A Day Slips

The rain

Cold and wet

Returns…

To wash away

What remains…of an afternoon

Dark clouds

Paint a sky…battered and bruised

Ignores

The anxious twilight

As another darkness

Creeps

Hissing like a snake

The day finally trips

Softly slips

Underground

Soon will weep

As it sinks…silently

Consumed

Into the bog of memory

 

Thatcher Doran

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There, in Context

Are we there yet?

Words of innocence

A notion of a promise

An image of delight

Or fear

A contradiction beyond

Explanation

A chameleon of a sort

There, is a fragmented

place

Coloured by age

By a child eye

An old man’s face

An entity devoid

Of permanence

 

Thatcher Doran

 

 

 

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Grimacing in the Rain

The rain today

Seems unrelenting

The sky a murky

off-white…complete

But the car park

Is almost busy

I watch the shoppers

The mums and dads

With their trollies and

One-handed bags

Tiny-tots with little legs

Grimacing in the rain

So I drank my cappuccino

Wrote that poem

Still, the rain carried on…

With an air of dis-interest…

Thatcher Doran

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Words Melt…

The routine broken

The minutes now…

unlimited

The days ahead

Await

Like an artist’s canvas

The hours melt

Like summer butter

As I linger with apprehension

Waiting for the imagination

To engage

To whisper a story

Buried

Screaming to be heard

To write…scribble

Claw at the clay

Of silence

Release the voice

For Now…

There is only day and night

Those flashes of Moments

Thatcher Doran

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Tossing Leaves

An August afternoon

it’s late

A strong breeze soliciting

Mischief

Shaking trees

Tossing leaves

Cotton clouds behave

In a reckless fashion

I hold my breath

A thought wrestles

With a memory

In the archives of

My mind

There are renegades

Time watchers

Time blogs

Those gatekeepers

Of tomorrow’s reality

We measure Time

Yet, never quite appreciate

The subtlety of its essence…

Thatcher Doran

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The Picture of Youth

I watch discreetly

The pale young girl

In the opposite seat

I’m curious…

So is she

As she scans the other

Seats

Talking heads

Smiling faces

Subtlety, behind the pale

Mask

In a moment’s glimpse

I notice her soft eyes

A smiling mouth

A portrait of a young

Woman

The picture of youth…

Thatcher Doran

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Begins…

The smell of fresh-cut

Grass

Carried on the breeze

Overwhelms the air

Swiss rolls of sand-coloured

Hay

Lie still…

Like bodies in field

After field

Just waiting…

While the ground slowly

Turns to green

As the autumn months

Unfold

The work of harvesting

Begins…

Thatcher Doran

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Poetry with a Cappuccino

The waitress arrives

Places a cappuccino

On the table

Then smiles

A poetry book sits

Waiting for the first sip

Two sets of lips

Eager to engage

To taste, to feel

A stolen moment

In an otherwise

Ordinary morning

Thatcher Doran

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This Room Sits

The room with a view

Architecture and politics

Looks down

Upon the minions

of a city

Now, the noise has gone

Except, for the dripping

Tap

That soft inflection

…voices

Drinkers after work

This room sits

Innocent

But a witness

To the whispers of lies

To the weeping of tears

Fractured trust

All in the envelope

of a day

Yet, by tomorrow…forgiven

If not forgotten

But for now…Here

…reconciled

In this warm evening air

Perhaps, a lesson

To be learned

In the ambiguity of Time and Place

Thatcher Doran

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Familiarity

The loneliness…

of familiarity

Is like isolation…

in a crowd

Thatcher Doran

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