To be honest
I don't want to leave
but on my door
the eviction notice
ruins my peace.

You have nothing worthwhile to show
any extension is warranted.

Instead of making good use
you dug up all the excuse
flawlessly lame
in shifting the blame
not giving a penny to the thought
you contributed to the rot
if only by thinking selfishly
the cause was outside you
and the remedy beyond you.

In another two days
I'm shifting to a new home
and you bet
I won't change my trait.

I'll leave my
Heart here
crying for
something.

We watch, report
Write it out
Then contort
Watchers, poets, writers, scribes
Feel too much
Wrenching, inside
Its our job, not to sleep at night
To think too much
About life's plight
One watcher, will be drawn to another
All akin,
Sisters, brothers, lovers
It's what we are
In ancient times
They called us,
"The Scribes"
Old souls,
We everyone bare
It's a hard business
Not at all fair
But it's our job, chosen or not
To see, to feel,
To "watch" every plot
Our thoughts, can drown us
Or perhaps, heal
But with every action
More is revealed
For we are the "watchers"
With purpose, we live
And with our words written, spoken
'Tis life, we all give

upon every sunset the dew awaits
mornings and the dark creeps up
trees close pores and reconsider
the heat
grass leans over
to the right
bears forage for one more treat
armadillos wake up
possums wipe their eyes
a new day for them
every season has a turn as does dark and light
and nature covers all avenues
of valley lows and dales
of every creek river  misty stream
cloaked in grey
with mysteries teeming and unknown
discoveries
all forseen
but magic
to me

Been  away  for  7  weeks.
Glad  to  be  back.
I  am  so  touched people
have  missed  my  poetry.
hope  you  have  been  doing  well.
Many  thanks  again.
Take  care.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2017.

Only he who attempts the absurd is capable of achieving the impossible.*

Another day and what to make of it? Tu Du list.
Things start to happen, don't worry. Don't stew.
Water down darkness. Ask the sun for a light.
Loot Frederick's of Hollywood. Cultivate pompous grass.
Rewrite Moby **** as free verse. Irritate life with art.
Plant Rhino rhizome and grow *****. Turn over an old leaf.
Take a road trip to a state of anxiety. Try chewing gun.
Play the Jew's harp in a mosque. Pray for drains.
Steal a cop from a donut. See if LSD still works.
Listen to Rockabilly noir. Experiment with dysentery.
Set out buckets to catch sky. Talk with, not to, turnips.
Insist on having the last word. Get it. Die.
   Or just admit another wasted day,
   lonely as your heart, but not as gray.

Balanced at this point of time,
Fractious as the case may be
Cautioned as to why we men
Most unctiously, cross women flee.

Brought to heel by subtle stare
Insinuation lingering there,
Caught out short by razored phrase
Abruptly severing…outrage,
Castigated without word
Rendering rebuff absurd.

Yet born to kiss and stroke the brow
But ultimately lost, somehow,
That give and take,(with **** smile)
Demolished slow in time’s worn guile,
Angelic then, in evening light
Extinguished now with tension tight.
Standoff in the cold of dawn
Sees all affection now withdrawn.

Balanced at this point in time
An utter need to kick the dog
Retreat to haven’s dark tool shed
To mutter hurt and swallow grog.

M.
Composed, (with tongue in cheek), for a poor weak ****** who quickly saw his Heaven on Earth become Hell.
23 February 2017
HAMILTON NZ