I had returned to that reassuring but profoundly unsatisfactory state known as 'being in one's right mind.”
― Aldous Huxley, The Doors of Perception 


The days of stormy autumn come
Mother, child, brother, son,
Memories, like dust, infest my eyes, 
Swirling, like Turner’s skies;
Like water under wind,
Mixing greys and blacks, whites and blues,
A chiaroscuro, tussling monochromes
Into the piebald skies of heavens above.

Below, girls in dirty summer dresses,
Chase boys with unruly mothers,
Fathers absent, except in dreams,
O! Where do all their shadows go?

Late summer, blackberrying down languorous lanes leads to a
Kiss, a passing form of bliss,
I'm dancing with winter’s handmaidens
A dancing frenzy unfreezes
The ice crystals of my mind and heart,
In wind-swept hospital corridors we part
Stripped bare all that the human heart endures.

File:Joseph Mallord William Turner 012.jpg - Wikimedia Commons

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John Marks

Fri 2nd Apr 2021 21:12

'Flecks' is right Keith, my friend. That's what we are left with: the unknown unknowns that haunt our intelligence, our dreams and our poetry. Thank you kindly. John

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keith jeffries

Thu 1st Apr 2021 22:35

The flecks of words and canvass seem to harmonise in this poem as the writer seems to come under the spell of thoughts, disjointed yet following a strange sequence.

Intriguing and entrancing
Thank you for this


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