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Month: April 2019


For turning our backs
so carelessly on our birthright
and on the way that love
so selflessly made for us
and on the blood that pumped
life through our veins,
shall the merciless fire
rain down on us until
but a remnant remains.

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The writing of small words
can sometimes be a deliberate task,
easing them into tiny spaces
and casting them across large places
that would not otherwise be occupied.

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Sometimes you are right here
as if you had never left,
other times you are so far away
I can barely recall
the colour of your eyes
or the touch of your hand
but mostly I am lonely
for the comfort of your arms
and the years that have never been.

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The marching and the parades
of polished boots ringing out
on hard streets, sound the memory
of old soldiers and friends,
sound the trumpets of war.

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He believed that it was wrong to kill
another human being, whether
on the street corner or on the
battlefield of war; for that belief
he was broken to within
one inch of his life.

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The King’s Daughter

The Thursday Poem
25 April 2019
The King’s Daughter
Wrote this when Jess turned 21; revised it a bit last year. Says it all really, says it all. Words below…

The King’s Daughter For Jessica Jo

If he were a king
then a king’s daughter she would be
and the king would this treasure bare,
his daughter standing confident, beautiful,
a heart with no compare.

She makes her way with
stately flair on a path that winds
here and there, through dark forests cloaked
with some despair but buckled not by the weight
she is called upon to bear.

She walks unafraid
through the prowling wolves and meets them
eye to eye, she touches something
gold within, she knows the fire and the prize,
she has the strength to win.

On cold slabs of stone
in polished houses of queens and thrones
who rule and decree and seal
the lives cruelly of those whose tongues cannot speak,
she is both bold and meek.

And if truth be known,
truth is known thus, she walks for
those whose fate is sealed already,
in trust she stands before the courts of kings,
words of life or death they bring.

And the words are etched
like prophets’ writings on the wall
and she alone hears them speak as

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Flicking through the pages
of the cook book on her shelf
he found no recipe
for the handling of the nothingness
that clung to his numb heart
like a thick Waikato fog.

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