There, I sat…

One Saturday afternoon

As the radio played

It left a melody

In my head…memories

A pocketful of fears

In the corner of my heart

A file of tears

swelling in my eyes

There, I sat…

Thatcher Doran

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Not Permanent!

To sit, sip

In the cafe

Quietly watch

See the parade

The look, a glare

The nuance, a stare

The shape, an attitude

The style, a fashion

A mode in transition

So… not permanent!

Thatcher Doran

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However, Brief…

I humbly suggest

We human beings

Are preoccupied

By things

Just out of reach

However, brief…

Thatcher Doran

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End of Day

The day slowly draws

To a halt

Ambiguous to say

The least

I could spend another hour

speculating as to what it

Meant!

Gulls cry “freedom”

Their echoes penetrate

The now empty building

Just before

The six o’clock bell

Rings out

Just before

The ghosts return

To claim their inheritance

Thatcher Doran

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In a Simpler Way

The skin looks dry

Slightly loose

No longer tight

Nor supple smooth

Years have added

That virus…decay

Each day

To face and limb

An extra wrinkle

Or to explain it

In a simpler way

An ageing face

Is a map of life!

Thatcher Doran

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An Extra Finger

A pen sits in the hand

As an extra finger

Twitching…

An impatient gesture

Waiting for a sign

To write…release

The aching mind!

Thatcher Doran

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On a City Quay

A constant drizzle

Hits a pavement

Wet…

A hanging sky

Just waits

A city’s quay hides

A menacing face

As darkness gathers

before a silent moon

The stranger sees anger

In a contorted shape

The grey-headed man

Is a bullied child

His face badly bruised

Dirty red…swollen

On the left

The bully

Stamps his mark

Then, another interjects

The mood intense

This view temporary

Through a frame

A window pane

Then, it’s gone…

Thatcher Doran

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Crossing the Street

Silent feet

At the end of Dawson Street

Muted by wind

Stop or go…

Colour dictates

Red or Green

Young or old…

Age dictates

Fast or slow

Smiles or frowns…

Mood dictates

A view

A fragment

A thousand stories

Walk with muted feet

At the end of Dawson Street

Thatcher Doran

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A Vague Echo

Before sleep crept

Upon the bed

Moments before I surrender

To the dark

Words whispered in my ear

Take up the pen…write

Listen to the echo

Inside the head

Note its currency

A subtle undertone

The last message

Of the day

Write…

By morning it will be gone

A vague echo

Disguise as memory

Thatcher Doran

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Words…Who gives a…

Words…

Soundings…

Bullshit or truth

In anger or jest

In pain or comfort

A purpose…

An agenda…

A face behind a mask

A face in front of the camera

A mouthpiece

Who speaks?

Who listens?

Who spoke the first word?

Who has the last word?

Who gives a…

Thatcher Doran

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