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It was only the other day
when dawn arrived
and the sun stretched
and frost was on the ground
that I noticed
the tree outside my window,
still bare to the eye
from Winter’s grip,
had new buds
on her branches.

And today,
a mere few days later,
this same tree
is bursting with new green
as leaves unfold
from her once winter-dead branches.

You cannot imagine
my joy at how this simple thing
has lifted my spirits.
This is a real tree that grows outside my living-room window. I hope it also bring you joy.
Daffodils:


Little yellow trumpets that herald the coming Spring.
They shyly rise above the earth until, fully grown,
Then loudly proclaim
That Winter has turned on its heels
To give way to longer, warmer days.

And when their fanfare fades away,
the sweet peal of the bluebells can be heard,
Drifting across the early dawn.

And snowdrops smile,
Knowing that Summer will soon be here.
Not 'that' Daffodils poem!
The Wicca Man Dec 2024
Sometimes …
I cry out into the void
just to hear the sound of my own voice
and its echo,
eagerly anticipated,
my only company.
The Wicca Man Sep 2024
It’s not the dank, damp, grey days.
It’s not the drizzle that seeps through the seams of my coat.
It’s not the dark mornings.
It’s not the dark evenings.

It’s the crisp air of an early morning frost.
It’s the spiders’ webs glistening with frozen dew.
It’s the shades and hues as the leaves turn golden.
It’s the peace and quiet as nature settles down for her long sleep.
Just some thoughts & reflections as autumn (fall) begins to take hold.
The Wicca Man Sep 2024
“Sticks and stones …” the familiar saying goes
but words hurled in anger
are as sharp as a needle or sword:
the pen is mightier
and can cut to the core.

So, choose the words you write with care
as the wounds from your words
can fester and scar.

Instead,
use your words to praise,
to console,
to declare your love,
for those words
are the most powerful
and feed the soul.
Speaks for itself really.
The Wicca Man Sep 2024
‘Excuse me…’
‘Shhh …’
(Whispering)
‘Excuse me…’

Steely-grey eyes behind
Horn-rimmed glasses glare at me
And a blank piece of paper
Is passed across with an irritated nod
Toward the pen *** on the counter.

I reach to the ***,
Select a nondescript ballpoint pen,
And write.

Passing the paper back, I wait …

Steely-grey eyes behind
Horn-rimmed glasses scans the page.
An audible ‘tut’ escapes her lips
And a finger beckons me to follow…

We walk past aisles of fiction and fact
Coming to a halt at section 020.

Steely-grey eyes behind
Horn-rimmed glasses waves imperiously
At the shelves in front of me,
Turns, and walks away.

Scanning the books
I find the title I requested:
‘Library Etiquette’.

I smirked as I pulled the book from the shelf,
Returning to the desk
And steely-grey eyes behind
Horn-rimmed glasses.
I'm sure this is not a stereotype of the modern librarian ...
The Wicca Man Sep 2024
Crow’s caw,
Wind’s whisper.
The muted bell
In the old church tower.

Moon’s rise,
Clouds veiling.
Distant voices
Chant in unison.

Night’s chill,
Breath clouding.
Feet tread softly
On leaves’ rust carpet.

Robed wraiths.
Faces masked.
Dread creeps o’er me
As they pass me by.

Now silence,
Air so still.
All sight shrouded
By a mist’s embrace.
Something for the dark autumn nights ...
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