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What joys, what torments, what treasures
does this new day bring?

I have left sleep behind,
fitful and unsettled as always,
with its strange images
and surreal conversations with the long dead,
conversations that make no sense.

As consciousness comes back to me,
I hear a tolling bell
calling the faithful to prayer
but I pay no heed
because I know my prayers,
if I had any,
would go unanswered.

Instead, what prayers I may have had
are given to the coffee cup
as I drain yet another
and swallow its bitter grounds
and draw on another cigarette,
taking its harsh smoke
deep into my lungs.

And even though it’s Spring
with the burgeoning of new life,
it is cool and a wind stirs the newborn leaves
and the sky remains dull and grey.

Fully awake now,
the familiar pains return.
Not just the physical
but also the ones in my mind
as I contemplate another day ahead,
mundane and alone.

But, if I were honest with myself,
the mundane satisfies me
and I relish being alone.

I put on some melancholy music
and lets its sad sentiment
flow over me, gentle, welcoming,
to keep my sombre mood
from falling too far into despair.

This state of mind
is all too familiar now
and I no longer try to push it away.

And every day I make a cursory effort
to stop myself from contemplating my remaining years
but acknowledging that all too few lie ahead.

Looking back,
I can recall from over those many years, many decades past now,
the memories I have
as a child,
as a youth,
as a man,
as a father.

I remember those memories fondly:
of people, too many now the ghosts I speak with in my dreams,
and of times when the future was so far beyond the distant horizon
that I didn’t give it a moment’s thought.

But now that once far-flung horizon looms ever closer
and where before I could contemplate
ten, twenty, fifty years hence,
now even a mere ten, twenty years from now
is uncertain and shrouded in a fog of unknowing.

It is with this mindset I face each day
and this new day is no different from yesterday’s
and will be again tomorrow,
and the next day,
and the days beyond that
until I reach that horizon.

And I dare not contemplate what lies beyond.


© 2025
A bit sombre but a reflection of how I often feel as my twilight years approach.
I am a Nyctophile.
I love the night, the darkness:
it gives me pleasure,
it gives me comfort,
it gives me peace.

In the night hours
I can hear the soft rustling of the trees,
the trilling of insects,
the gentle pad of the cat,
the bark of the fox,
the scurrying of the hedgehog
as they go about their night-time adventures.

In the night hours
I can see the the stars
glimmering above
and when the moon is risen,
I can bask in her soft, silver glow.

In the night hours
I can smell the cool air
and taste the new-formed dew.

In the night hours
all that is familiar
takes on a new persona
in the shadows.

And what secrets
hide in those shadows?

They do not bring me fear
but curiosity …

In the quiet of the night,
my thoughts are mine,
uninterrupted and unencumbered
by the noises of the day;
the clamour of voices,
the roar of the traffic,
the cacophony of daily life.

I love the night, the darkness,
it gives me pleasure,
it gives me comfort,
it gives me peace.

© 2025
The Wicca Man Apr 27
I am a collector.

I collect:
wise words
and affirmations,
witty words
and quotes by the famous
and the infamous.

I collect:
lost words,
discarded thoughts,
lost souls,
wayward spirits,
the forgotten.

I collect:
dreams
and nightmares,
wants
and regrets.

I collect:
memories
both good and bad,
slights and barbs.

I collect:
feelings
and can sense
a person’s mood,
their disapproval,
their anger,
their compassion,
their burdens,
their love.

I collect:
things …
tangible things,
things I need,
things I desire,
things I regret.

I am a collector of all things.
The Wicca Man Apr 12
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.
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