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blue checkered jacket
the cloth faded.
kneeling onto yesterday
holding on to tomorrow
her leathery tan hands cup
a wrinkled  tired face.
the white tasseled hair and the bulbous nose.
hope has left her eyes,
the light has turn to rain.
beneath a torn brown skirt
short varicose  bowed legs
forever journey to no place.
everything she owns in a big paper bag.

She has no home.
 Dec 2016 GaryFairy
Sanjukta Nag
Walking to you
With my unsighted vision
Quiet like the water
Inside a sleeping oyster.
The thought of us
Blinks with
Half lit blue's random dance.
And I keep moving,
Between the space
Of distance and closeness
Until being touched
By your dazzling words.
There I become the prayer
Mildly glowed
Reflecting the sound of
Your dreams.
 Dec 2016 GaryFairy
martin
Back in the old days before combine harvesters came in, harvest time was much more labour intensive.  All the crops were loaded by hand on to horse-drawn carts and taken to the stack yard, where an array of often beautifully crafted stacks would be built, and thatched.

It was a very busy time of the year for the thatchers, who would work from six in the morning till nine at night for several weeks until all the stacks were safely protected from the rain. After the last stack was finished, my old boss was paid the overtime due to him. He remembered that one year it was just enough to buy himself a new pair of work boots!

One year, before handing over payment for thatching his stacks, a farmer named Mr Cutting said to Jim;  "That made me sweat to write your cheque this year."  Jim quickly replied;  "Med me sweat fust!"
There are lots of cottages built in old stack yards called Pyghtle Cottage as pyghtle, pronounced pie-cle is an old Anglo Saxon word meaning a small plot of land.
she walks from the alley
over wet lottery tickets, chesterfield butts
and empty gypsy rose wine bottles.
but truth lies in forgetfulness and
even the stars bleed dust.

I smile to greet her.

I smile as she lifts my throat to heaven.
I smile even as the razor skates across my neck...

and she's following you too...sucker...

the BIG! dream
Governments have relied on 'fake news' since Hannibal
crossed the Alps* ...
Copyright December 28 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
My New Years Eve predictions and predilections revolve around my Manzanilla olive addiction
Salty fruit soaked in wicked good , cold Beefeaters Gin
Sending tipsy resolutions off into the wind* ...
Copyright December 28 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
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