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John Marks on Songbird.
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Pick a Pathway

Pick a pathway: forget the roadway

A thousand mile should take more than a day.

Nourish and nurture the nature around

Not tear up and dominate and build on the ground.

We didn’t evolve as a static race, to be born and to die tied to one place.

Let feet do the talking as legs move along.

Fill up your steps with a wandering song

Let direction be guided by moments of light.


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Sentinel Sycamore

If you stood in a forest, you would be, as insignificant, as a Worker Bee.

If gathered were you, with friends, in a copse, the beauty of you, would surely be lost.

If you lined a roadside, i would find, as i swiftly passed, i'd leave you behind.


Though there you perch, high on your lonely hill, a solitary figure, rooted still.

More unique than all your kind, sloped and ben...

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Bury my bones in the garden.

I know it's hard on you.

Plant me like a flower.

Beneath the cloudy blue.

My soul will never stray too far

away from this, our spot.

So please don't make my spirit wander

round a graveyard plot.

It would be hypocritical,

for me to be laid there.

Among the passed on parish,

eternity to share.

Plant trees above my empty ...

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First Heartbeat

You were there for my first heartbeat

I was there for your last.

From baby rattle to death rattle we go,

Time slips by so fast.


Did you even know, in your final throes

I was there, and that you were loved.

And what about that religious stuff?

Do you look down on me from above?


When you opened your eyes, for that one last sigh,

was it then I becam...

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White Shadows

Backpack sat, sheltering well. Last post harbour, cradled by fells.

Churchhouse slept, up before dawn. Hobo Poet, journey sworn.

Hum of boats, pierced by, terror beak, beady eye.

Sneaky walk, leg bent : silver back, hell sent.

Hunting on the pavement for chip bits, and dog ends.

Long since ever fish catch, this bird should wear an eye patch.

Opportunist mismatch, of poet...

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Left Shiv'rin.

A little more soaked, with each move of the foot,

the legs take the shoes for a walk down the brook.

New pasture, new path, new texture at last

beneath sole for the toes to explore


Banks edge, to field hedge

up squelch, and slop, and slip

and slime, as struggle try to climb,

though cannae find a grip.

So, backslide to brookside,

to branch grabbing heave...

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But first, through the gate.

Knock and the door will be opened, but first you must get through the gate.

Ask and the words will be spoken, as long as you're prepared to wait.

Seek, and ye shall find, as long as you know what IT is.

Come, to the house of the master, but remember that inside is HIS.


What did HE expect to find?

Walking around with God in mind.

He looked for the word, but only fou...

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YOU - not a poem, just felt like it.

There are billions of people in this world, and billions of cells in each person. Those cells came together by fate, or choice, to create each one of us.

YOU could search your entire life and never find another person who looks

just like YOU, thinks just like YOU, has the same experiences as YOU and feels the same emotions as YOU in the same way that YOU do. YOU may not be a world chang...

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House of God

So, this is the house of God

Another one, eh?

How many houses do you need?

I thought you lived in Mount Sion

Or sat on your throne in the kingdom of Heaven

But here I am in your ‘house’

Where are you?

I’ve been and called for you loads of times

But you are never in

Look, I know you are busy,

but I think you are taking the piss now

Even your Son seems ...

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Lament in Middle Age

There was a time remembered fondly

when i was young and fair

when passers by, all and sundry

marvelled at my carefree air

A fleeting moment of former life

though age comes on one soon

and youth cut off as if by knife

slips to dark, like waxing moon

My curling tress, my flowing lock

to baldness creepeth on

imagine please the horror shock

when crown onc...

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a poet can write about a pebble and make a page of it
he'll tell you all about the texture, and any lumps or bits
he'll tell you how it feels to touch, and smell and see and taste
but by writing much about a pebble, an hour of time he wastes

time that could be productive, time that could be used
not time spent in tune with a pebble, time that's been abused

he'll tell you how the pebble came to be in...

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to be nice and clean

inside a latrine

is not the way it should have been

to wipe ones underneath

with a leaf

beneath a tree

is to be truly free




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