Blog

Being

Being   Breath The light of sun on clouds The burn of fingertips and tongue The pulse of a near heartbeat Ready to dare The walk In woods with friends And dogs The fireside book and glass All cares passed Ahead paths wind You in my blood That is all It needs To be

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6.23

                        6.23   Marbled skies of mulberry and fire Lamp hoare-bladed hawthorns in crystal silk nets Fairy light bugs strobe bramble and briar As cauldron night hitches its witches hem And flirts a bright-gartered knee Everyone sleeps on the 6.23   Geese ski canals and penned sheep unfrieze Frenzies of crow blot the morning’s fresh page Flying dogs bound and wolf on the breeze Hares dash chance over the savage open For far havens of burrow and tree Still everyone sleeps on the 6.23   Storm ripped...

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Filing

I stood on a chalk hill rise and watched a vivid, wonderous rainbow arcing the blue to slate greys skies from autumnal woods to far ploughed fields.  A car stopped on the lane and a young woman got out. She made her way up the rise path to stand beside me, turned and took a grinning, thumbs up selfie of herself and the rainbow.  Her thumbs then danced on her phone, saving and sending the image. When she looked up the rainbow had melted away. "Oh well," she said, "at least I have it filed." A world become filers, not wonderers.

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Country Wedding

Country Wedding The ring of trees afire in autumnal bloods and golds Wedded to the ancient stone root of bell tower Narthex, nave and rib-vaulted womb That cradles, enjoins, celebrates and gathers all Bones into its lichen soil skirts The harvest of generations here present   The ribboned carriage clops up on the peal of bells and tin cans Bridesmaid’s squealing in joyous goose-bump shiver Step out on lace strapped heels and glittered hope And one day peached bloom and Aphrodite curls On the fringes of a mayfly fashion.   Tractor boys in shone...

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We are the lonely

We are the lonely   Hate is the new love Rage the new reason Touch a bygone Emotion a fusion Tears flow quick Thought too slow Self is only Who own the right We are the lonely Farewell, good night.   Copyright Jasper Dorgan 2018

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