Here and Now


like a scratched record trying to play a song.


I see

the fuzzy, garish pattern of my winter throw;

ink hitting the page as my hand elegantly

swishes pen across paper; posters of 

happiness and spirituality hung haphazardly

and the slapdash reflection of my bedroom



I hear

the silent hum of a distant streetlight

fused with general electronics and the buzz

of living; quietly loud when you tune in.


I feel

my feet crossed and warm under cozy duvets;

the soft mattress beneath my bum, one hand 

grasping my phone as my other clasps the pen;

jaw clenched tight like a regimented coil.


I smell

the general must of a well lived room and



the remnants of a currant bun eaten in haste,

a twang of orange juice lingering like time and

a bitterness creeping at the back of my throat.


🌷 (4)

◄ Working in a prison

Faith ►


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Mon 6th Nov 2017 14:46

"like a scratched record trying to play a song." Nicely put.

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Sun 15th Oct 2017 16:25

Love this. Fascinating what can be drawn out of everyday happenings.
A lovely feel to this poem.

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steve pottinger

Thu 12th Oct 2017 14:16

One stanza for each of the senses. I like that...

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Natasha Townsend

Wed 11th Oct 2017 22:14

Thanks Cynthia 😃 as ever, only writing when the inspiration hits. Lovely to hear from you x

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Tue 10th Oct 2017 12:00

Fabulous. Much enjoyed. Love the detail and imagery that completely draws the reader in to your own private place.

I haven't seen you on site in ages.

(Quick check: 'currant' for a bun - one of those nasty words of 'sounds the same as, but -' So easy to miss.)

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