Time Master… #Poetry

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

Time, we moan is too fast, too slow

There’s never enough of it

We would all like more

Each of us has an allotted span

Would you want to know

How much you had left

To enjoy or moan about?

What if I tell you there is a place?

Where you can turn the clock back

Would you play back yesterday

A month, a year more?

To do so, you must interact

With the Time Master in a dream

Set your clock for midnight

When you wake,

turn your clock back one hour

Lay your head back on your pillow

Call for the Time Master three times

before you sleep

When the clock passes midnight for the second time

You may find yourself in a strange place

Of dark moving clouds in a world of clocks

You must find the one that matches

the one on your bedside table.

Turn the hands to midnight

You may wake in the wrong tomorrow

Depending on what you hoped for…

©anitadawes

Are We Afraid of Tomorrow? #Poetry

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AFRAID OF TOMORROW

I am afraid of tomorrow, of what it might bring

Of a hunger for things unseen, yet unknown

A feeling that something interferes with your thoughts, your plans

That something watches, waiting for you to mess up

Take the wrong road.

Spend too much time on things that go nowhere.

There are days when the world around you

Feels as though it is made of treacle

Each step you take, your feet gather more of the sticky stuff

Until you feel as if you are wearing lead boots.

Tomorrow comes; the sun shines through your window

Birdsong filters through your sleeping mind.

Today you believe in angels

You put the lead boots in the cupboard

Open the window and let the new day in

Let the soft summer breeze carry yesterday’s dark thoughts away…

Anita Dawes

#Jaye’s Journal ~ Week 40

Jaye's Journal x12

 

In many ways, this week was the worst yet for me.

 

I soldiered on, trying to accomplish something towards my impending book launch, but everything I touched turned to rubbish in my hands. I managed to reach Thursday without shooting myself, but it grew steadily worse. I knew if there was one more insurmountable difficulty, there was a danger of me running for the hills. I tried everything I could think of to escape the feeling of doom that was gradually seeping into everything I touched, but it wasn’t having a bar of it. Looked like I had found a branch of doom that was far more stubborn than I was!

I checked the weather again and although the entire week looked just as glum, with rain everywhere, that day seemed brighter, or was I just hoping for a little sunshine?

We hadn’t walked to our local lake in ages, having almost resigned into believing we couldn’t walk that far anymore. It was only about a mile and a half and quite a pleasant walk through town, but it was the return journey that always had us crawling home, groaning with aching joints. Desperation made me determined to dispel that idea and we set off, walking slowly and enjoying the fresh air. The sun was trying to make an appearance and I could feel the doom dropping away from me the further I walked.

We sat by the water, watching the assortment of ducks, geese and swans, going about their business. Most were busy hunting for food, while others were bossing each other about, causing short-lived arguments and noisy wing flapping that had the local children laughing. The sun sparkled on the water, the light breeze rippling the surface and for the first time in ages, I felt myself relaxing.

Anita was watching something on the far side of the lake, and I tried to see for myself. They looked like ducks, but something kept me watching, willing them to come closer. They took their sweet time but eventually they came close enough to see they were a pair of black swans.

I have had this thing about black swans ever since I worked near the River Thames, some forty years ago. My office window looked out over the water and I confess I spent more time than I should watching what went on out there. I hadn’t been in the job long before my new workmates introduced me to Smudge, a lone black swan who seemed to like that part of the river and could be seen every day. He once had a mate, but something had happened, leaving him alone. I knew that swans mate for life, and that Smudge would have to live the rest of his life alone. I was alone at that time too, so in a way we shared our loneliness. At least that ‘s how it felt back then.

The new arrivals made it to our side of the lake, and I watched them gliding about, completely engrossed in what they were doing. They ignored the other wildlife and seemed to be searching for more than food, or was I endowing them with the sadness I felt for Smudge all those years ago?

I took loads of photographs and tried to capture them both on video too, but either my camera malfunctioned or I didn’t press the right sequence of buttons. It seemed doom hadn’t quite disappeared after all, but at least the photos weren’t bad.

If the weather doesn’t improve, we may not walk all that way again until Spring and maybe we will see the black swans again. Now that is something to look forward to!

 

Thank you for reading – please feel free to comment or share for I would love to hear from you!   Best wishes from Jaye Marie

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Jaye-Marie/e/B00O2ZUFOK/

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Image by JayeMarie

Anita told me this morning that Sue’s #writephoto image this week will be a bunch of trees.

She had just finished painting one of her flower frogs in copper, when I showed her the picture. She promptly went to lie down in a dark room as she says she cannot take much more of these universal coincidences. Trees and the word copper?

I wasn’t going to do anything with it, but I had the impulse to put it out there.

This kind of thing happens to her so often, she feels she should be able to do something useful with it.

Any ideas?

 

Under the Tree… @PoetryDayUK

This is our contribution for National Poetry Day here in the UK…

 

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Image by Jaye Marie

Under the Tree

While sheltering beneath this beautiful pine tree

I heard a deep voice, the down in your boot’s kind

“Why do you hide beneath my skirt?”

I answered, not knowing to whom I might be speaking

“I’m not hiding, I’m being nosy. I like the feel of it here,

as if the world can no longer see me.”

“I understand. My face is not always visible,

depending on the wind. I noticed you looking

yet you ventured beneath, unafraid.

Many here look upon my face and walk away

It must be my size has them walking by,

never knowing my name is Beau

I am left with a feeling of sadness.

