Image by Christine Sponchia from Pixabay
… and one of my favourite poems …
Hope is the thing with feathers
Emily Dickinson – 1830-1886
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
Serenity
I see her face, familiar yet unknown to me. Her voice, a whisper, gentle sighs I stand on a timeless place, I feel my mind quiver. leaping over new thoughts The killing fields far behind me I see a halo above each fallen soul A twig from the Judas tree caught in my clothing. I turn a page in my bible, my mind numb As I walk towards a low lying cloud I feel serene, as the blanket of white covers me, taking me home… ©AnitaDawes2023
Image by Marat Mukhambetaliev from Pixabay
Looking in the Mirror…
This morning I realised I say sorry far too much. It’s time to change, take time for me. Find something to be proud of I owned that thought for the rest of the day. Nothing else mattered First my job, my clothes Here I am, a whole new me. After a few days, I looked at myself in the mirror. The penny dropped, I had lost something special. The person who is not afraid to say, ‘I’m sorry’… ©AnitaDawes2023
Image by WilliPuschel from Pixabay
The Blade I stand alone, waiting for the moment When silence wraps itself around me I am broken, thin as paper I hear the blade slice through my mind I shuffle along, my shoulder bumping each doorway I enter I am nearly there, again I hear the blade, sharp edged, cutting away at my life The inside of my mouth tastes powdery, like fine sand Strange manifestations assail my eyes Confusing day and night Preventing my progress in reaching the last door that is marked home I stagger towards it, like a blind man When I feel the blade slice through for the last time… ©AnitaDawes2023
This one gave me goosebumps!
Image by David Mark from Pixabay
Heaven and hell Words we bandy about Should they exist? There is no urgency to open either door not yet We have time to live beneath the blue sky To channel the flow within Trying to love one another A rule I set myself to follow I should say Sticking to it I did not find easy… ©AnitaDawes2022
Image by Jan Mallander from Pixabay
The dead don’t talk, they don’t play games They walk through doors Somewhere a chain to bind them to time Over time the stories have grown To keep the local boys from playing in the old mill House Many have entered and never returned The towns folk say it should be pulled down The sea has tried to reclaim the old mill house It stands perilously at the edge of the land If you visit the grave of Tommy Wilson You lose the power of free will To plead with your mind would be useless You enter the old mill house, never to be seen again… ©AnitaDawes2022
Anita Dawes and Jaye Marie 