Of the many things
that have been a regret
"putting down the pen"
has been most rude.

Not all upgrades are a welcome sight,
For many don’t enhance or truly prove;
Yet status quo might yield a different light,
When deemed "a waste of talent" in the groove.

More than past reckonings, a heavier weight,
Now seen as waste of space, of breath, of time.
A shift from promise to a darker fate,
As hopes once bright now seem to barely climb.

In shadows cast by others' sharp disdain,
The worth we carry fades beneath the strife,
Yet still, we yearn to break from this refrain,
To find our strength and reclaim what is Life.

So let not labels bind us in their thrall,
For within us all, a spark awaits the call.

A barely audible creak greeted me
As I entered this still unfamiliar place.
His figure approached, step by step, slowly,
Aged and wizened, his steps marked with grace.

But for his slouch, he could be any man,
Now so much smaller than my childhood fear.
Not the monstrous terror of long ago,
A different presence, yet so close, so near.

There I stood, a deer caught in the light,
Shaking off the shadows of my fright,
In the haze of ill-served remembrance,
Realizing that I loved him all along,

A bond transformed by time’s gentle embrace,
From phantom fears to love's enduring song.

In London’s solemn Poets’ Corner stands,
A stone of memories, carved by gentle hands.
Eighty-five years since its first debut,
Yet names were incomplete, a hidden rue.

Amidst the shadows of a war-torn night,
Charlotte, Emily, and Anne lost their light,
The dots above their names—a simple grace—
Forgotten in the haste, in that troubled space.

Sharon Wright, with keen and watchful eye,
Spotted the error, wondered why.
“Have they not earned this small tribute,
To mark their legacy, resolute?”

With a stonemason’s tap, the dots took form,
A celebration of sisters, in art reborn.
Painted with care, the correction shines,
Echoing the strength of their woven lines.

From Bradford’s heart, where their stories bloom,
Wright sought to banish the lingering gloom.
For every tale of love, loss, and strife,
Deserves to be honoured, enriched with life.

Now near Dickens and Austen, their names align,
In the warmth of remembrance, their spirits entwine.
Eighty-five years later, at last they belong,
A tribute to brilliance, a sweet, timeless song.

In Kilmarnock's print, a treasure lies,
A first edition, where history sighs,
From eighteen eighty-six, its verses flow,
Robert Burns’ heart, in dialect aglow.

Poems Chiefly In The Scottish Dialect,
Whispers of love, and nature’s effect,
Expected to fetch a princely sum,
Fifty to sixty thousand—oh, how it’ll hum!

Once just six hundred, a modest start,
Three shillings it cost, a work of pure art,
Yet within a month, the copies all gone,
Burns' voice, like a lark, sung sweet at dawn.

“To A Mouse” and “The Twa Dogs” share,
Stories of life, in the Scottish air,
At twenty-seven, with passion he wrote,
A legacy penned in each heartfelt note.

Now just eighty-eight copies remain,
A glimpse of the past, a poet’s refrain,
As the auction approaches, the whispers grow loud,
For the magic of Burns, we all stand so proud.

being an unlit candle
an unlit match stick
will surely not suffice
neither the twain shall meet
unless you strike one
the other remains and
unless the lit shall kiss it
the other still abides

Yesterday’s spoken word

Today’s unvoiced silence

Tomorrow’s welcomed regret

press Play and tap Mute

Flickering screen brings slumber.