we talk of soap at different angles, different colours.



in the war she sat in the outside toilet to avoid the

bombs. there were hits in bournemouth.



sunlight came more expensive,  washing in the

kitchen bowl.           green for the linen each day

and monday.



there were five of us including mum. gran

bought the pink.



i buy transparent.



he said that eventually he was able to join

the small soldiers brigade at five foot three

or less, and was killed three days after

landing.



short men were deemed no good at hand

to hand fighting.



at first.



( unless the enemy was short too)



rough cast.



sbm.

There's a key
      that unlocks rainbows
             that I keep within my heart.
It's a little "catch"
      within my chest
             where melancholy begins to start.
It unlocks walls,
      emotions hide behind
              (for my protection).
And it cracks the shell
      surrounding me,
              to give my soul direction.
Without this key,
      I'll always be
              a fire detachment smothers...
An empty vessel,
      self-absorbed...
              bereft of love for others.
But with it...
      ah...then life becomes
              a carousel of feelings.
A roller coaster
      ride of love
             with ups and downs revealing....
all the colors of the rainbow
       all the tastes,
                the sounds, the rhythms..
all the warmth of sacred lovers
       and the heartbeat
               that's within them.
And the key is dual
        in purpose
               with it's compass so unerring;
Guiding to my soul-mates
       with a lifetime
               that's worth sharing.
So, when I've found my heart's desire
       THEN
               I'll set the rainbow free.
Unlock the words
      within my heart
               and throw away the key.

just
as I reach out
for the glimmering light
it slips, in-
between nooks and cranny's
in every crevice
a ***** in my armor
Humpty Dumpty could relate,
fissures in my soul
just...CrACKing open,
releasing the past,
through painful rifts
seeping into veiny rivers,

until I am consumed-
by the beauty
of my own death
an rebirth
I burst,
from my chrysalis

stuck eternal
forever it seems
I will
continue to metamorphosize

an such are the pains of growing.

Ma Cherie© 2017

Reposted for a friend.

My Prayer

Oh, dear Lord,
Please give to me
The graciousness
Of an apple tree.
It shares its fruit
With all in need,
Regardless of their
Race or creed,
And spreads a
Dappled shade of gray
For weary travelers
On their way.

The courage of a badger,
O doughy soul!
You'd see a *BEAR
Running from his hole!
He has a faith
I do not know...
Without a Bible
To tell him so.

The conscience of
A growing pearl,
The greatest gift
In all the world.
It gets yet larger
With each day...
Although it has
No mouth to pray.

The gentle acceptance
Of deep grass,
Which bends to allow
Your winds to pass,
Then stands again
With stately grace
To look once more
In Your sun's face.

The freedom of
A flock of birds,
For they have surely
Heard Your words.

The cheerfulness
Of a laughing brook,
Which will pass a
Boulder without a look!

The industry of
A little bee...
The good of his fellows
Is all he sees.

The patience of
Eroding wind,
It'll carve out beauty
In the end.

The humility of
A daisy flower,
It knows it's beauty
Will last but hours.

The love within
A mother bear.
To the end
She'll always care.

The resounding strength
Of a mountain range.
To these the centuries
Are not strange.

The wisdom of
An ocean deep,
Which will, forever,
Its secrets keep.

All these things,
I do believe,
My spirit will,
In time, receive.

It is Your will
I must accept,
As I do the kingdom

*YOU HAVE KEPT.

When I go to sleep at night
I leave the TV set on
With electric shadows
Flickering around the walls
Not because I fear the dark
Which is a friend of mine
But because silence is a threat
To my drifting vulnerable mind
And the open wounds of old

Silence allows my ghosts
To invade my imminent dreams
Some screaming in rage
As others whimper for love
Creating vivid nightmares
And drenching my very essence
So, when I go to sleep at night
I leave the TV set on

                                By Phil Roberts

I can’t take Sam off speed dial
I’m expecting his call
Especially Sunday mornings
Warming up, stretching tall

That’s when he always calls me
Though sometimes I call him
Now twenty Sundays have passed
My chances getting slim

I can’t delete my brother
I’m still yearning for his call
He owes me one, even though
He died one Sunday last fall