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Standing at the portal
Of the massive stone engender
Clenching as the sweat
Runs down the sinews of my arm,
Glaring at the enemy's
Rendition of surrender
And knowing, well within,
Why he means to do me harm.

Watching so acutely
For the sliding of his eyeball
Inching to the left
In a slithering advance,
Waiting for the quiver
Of deception's feint, so ribald,
Then lunging with the blade
At his severanced last dance.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
I love Sunday for its quietness,
I love Sundays, for there is no rush.
I love Sundays for writing poetry.
I love Sundays for the hush.
I love Sundays for the calm before the storm.
I love Sundays because my mind reboots to the norm.
I love Sundays because I can take my soul for a walk,
And let it roam across heavenly realms.
I love Sundays to be without an agenda that I have to chalk.
I love Sundays, to remember.
I love Sundays, and that's where I will be,
Loving You more without animosity.
reflected, refracted
sun in a dew drop
captured by the melt
like diamonds
hanging from twigs, branches
falling through the void
fire in flight

2nd March 2025
Time doesn’t move slow
If you were a butterfly you’d know
Chase the glow
Inspiration
Gentle melody
Flow
Cognition
Ephemeral beauty
Know
Transient light
Moon lit night
Carry it home
—Timothy Charles Carter
You see that girl?
With short brown hair,
That ends up in a swirl?
The one in the pretty dress,
The one thats a lovely green mess.

Well, she’s sweet,
And wise,
A million stories behind her eyes.

Kind,
Thoughtful,
Oh, what a beautiful mind.

Hardworking,
Cause she’s afraid she’ll fail.
She’s listening,
For no one heard her wail.

Ambitious,
Cause she’s afraid she’s not enough.
Expressive,
Because her mind is rough.
Friendly,
For she wants people to feel welcomed and stuff.

She’s not perfect,
She knows.
Yet everyone shows her respect,
Which is where her heart goes.
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