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Iwan Glyn Jul 18
Looking at
empty book shelves ,
Googling motivational reads,
Sweeping through right or left,
Barley,

Hanging on
to the dregs of past days,
Trying to feel,
Some way?

Remembering,
that I've always
Yurned for change,

Is it true , is it right ?
Does the moon always shine,
bright,

Happines washes over,
Like the misty trails
of high up tanks,
Jet oil,
Vapour,


to be
a bore,
Or a sheep,
Or to have worn out souls,
and smelly feet.

Once
I walked a long way,
To save spring time frogs,
From
worn down tyres.
Iwan Glyn Jul 3
wilted spinach,
Washes away.

Guided by fragmented,
Dust.

Narrow Paths,
porcelain plates.

ROUSEVELLTE ,
Tulips intwined.

Golden twang,
Break barking soldiers,

Through gated pits,
Delighted deeds.

Bank on countless queen's,
Breaking vows.

Dealing cards,
With warn out shards.

Warm and cold,
Race  of old.

Great,

Day for

Pink mascara.
Iwan Glyn May 18
Multi coloured eyes,
Blue and brown.

Your snout nestled,
Neatly underneath
my folded arms.

Champions sense
for lighting up;
my dim days.

Never interested,
In sheepherding.
Rather lazying,
near river banks.

On warm summer days.
Wagging your patched,
excited tail.

Today a friend gained
Fur covered wings.

Let's hope your love cheers up
some of the angles dust.

Shep RIP 17/05/2020
  May 17 Iwan Glyn
Pauline Celerio
I gaze upon my windowpane
as the sun utters its goodbyes.
Mixed hues of blue, red, and orange,
grace the stillness of the summer sky.
I lived within these walls,
48 days and counting.
The light beckons, the heat calls
me out from my endless hiding.
The longing for the wind
and a greeting from my neighbor,
feels like fire in the harshest of winters.
But for now all I have is my window,
my paper and a pen--
giving me faith for a brighter tomorrow,
for this too, shall end.
In commemoration of my month and a half quarantine. The window is my only access to the outside world.
Iwan Glyn May 17
As I fill the washing machine;
I think.

What a memorable scene,
As the washing machine fills
So do my eyes.

Like left over dries,
I think,
How you stained my soul.

With a green breathless dream,
I think.
How you stood next to an open fire,
I think

Your soot stained face,
Stained in every perfect place
I think.

When it turns around,
soap suds are seen.
So are my empty dreams.
Iwan Glyn May 15
Hydes
Blistered through
Tides

Waves of silver,
foxes crossing roads,
Passing through.

Excited toads.
Spalding Lovers.
Latch eyes;

Across wide open fields.
Barren desert towers,
are with them.

Open again,
Open again
.open
Iwan Glyn May 15
Rustling winds of spring,
spread through,
half open oak branches,

Shrew peeps her button nose
throwing a tidy pile of earth,

Near the crystal falls,
Spring rain darts through
infrequently,

Before amber nectar eyes,
like a vale of intrigue ,

Hovering; a blue ***,
Chirpes questions

Sparks of a teale flame,
Pearl along aimlessly,

Through crowded doors,
and empty rooms,.

A rooster awoke;
today's flower,

Bellowing of frightened hollows,
along frictional caves,

Rattling off its distractions,
Ever more engaged,

Healing with its new sound,
Shrew meets the blue ***,

Pecked into the old oak -
Blue ***; Today is the day

Shrew; to finish enchanting.

— The End —