December 21st

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Everything goes 

and we bury this thought 

within us 

walking down the unremarkable pavement

covered in leaves

like a year's worth of paperwork,

to-do lists and

unfinished poems

breathing to heaven as we go

while the buildings peek from clouds

and the winter sun 

polishes the world

reminding us beauty can be found at any time 

If you can stay clear headed

enough to find it

so you stop for coffee on James street

and watch the passers in heavy coats

and you try being mindful 

but begin to wonder 

if you’re halfway through all the coffee

you will drink in your life

while watching the waitress

in a snowglobe of light 

and dust motes 

wiping the tables 

as the radio sings

I’ll Be Home For Christmas

and the old man 

in the table next to you

rubs his palm along the crease

of his newspaper 

and for some reason 

you begin to think of your father

in tears at the kitchen sink 

the morning after your mother died

holding the breakfast plate she left 

not knowing she wouldn’t be returning

that day

and you consider

how far we’ve buried ourselves

to have no control 

of our thoughts

or tears

on a bright day as this

as angels hang from the clock

which says 11.12

and outside everything continues

in that way that it does

as you sit back and drink your coffee

and open a book of poems 

by a Russian poet 

who shot himself in the heart 

when he was younger 

than you're now

and outside the sky is white grey

and threatens to snow,

blank like the final pages of a book

or the start of new one.

 

◄ DO NOT

December 24th Notebook Pieces ►

Comments

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Tom Harding

Mon 24th Dec 2018 23:35

Thank you all for the wonderful feedback

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John Marks

Sun 16th Dec 2018 22:47

beauty can be found at any time

If you can stay clear headed

enough to find it

Which we can't....and avoid all the diversions and cul de sacs....which we also can't.

This interior monologue moves smoothly to dump us back at the beginning of a thought process.

Excellent poem

John

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Martin Elder

Sun 16th Dec 2018 22:41

Absolutely superb Tom. So beautifully crafted . I love the line
'as angels hang from the clock.'
Nice one

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raypool

Sun 16th Dec 2018 21:48

Exceptional, the external triggers of internal wonderings and struggles. It has an elusive quality which makes it so special; and I feel that there is escapism in the book reading and the awareness of that is a return into the void of sensitivity and also of no sense . That is where went in the poem.

So pleased you're back with new material Tom.

Ray

<Deleted User> (18474)

Sun 16th Dec 2018 21:02

Everything does go. But when does someone start to think like that? 29, 39, 49, 59.
Think we should just enjoy all the beauty around us, whenever we can. Quite blatantly you see it all the time Maybe forget all the mundane crap of everyday life, and enjoy every breathing space. Maybe one day you will feel completely lost like your dad........ my dad, but worrying about it will only soil the here and now.
Every new page is a blank new day still to be written. Make it good dude.
Loving your work. Beno.

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Wolfgar Miere

Sun 16th Dec 2018 18:44

Cinematic poetry Tom, beautiful.

I was reading about Lockerbie this week in The New Statesman and the scars it left on people, somehow this piece has caught the same tone.

I think it is that image of your father holding the breakfast plate, that portrayal of uncertainty and fragility. Of how so many souls could be wrenched from life in a single moment by a single act. This poem made me feel as much as it made me think, I think that is admirable.

David.

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Rich

Sun 16th Dec 2018 15:57

Wow! Lots to think about.

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Brian Maryon

Sun 16th Dec 2018 12:42

Phew! One sentence.

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