Poetry Blog by Rich

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Rich on Face Time (4 hours ago)

Kate G on Face Time (3 days ago)

keith jeffries on Face Time (4 days ago)

Rich on Nature's Bounty (5 days ago)

M.C. Newberry on Nature's Bounty (6 days ago)

lisa donohoe on Nature's Bounty (8 days ago)

Rich on Gyre Gulls (11 days ago)

raypool on Gyre Gulls (Tue, 29 Jan 2019 03:59 pm)

AM Cash on Tech Life (Tue, 15 Jan 2019 10:41 pm)

AM Cash on Potential (Tue, 15 Jan 2019 10:37 pm)

Face Time

Time’s passage ignites my consciousness,

my moment the confluence of past

and future.  Ageing toward my fate, time’s

experience-gale savages my

awareness.  We all die, it just takes time -

we’re transient: catherine-wheels on posts,

we make sparks fly.  Some hit tindered ground,

causing satellite conflagrations -

together we make a fire, burning

out in time’s onslaught, ...

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Nature's Bounty

Harvesting our garden’s verdant bounty

is our intention – we arrange planting,

watering, bedding – all toward our goal:

to indulge keenly in nature’s harvest.


Stretching front and back, our garden surrounds

the safe fulcrum of our lives: our dwelling

is characterised through the commitment

we put into this, our sanctuary.


Enjoying a barbecue with a friend,


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Gyre Gulls

Seagulls gyre – wocker-challing and crocker-calling,

skiffer-wheeling, wind-kiting and hoarse-calling

keer-wails into a bluster-buffet, ear-sharked, eye-grit gale,

blowing smithereens out of the sea wall,

the surf and the pebbles that make up the beach,

grind-clockering and ratter-schacketling back and forth,

to and fro in weather’s storm-force mayhem.

In the air gulls cry caw...

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Over the hill, perhaps, though not long in the tooth.

The hill’s steep.  On the ascent you encounter

ice falls, overhangs, precipices and chimneys,

interspersed with long, sloping meadows, thick wooded

rises with warm, safe shelters with hot fires, soft bunks.

Air’s fresher up on a hill – clearer; providing

moments of crystal clarity, waking senses –

opening the sinuses, power...

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Grey light.  Cold trunks.  Leaf litter in the damp

morning.  Chainsaw gloves smell of oil, petrol,

wood shavings and exhaust.  Gloves stiff with cold,

infused with toil and woodland management.


A deer crosses, silent stealth, picking soft

through the green-tinged, spring-poised coppice.  March is

in touching distance, harvest will cease while

flowers grow.  No one sees th...

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Behind the Front

You can’t see what’s behind the

front, you’ll never know what’s there,

my secrets preserved, reasons

my own, suffice to say these

circumstances demand self

defence; were I to let on

reality, I’d crumble.


So I control what folk see,

protecting them from my truth,

no need to burden all with

harshness and gloom, that’s secret,

my safety inherent in

that secret...

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