The Sunday Whirl ~ Wordle 491 ~ #Poetry

A world divide, one half untethered
by rules, made by fools
The other sticking to a plan
They have a text they must follow
Regardless of how much it may hurt
They never have fresh clothes
As water is severely restricted
Play for children is strictly monitored
To half an hour a day
To speak of the future is forbidden
Punishable by fines and imprisonment
Travellers are told to move on
Needless to say,
this half of the world is shrinking
While the other half is flourishing
Life is good where there are no rules
The water here flows freely
Thanks to their forefather’s careful planning
There is sufficient for all
The untethered half works
like clockwork under glass…

© Anita Dawes 2021

#The Sunday Whirl ~ Wordle 489 ~ #Poetry

When silence comes knocking like a jackhammer
It’s time to run
Check your bank account
It may not be a good time to take a risk
So shelve that new idea
Don’t let that heavy metal feeling bend your spine
Shake the cobwebs from your mind
Try not to step into it when crossing the yard
Shower, soaped, you dry yourself down
Your mind wrapped in a haze
sleeping within the sound of silence…

© anita dawes 2021

The Sunday Whirl ~ #Wordle 487 ~ #Poetry

I follow the divine light
The shine through morning
Leading me to the vista
Through my open window
The miracle of a new day
I sigh, I gasp
Breathe cool fresh air of early Spring
My favourite Ash tree
Its bark peeling
Reminds me of a ragged ball gown
from a forgotten era
Last dance no more than ash in memory
Spring flowers push through warmer
To show their colours
A prelude to Summer
My toaster pops
I spread each piece
with my favourite salmon paste
My day is full of promise…

© anita dawes 2020

The Sunday Whirl ~ #Wordle 486 ~#Poetry

My children decorate the Christmas tree
The fire crackling,
shadows dancing, walls aglow
Their noses pressed to the window
Hoping to see Santa fly by
After a while, their eyes stream
Time for bed
Each tiny mouth quiet with sleep
Arms limp as I carry each one to bed
My head in a swim,
checking my list before the big day.
After I tuck the last
of my precious bundles under cover
I trim the tree, tidying earlier efforts
Making sure the last present is wrapped
Taking one last look at the room
Pleased with what I see
It would seem to be time for me
To put myself under cover until morning…

© anita dawes 2020

The Sunday Whirl ~ #Wordle 484 ~ #Poetry

The morning after the party
I found my father’s old tape
In an old cassette player
Alongside a box of tapes
It contained his black wall stories
Press play, his first story, entitled ‘The Child’
Through narrow dark streets
The child ran, her bare feet caked in mud
Something had taken her the wrong way
Her bare feet could hardly hold the ground
Eight-year-old girl, running for her life
Dark shadows behind her
In her tiny hand she held her mother’s key
She is tiring, whispering a prayer
For help, for hope
 She calls for her long dead mother
Where had the small blue light lead her?
Is it safety that awaits her?
To be continued…
I was hooked,
it felt good to hear my father’s voice…

© anita dawes 2020

#The Sunday Whirl ~ Wordle 481 ~ #Poetry

Wordle 481

We cannot call those back from their long sleep
No power, no progress
There is no act that can return the soul
Family passing, the joy they gave
Can only be remembered
The empty space in the team
Hollow footsteps can be heard
We may owe them a prayer once in a while
As their passing has left a space that cannot be filled
In remembrance, we speak them larger than life
Our memory of them grows like Chinese whispers
Years may pass with no words spoken of them
they never leave, like a popup book
they are back in mind
like the rural dance of the countryside
our thoughts of them stretch on for miles…

©anitadawes 2020

The Sunday Whirl ~ Wordle ~ #Poetry

Wordle 477 by bwarren

I watch from a distance
As his beautiful hands spread gel through his hair
I know he is careful, he won’t spill a drop
His skin flawless, glows, but for one small
crescent shaped scar on his right shoulder.
I left my number, hoping he would call
My name on a list of many might mean nothing to him
I hoped my manuscript would sting his conscience
that he would bend to the will of my words
Remember that one night
When I left my mark on his skin.
This manuscript is no frilly romance
More vengeance for having been kicked to the kerb
Would he dare to publish my words?

©anitadawes 2020