You see, I cannot help but let my spirit be seen

That is when I can see the world through different eyes

Rather than just feeling the sunlight, I can see it

Late at night when the people have gone, I see the stars,

the moon playing between the shadows…”

I didn’t want to interrupt the voice coming from above my head

Finally, I managed to say, “Your face doesn’t frighten me,

I think it’s beautiful.”

A sudden wind picked up and I stepped outside

Looking up, I could no longer see the face

that had drawn me in. I believed the spirit of the tree

had shared its thoughts with me

I walked home, feeling privileged…

                                ©anitadawes

The Tower… #Poetry

 

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

Somehow, I found myself inside the Tower of London

There I was, prancing around, wearing the Queen’s crown

So splendid, magnificent, it felt like wearing new clothes

I could hear the ravens in their cages

They knew I was here. I wondered if the noise

Would alert the guards on their night patrol

I didn’t care. I felt dazzled by the beauty of her jewels

The security lights made each jewel dance

The colours jumping along with their own beauty

Why must such treasures be locked away?

The Hope diamond, rubies, sapphires

I wanted to take them all home with me

Knowing full well, I could never get inside the cabinet

Alarms would ring, I would be locked inside the Tower

A traitor to the Crown, yet here I am, wearing it

Looking at it at the same time.

I woke clutching a small sapphire

Had I brought something back from a dream?

I scanned the newspapers, not a mention of someone

Invading the Tower. No sapphire reported missing.

Somehow my love of splendid jewels had transferred one

Into my hand. Should I return it, risk being branded a criminal?

I think not, for it was a gift from the dream world…

©anitadawes

#TuesdayBookBlog ~ The Hat by Craig Boyack #Novella #Fantasy @Virgilante

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Lizzie St. Laurent is dealing with many of the struggles of young life. She lost her grandmother and her living arrangements. Her new roommate abandoned her, and she’s working multiple jobs just to keep her head above water.

She inherits an old hat from her grandmother’s estate, but it belonged to her grandfather. This is no ordinary hat, but a being from an alternate dimension. One with special powers.

Lizzie and the hat don’t exactly hit it off right away, but when her best friend’s newborn is kidnapped by a ring of baby traffickers, Lizzie turns to the hat for help. This leads her deep into her family history and a world she’s never known.

Lizzie gives up everything to rescue the babies. She loses her jobs and may wind up in jail before it’s over. Along the way, she and the hat may have a new way of making ends meet.

Our Review

Short, snappy and very funny, Craig Boyack’s new novella is a magical and engaging read.

The main character is a charming and versatile talking hat, brilliantly crafted, instantly likeable and more importantly, believable.

The chemistry between the Hat and Lizzie (the hapless and stubborn human in the story) fairly sizzles, as they argue non- stop as they try to solve the mystery of the missing babies. The speed of the dialogue will leave you gasping for breath!

The idea of a talking hat busy surfing the internet had me in stitches.

I liked the novel addition of the graphics and the bass clef section dividers. I wonder how many readers made the connection?

You will remember this story and the Hat long after you put the book down… and more from this iconic pair would not go amiss.

( Just heard that the wait is over, we will soon be able to read more from The Hat…)

 


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I was born in a town called Elko, Nevada. I like to tell everyone I was born in a small town in the 1940s. I’m not quite that old, but Elko has always been a little behind the times. This gives me a unique perspective of earlier times, and other ways of getting by. Some of this bleeds through into my fiction.

I moved to Idaho right after the turn of the century, and never looked back. My writing career was born here, with access to other writers and critique groups I jumped in with both feet.

I like to write about things that have something unusual. My works are in the realm of science fiction, paranormal, and fantasy. The goal is to entertain you for a few hours. I hope you enjoy the ride.

Craig

#Wordle ~ 423 #Poetry

 

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We bought the house for a reason

No noisy neighbours as we back on to a graveyard

From my bedroom window, I imagine all sorts

At night, with a half-moon hanging low

Shadows shifting under a pale light

How many stroke victims lie beneath the cold earth?

What of murderers shot by the police

Some nights I hear the grunt of wild animals

Most likely hedgehogs

The wind carries the distant wail of someone in trouble

Too far away for me to be of help

Some nights I stand there too long

I need to stamp my feet to get the blood flowing

I often wish I had the courage to jump a train

At our local rail line, walk the streets of London.

I hear there will be much to feed my imagination

I don’t have time; it is my turn to help with the flowers

For midnight mass

I put the keys on the bedside dresser to remind me

Before I leave my window, I notice a flash of light

Level with the large grey stone that stands alone

Next morning with the keys in my pocket

I decided to have a look before flower arranging

I stood in front of a black marble headstone

The date read 1809 Margaret Stone, died aged 49

I felt sorry for her short life

Nothing strange here, where had the light come from?

Maybe the vicar, checking all’s well

As I turn my head to walk away

I noticed the words had changed

It now read, here lies James Young, died aged nine

This happened three more times before I could move away

Finally, my imagination hit a wall, it was something

I cannot explain or talk about

They would think me mad, call for the men in white jackets

As I was arranging the flowers

I wondered why they had all died so young

Was the gravesite like a multi-story building?

Occupants on top of each other

Did I have a glimpse of those who had been buried before?

I knew I couldn’t ask anyone

With all that running through my mind

I managed to do a good job with the flowers…

©anitadawes