“In the midst of life we are in death.”

The angels wonder why

mankind hangs on to pointless breath

refusing just to die.


Three score and ten, is but hors d’oeuvre

we take another bite.

Spare parts fitted with such verve

fend off that final night.


The reaper stamps a tapered toe

his whetstone rasps an oath.

Sickly, and senile, came when due!

Now, he waits for both.


And Mother Nature ponders all:

where did it all go wrong?

The air is heavy with a Fall

The Age is almost done.


She’ll wait out Armageddon’s cull

with seed, deep in the earth.

And in time’s fullness, joyfully

to latent life, give birth.



◄ DEAR DIARY (Mother Nature)

BLANKETY BLANK SLATE (directed infant rage 2012) ►


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barrie singleton

Sun 27th Oct 2013 09:27

Well - neither of those poems would have been written had you not set me a challenge. (Now tell me to tidy my home!)
Sadly, I suspect the energy comes from infant rage, redirected - another human paradox.
I am glad you write only when passion dictates. At our Workshop, we use the term 'toothpaste job' for a poem 'squeezed out' to a set theme. It usually shows! Off now, to kill some windmills . . .

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Sun 27th Oct 2013 08:57

That's more like it Barrie - and all with such wonderful metre!

It's the way we conquer illness that I find staggering - things you'd never have survived even a couple of years ago. A great thing for our loved ones - not so great for the planet and the human race in general.

I wish I had your energy. Writing poetry can be a tortuous exercise for me unless I'm in a passionate mood.

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barrie singleton

Sun 27th Oct 2013 00:52

Still no cigar? Oh well, I enjoyed the challenge. Thanks Isobel.

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