end the day. Being so alone is a solitary game, Thoughts of “what have I done” The shrills and screams of play, Ending a game for those that won. Standing all alone playtime is long, Children running all unaware, He stands still alone, Envy and sadness, he stands just to stare. Sheridan
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So Much Yellow

There’s gorse, of course and sometimes broom, the lichens yellow on the tomb and every churchyard has its fill of lovely yellow daffodils. There’s dandelions and celandine and yellow primrose, I suppose, and fluffy yellow chicks are born and yellow toads from slippery spawn. And green is seen on every lawn, at April’s end the woods turn blue and tulips bloom in pink and red with drooping leaves in every bed but yellow bellows all around: spring’s mating call, a joyful sound. Julia Duke
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Dunwich Heath Cliff

Beachen sand, coastal gravel Heave and spew with every wave Are fixed above my head Banks of sand, clots of gravel Two million-years adrift Are rolling at my feet Same old, same old Dunwich Cliff, Dunwich Beach: The poetry of sediment remains Tim
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Feathers

It’s as if all the birds In every weather Had dropped every feather The weight sometimes Of all those why's A ton of lead Or a ton of words unsaid Down on a feathered bed The weight belies The width of squawks When the birds are dead And they sing remembering When a ton of song Weighed the same as Fly away Autumns Flu away fall Feather or not Bird at all. Stephen Kirin
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Jungle Walk, Henstead Exotic Garden, Suffolk.

Broad-leaved trees, spreading palms, fingers outstretched, shield me from the sun’s heat. Beneath a green umbrella’s shade, the perfect spot on a blistering summer’s day, so cool, serene. Round, fluted lily pads rest flat on inky waters where golden fish glide, finding refuge in silence. A tiny oasis, place of shelter enfolding, embracing me within its safe circumference. Julia Duke
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Hidden Behind Plastic Shields and Masks

Hidden behind plastic shields and masks they smile at me but only with their eyes, there is love in each iris, lash and wrinkle wink. Who silently steps in the space between being neither here nor there? He watches her laboured breathing as tubes that had filled her lungs with life are now removed. I’ve breathed in and out without a thought for sixty-seven years but not now, I needed a machine but not anymore. Alone now and strangely calm - this is how it ends, the final cut. He looked at her gravely and slides beside her under covers of night. I feel his presence as a chill - wintery, I’m not dressed for this journey. A lantern held aloft in the forest of firs underfoot pine needles and snow the smell of resin and the crack of footfalls on icy ground. He smiles and I find myself smiling back a new doctor without a mask, weary eyes that have seen this all before and see too much I am weightless as a white feather drifting skyward. Ian Hartley
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Ballinasloe Station

Flood plains replenished and diminished, a deceiving here-and-there fluidity and the flat statement of stubborn water. Occasionally trackside trees are stranded, littered in swirling pools that soundlessly disappear. On the horizon, tall walls and radio mast mark the far-off asylum neatly screened with its avenue of trees. The people are hidden beyond the town, their tears reaching as far as the railway lines. The train navigates the flood’s edge like logic escaping emotion, trim engineering escaping danger, holding firmly onto the rails. (Ballinasloe was a major mental home in County Galway) Pat Jourdan
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Twenty-First Century Willow

I have always been proud of my body: lithe, supple, quite elastic. Watch me while I bow to reach my delicately painted toenails. I have always been supple. My sturdy trunk withstands the wind which gently stirs my slender limbs and sets me swaying, tossed like the ocean’s waves, rippling the fronds of my lime-green hair. Don’t waste your pity on me. I have a reputation for weeping but I am content with my lot. I am not one of those weepy women you love to despise. Snivelling, you call it. I have always been flexible. Don’t let that thought mislead you into imagining that I am easily led. Supple, flexible, I may be. Pliable, I am not. If you are inclined to stay, we may indulge ourselves in a little laziness. Rest a while beneath my boughs, see how I catch the sunlight in my hair and we will dip our toes together in the river’s flow. I am a little moody, a touch melancholy you might say, and inclined to droop. There are times, I admit, when the river flows by unheeding and I crave a li...
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Tang Yellows and Sung Blues

Beneath the dome of autumnal beech amber hues and jasper green tang-yellow leaves. The sung blue-grey sky and speckled shade on the tender crisp-lined track. Egyptian buff-brown Vigorous and stout trunks Lengthening skyward. Stephanie
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