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 1h
badwords
The signs said,
“Stop.”
A defunct traffic light
beating red —
Danger,
Pinocchio abandon:
that amateur drunk
with the crimson nose,
lost keys in hand.

My problem now:

White collar.
Uniform standard.
I feel the blues,
sweat scrubbed invisible —
because it’s not brand standard
to perspire.
“We love everyone.”

Silent grime.
Immaculate shoes.
Serving forty hours,
paying back dues.

There is no prize
in this cereal box.
And we all know:
we don’t even try
to fake the show.

No.

I am a decrepit puppet,
unfinished in craft,
neglected in intent —
a marionette,
suspended by strings
of a predator,
nested above me,
thriving on futility.

They animate me
when they are hungry.
The spider’s web jerks,
a feast of a fly
caught systematically.

And they call this movement
“Living.”

I envy the fly
Outside my window,
planted is a fiery red-
branched tree,
I watch on, it stands bold
and oh so elegantly.
I try to imagine if it were a woman
What would her appearance be —

Would she be in one of Dali’s paintings
‘Woman Aflame’?
Would she be ‘Demelza’ in Poldark’s series?
Or would she be a spirit woman
ablaze for all the world to see,
Your creation and Your infinite beauty?
 1h
Malcolm
Who asks for a lonely poet
when silence already reigns?
somewhere between all and nothing

If stillness of words speaks nothing,
is it emptiness,
or fullness unmeasured?

If fire in a word burns,
is it consuming,
or is it giving light
to blind hands reaching out?

If tender words break at dawn,
is it weakness,
or the strength of a heart
that refuses to harden?

When sharp words laugh,
who bows to their shadow?
Who fears the spark
that leaves only embers and ash?

Is the mind not always shaping patterns,
weaving palaces for the past,
threads for shadows of memory?

If the lotus blooms unseen,
does it wither,
or is its hidden fragrance
the true poem?

If the fig tree bears fruit in silence,
who reads,
and who is nourished by emptiness?

What vessel
can hold the wind?
What rhythm
can bind the unshaped word?

And if the word,
spoken or inked in gall,
neither commands nor obeys
does it not simply exist?

Is that not the poem
beyond poems?
16 August 2025
The life of Words
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin
I slid down a hill of leaves,
It looked strong and stable; first fable!
But alas, I didn't realise there had been rain the night before—I'd been off on another escapade, unaware.

I then was late to my walking track,
So I ran to meet my pack
But rolled my ankle
In a flurry of activity, snap!

From limping round
Then, jumping on my bike
In order to get to work on time,
It was off the chain that this rhyme came, bespoke.

Life is never the same
When you reflect,
And try to explain
Cause and effect.
From the archives...
 2d
Nick Moore
Teresa Green
Stood very still,
In the middle of a field,
Slightly moving with the breeze,
It was time
To turn over a new leaf

Nosmo King
Took his last drag,
Stubbornly stubbing

Annette Curtain
Stood in front of the window,
In her lace dress

Duane Pipe
Drank many pints of water,
His language was straight from the gutter

Phil McCann
Was a corporal,
He'd make sure the lad's
Jerrycan's were full

Please don't get me wrong,
I'm only
Joe King
NICK MOORE didn't steal anything in this poem
the nook of her back
elicits sensations in me
exhilarating;
greater than a drop of espresso
or crack,
I am alive with desire, free —

but will I step forth
and meet she?
As I was falling into the darkness

a helping hand reached out

to pull me out of the dark

and bring me back to light.

Afraid of dragging a friend down

I pulled my hands back,

let it go.

Broke the last

thread of light.
Sun is going out
white lily sad hangs head
unseen tears blurred view.



Shell✨🐚
The world in mourning.
I missed our fights,
Dark hours and endless nights,
And finally, our poetic moments
If time could return,
I would choose you even harder,
Etching you deeper into the core of my soul
I miss you 💔
When I shattered on the floor,
I was a crystal glass.
Now that I’ve gathered my pieces,
I am a goddess.

~ no longer a vessel for others
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