The Sunday Whirl ~ Wordle #542 ~ #Poetry

Hidden noise we do not hear
Yet sinks inside our head
Like the secret noise inside a shell
We take no notice of the sound
Of bare feet on vinyl
We lead strange lives
Hand in hand with superstition
Burying shoes and witches bottles
Under the threshold 
to ward off evil and protect the house
Amidst the strange and wonderful
Like Nero, we play our invisible fiddle
Letting the world spin around us…

©AnitaDawes2022

Before Sin… #Poetry

Before I am born, I am forgotten
I carry sins for the world.
I share them out like sweets
As a mother would for her children.
Each must have his own portion
Without sin, the world turns to ash.
There must be crimes, murders
Catastrophes to swipe man away.
Space on your world is not infinite
I do not choose who receives the larger sin.
Like the scattering of seeds or rain
I let them fall where they may.
I am not here to judge man
Only to see evil done by his hand.
Nature has her own way
Of sending evil to keep numbers down.
Pandora will tell you hope remains
That morning light will confirm.
There are no saints among you
Each has been given their own kind of sin.
Whether in thought or deed
I am sorry to say is the way of life.
Good and bad, yin and yang
Decided from the very first spark…

© Anita Dawes 2021

The Sunday Whirl ~ #Wordle 495

I have given up on the idea of becoming enlightened

By some trick of the mind, meditating,

floating over your favourite meadow.

Ideas written by supposed enlightened minds

don’t work for me.

I resign myself to the fact that my shine is hidden miles away.

I stab another needle into my homemade doll,

Whispering rude things

while telling myself I am entitled to get my own back.

The child in me remembers the fright.

The evil intended by so-called friends.

There can be no reconciliation.

Their denial of wrongdoing falls on deaf ears.

The bile rose in my throat

As I stabbed the last needle into the doll’s image

Let the deed be done…

© Anita Dawes 2021

No Sound… #Poetry

Image by kalhh from Pixabay

Her black charcoal heart
Thirst for life taken by accusation
Witch! They cried, needles pierce her skin
Pain sears her mind.
Cold river ducking
to cries of Burn the Witch!
The pyre built; her body tied
Flames grow higher, her soul has fled
Her body burns. They hear no screams
Disappointment spreads
Great clap of thunder silenced all standing
Rain puts out the fire,
in ash she stands in perfect form,
hands clasped in prayer
Put all watching to shame
Handfuls of ash carried home
Buried by the doorstep
Let no evil finger point this way…

© anita dawes 2020

The Eye of the Moon… # #poetry

Image found on FB – possibly by Ronald Keith

What happens
when the real face
of the moon is revealed.
Will fortunes change
While worlds collide?
Will we break like thin glass?
The fallen pieces scar the earth
Nothing grows
I sit beneath the last tree
Wondering what fool
Tried to shoot the moon…

©anitadawes 2020