winner, winner

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Love this

WILD FLOWER HUNTRESS

A wise man once told me
To visualise money
As fried chicken dinners
“To keep things in perspective”

And then when I thought
Of how much chicken I’d bought
I wondered how many chicken dinners
Does one person NEED?

So I did some mathematics
And I came to equating
That the average consumer
Needs

Six-thousand-two-hundred-and-forty

Based on two chicken dinners
Every week

And face it you’d be lucky to get through that lot without getting, you know, sick of it…

From the time one is sixteen
And earning some money
Or at least bloody well should be
If they want to “go anywhere in life”

Until the time one is seventy six
Though you probably won’t get there
If you eat two fried chicken dinners
Every week

So I skimmed down my summing
To six thousand even
Cos I couldn’t be bothered
With starting again

And then I visualised deeply

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Down, Down

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A series of misguided emotions
Bubble to the surface of the cauldron
That is my flaming heart
And once again I slam them back down

Those emotional manifestations
I’m told are unworthy
And shouldn’t be felt
For the best of all involved

But perhaps my heart
Hasn’t gotten the message
Hasn’t realised its folly
In feeling such love

Love for all it sees
Love for every soul it meets
Love so intense
That no stamping down can hide it long

Smoosh the feelings
Down down
Deep in their hole
Where they cannot escape

Keep them deep down
So folks won’t see
The unacceptable feelings
That are filling me

The Swirling Maelstrom

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An errant thought
Grabs for attention
Clamours to be heard
Above the din
That inhabits my mind
And I grab for a pen
And a sheet
To scribble it down
Before it is lost
To the maelstrom
And perhaps gone forever
Never to be born
Into the world
Never to be heard
Never to be acted upon
And the thought
Having snatched it’s moment
Bears down
Holds the spotlight
Begin to be finished
Before it is too late
Before the next thought
Comes along to displace
And dethrone
Making the spotlight it’s own
And then comes another
And another
And the swirling storm
Rages on

Make Them Hear Your Voice

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A deep and existential dread
Forming around and holding tight
Rejected once more by those that hold no sway
Those that didn’t matter until they said
That you weren’t up to their standards
That you somehow fell short
Their opinions didn’t faze you
Until they were directed your way
So why the sudden change
Why the sudden regret
At something lost when never sought
Missing when never wanted to begin with
If all souls are fragments of the same
Great and powerful being
Perhaps it matters when one fragment
Suggests another is lacking
In a world of free loving
A world of fanciful joy
Why would you wallow
Why would you fear
It’s all just suggestion
Not a devil at your ear
Essentially I’m saying
What’s done is done for good
So why bother wasting energy
On words from lumps of wood
When you are the one in charge
The one who knows the path
Who can see the journey stretched before them
Can see the aftermath
Of every single decision
Of every little choice
But only if you clear your mind
And make them hear your voice

Plan 559 from Outer Space Mk III

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My 14th short story was published yesterday. It’s a tale of space colonisation, daring pilots, dastardly corporations and a beautiful gold and purple planet called Goldilocks.

Available on Amazon today from the people at Five59 Publishing.

Gaze into Azure

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A goddess no mere words could hope to capture
And yet the poet, he must try
Strive to snare her in his net of finely woven words
Reaching for the stars that shine dimly in comparison
It isn’t that she is beautiful
Although such description falls desperately short
Nor that her face could easily be compared to the high noon sun
There is something more to her than simple beauty
She makes beauty seem mundane
No, this extramortal being is transcendent of such petty things
She is flowers and music and lightning
A smile to put all others to shame
She is the fox and the wolf and the eagle
Animalistic and primal to her core
She dances as if carried upon the breeze and yet
She stands as mountains wreathed in moonlight
A whirlwind, a cacophony, a swirling dervish
And somehow a shimmering glassine pool
Undisturbed and reflective
The poet gazes into azure and sees
Sees the truth of himself and all the world around
The truth is so evident he wonders how he missed it before
How the world cannot see what has been made so clear
Something in the muse’s eye has awakened him
Stirred that which he hid long ago, even from himself
Especially from himself, and the hidden now revealed
The poet can breathe his last in openness and prosperity
A smile on his lips and a skip in his heart

Poetry’s Mettle

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Sometimes the words don’t flow
As finely as I’d like
They stick in my brain
And the string of repetitious,
Rambunctious ramblings
Somehow seems silly
Somewhat strange and unwieldy
Understandably undesirable
Undeniably utilitarian
And completely devoid
Of magic
And mystery
And majesty
And mayhem
Instead intent in insipidness
Inherently idiotic ideas
Frequently flow freely
Foul figments of imagination
Testing resolve at every turn
And tested the mettle
Begins to weaken
Begins to warp and crack
And in the cracking becomes
Something different
Something wholly new
Something almost beautiful
Almost palatable
Almost real