Went through a spate
Of staying up particularly late
She said, she found peace at night
Peace was a girl with curly hair
Who lived in a shoe box under the stairs
Silly poems, if your having a bad day, I hope they bring you some cheer
Had a secret hiding place, at the bottom of a Glen
He would always say he found Zen in the bottom of the Glen.
Zen was a buddha made of stone
Who sat peacefully and all alone.
He Owned a restaurant and was also Head Chef.
He always said, too many cooks spoil the broth.
The broth was mucky, never clear.
Best drunk with a pint of beer.
The sun has set on another day, the sky settling a darker grey.
The Moon has not yet graced us with its' presence.
The nearby businesses, shedding light, fluorescent.
Illuminating the water in yellow and blue columns.
Like candles flickering in a church, in a scene, oh so solemn.
People are walking home from work, some meeting for a drink or perhaps something to eat.
Swans are gathering in a group, taking food from a human hand, such trust rarely given.
I am lost in my thoughts as I watch the scene before me on the still waters, and just listen.
Listen to the sounds of the end of the day.
Last night walking home from the Chiropractic. It was a wonderful scene, one I hope I did a little justice to.
Tis the season and the time
To know from wence we came
And where in fact we’re headed to
As we play this crazy life game
We’re born into a story of woe
Of difficulties and strife
We move forward to an understanding
Of our authentic right to life
Our freedom to be our true, real self
To move with love and courage
We sometimes see the difficulties
And tend to be discouraged
So take to heart this message
Of joy, love, truth, and peace
Of knowing of who we truly are
And self love to increase
As children of God we have a place
A role which we shall play
A puzzle piece on the scheme of life
A place from which to pray
That all of life find balance and love
That all men shall be free
To live with all abundance
So our true selves we can be
A frenzied chorus of sea birds, start their sounds at four forty-five, signaling the start of another day has arrived.
The wind blows stronger, through the trees. The speed and intensity more than a breeze.
The rain falls lightly dampening the ground, pitter patter, pitter patter, is the sound.
The mist coats everything in a grey mysterious cloak, creating swirls of grey and white, that look like puffs of chimney smoke.
The birds are waiting for the mist to turn and lift and some humans are hoping to be treated to a gift.
When the mist has gone and the sun has risen, we are hopeful that the birds display will be a breathtaking vision.
Another poem inspired by the visit to the Lake District. I made an early start.