Poems...

//A Flock of Birds// Reading Between the Lines// The Gift// A Mother’s Love// Level in My Breeze// My Burning Desires// We’re Going To See Graham Today// Clocks// The Meadow// Evening Stream// Beacons// Unconditional Love// Honey and Vanilla Ballet// Beads// The Photograph// Sitting on the Banks of the Wye// Spritual Princess// Drops of Heaven// Pen Y Fan// Chill// The Wardrobe// Y Mynydd Du// Life Time// To A Pilot Who Guides Me On My Path// First Journey// Floating Feather// Early Morning Caesarian// Mrs Davies// The special effects of flakes// The Welsh Lad of the Mountain// Hush Now. Just Listen.// A Welsh Mountain Kind// Blowing Down The Cwm// Destiny// Drive Your Own Screensaver// Maximus And His Friend// The Dance Of The Queens// 10th of March 2007//

Introduction to 'The Photograph':

Don is reference to my wife; (Donna)as a photo I remembered I saw of her as a small girl that had not seen for some time, but somehow it pricked on my conscience;

As I thought to question how do we know what is carried in emotion through our trials of life, even as young.

Donna lost her dad to cancer when she was seven. And I thought how is it possible to know the effects and how can we rid ourselves from this internal suffering of loss, of all the trials and tribulations of life that we carry as it all gets locked inside and never wishing for it to come out. How am I to know and to find my true nature?

Will my photo tell?

The Inner courage to let go of past emotions thoughts and fears and the trust to be open, is what is required.

This is where the freedom lies in each and every one….

...

The dear little girl with long blonde curl, tied.

Arms to the side, her head tilted, maybe slight.

Standing in a backyard; somewhere in town,

And bound by a fence: its border, clearly defined.

In the back, a big red truck or fire engine made of wood,

painted with love, I see;

For the dear little girl to sit, whenever she needs.

 

But she stands, eyes distant, looking as if a familiar world is

missing; apart, or hasn’t been.

Can I know the troubling of this dear little girl; less than eight?

Why do I see in the picture even? Why does this image stick so strong?

Maybe because it is of Don, and I want to know

the ways in which to love still: when this dear little girl comes to me,

today; tomorrow, or the next.

 

What can I say? I have loved my best

Through the turmoil that life besets.

I have been elsewhere at times, elsewhere; without consent

For how are you to know; what is in my head?

For how are you to know, my dear little girl!

The nature of my boy:

Will my photo tell?