I am worth what I feel -
I block disapproval out with my seal.
Often too much heed is paid,
to those who only ever said
"slow down, go now, think twice, take my advice!",
but they don't know what shakes my walls,
rattles my cage, or makes me fall -
I'll only ever answer to my one, and all.

The hard fought long sought day has been realised.

Turn on a light, get a glass of water
From the tap and take a hot shower.
Go surf the web and flip on the telly;
Remember to breathe in the flowers.

Rice and beans are nice, but do get boring
When it’s all you have on your platter.
Go eat a fresh, multi-coloured salad,
Because to you that’s all that matters.

A rocky avocado lies dormant,
Waiting for the day of ripening;
Cheap, large, and burgeoning with juices -
I have no reason to be whining.

The goat increases in value with age,
But what price for some companionship?
Taxing dogs often need a rabies shot,
But provide a more eventful trip.

Today’s victory: I hand-washed what at
Home would be half-a-load of laundry;
Here it broke down to be three buckets full –
I could quite afford the quandary.

Hang up to dry, inside out of course; if
I walk by and get dirt on your shirt
Then it will only scratch your skin, rather
Than be out for all the world to hurt.

Now I’m sore – my arms, my back, my torn feet;
Further I see than ever before.
Always taught by the challenge, I take
One day at a time – it’s not a chore.

I found a shell on the beach, and for some reason
I was immediately drawn to it, this jagged sunrise;
It was not especially distinguished or special,
But had enough power to draw me in.

As I snatched it from the sands, it clutched to the earth,
Urging my rusty hands to pick on things their own size.
Seeing others of its like consigned to a jar, it knew the best
way to help was to submit, and join its kin.

I admired and searched through all the streaking avenues;
I knew I had to have it - natures free gift, and a sweeter still treat.
Lost in the many grains of colour, I close my eyes,
seeing through the outer armour.

Your hard skin is as my shell: rough and worn from
wave upon wave of ceaseless battering, but never beat.
Keep me, for I am unique, even though there are
millions like me in the sea.

Investigation down a foreign road,
One foot in the grit, the other firmly planted
Where cover is absent, and lack of grip
Exposes the bounty of indeterminate furrows
And attractive troughs wherein newborn streams
Struggle, somehow knowing their path through
Kinks in gargling infant valleys.

Ice is visible, if you look hard enough,
And so too are the berry-guarding ******;
Nasty they seem, yet well-meaning at heart.
If the needle pierces, it’s not bad –
Maybe it merely craves the curious
Attention that its captive demands,
Languishing in crippling safety.

That moment of surprise! This fruit
Is juicier than what first meets the eye!
Nobody warned me of this danger, yet
Glad of it all the more I am;
Lessons not learned, this bush has seen,
Each man falling for its seductive lure, and
Sure, this slippery path will always be the favoured.

Even if I wore a watch,
as we talked until dawn
that pure summer morn,
gladly I'd have held the hands
to halt time's sands,
if it meant that serenity would linger;
But to the future,
time pointed with its finger,
and sailed us to distant lands.

A troll sits open-mouthed, awaiting the spoon
that stirred the porridge; this ritual has been
ingrained in its brain – a sloshy, lifeless fossil
that stores villas of pain and ineptitude.

There is no water under its bridge, and all wrongs become
manifest as an attention-seeking wart on his soiled skin;
he wishes he could shed it, as this losing game of
snakes and ladders is beginning to wear thin.

Day by day he rolls the dice, but can’t take his move,
confined by an undying dread of slipping and sliding
on the loose gravely ground that he dreams of climbing;
and whispers of chiding.

Neither a sanctuary nor a prison, his home is a waiting room
on the Styx; from it he hears the echo and call of spring lambs
as they cross to taste the apples on the other side,
which a child impetuously picks.

Searching aimlessly for his reflection in the stone wall –
grey and every type of cold - proves futile;
he turns to his shadow asking his name,
shoulders slouched and mouth wide open all the while.

Seeing only darkness in the silence, control is lost -
he pictures tearing down that wall, but is unsure;
Self-muttering eases the certain fragility, and calming down
he tries counting to five - he can only count to four.