Heal the Cut…

They say Time heals

The rift between Now

and Then

Between memory

And loss

Or is it, that pain

Grows dull

While memory chooses

To momentarily forget

Heal the cut

but, its a wound

Nevertheless…

Thatcher Doran

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Words, Who Gives A…

Words…

Soundings…

Bullshit or truth

In anger or jest

In pain or comfort

Echo or deceit

A purpose…

An agenda…

A face behind the mask

A face in front of the camera

A mouthpiece

Who speaks?

Who listens?

Who spoke the first word?

Who has the last word?

Words, who gives a…?

Thatcher Doran

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Mysterious Moon

Before evening twilight

As day fades

A half moon stares

Half face

Half mask

What she sees

She keeps

In the craters

Of her memory

As day fades

Before evening twilight

Invades…

Thatcher Doran

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Shaking Hands with Something New…

Sounds of an aeroplane

Old-fashioned

Like a Norton circa 1950’s

Sound of voices

Words parade through the garden

An old house…circa 1700’s

Still stands in a new century

Modern sculpture in the tamed

Wilderness

A signpost in a meadow

Time and place

Move side by side

Occasionally colliding

Memory likes to play tricks

Perception is so obliging

The view is fragmentation

Of a other time…

In the same place

Shaking hands with something new

But its life nevertheless…

Thatcher Doran

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The Ordinary…

from the cafe chair

I stare

looking at the comings and

goings

of the ordinary

people who want to be

somebody…

to be famous or rich

to be googled and envied

the ordinary…

who do extraordinary

things

who want to be different!

but part of the same

the ordinary that are secretly

gifted

but buried under the hourglass

of the routine

corralled by the narrow minded

but perhaps they are happy!

behind the mask of pretence

sharing the conveyor belt

of Time

on which nobody is privileged…

Thatcher Doran

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Between the Showers

on a June afternoon

sipping  tea alone

in the old basement scullery

gone…

now bright

painted off white

outside the traffic rumbles

unseasonal wind grumbles

leaving the city street

forlorn

while between the sips

shadows gather

dance across the room

occupy the places

memories of old workmates

gone…moved on

fragments…

between the showers

on a June afternoon…

Thatcher Doran

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Day after Day

Its June…

an empty sky

…except for blue

the colour of childhood

innocence…

and everything new

days of summer perfume

of roses and carnations

of freshly cut greens

alongside football

played on the street

goals scored between

lamppost and railings

by wild young things

with cuts on their knees

the push and shove of

friendship

turns to undying

mateship

relived day after day

under an empty sky

the colour of childhood

Thatcher Doran

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An Evening Holding its Breath

Journeying home

At the tail end of a day

Whitewashed

With doubt and lies

Even the sun had gone

Inside

Left a shadow in its

stead

The train will stop at every

Station

Slowly working its way

Pass the corrugated boxes

Where humanity ekes out

A living

Pass modernity’s installation

Living art…..

In fields where cattle

Graze

Alongside rusticated cars

In shocking brown

Where rabbits nibble

At the elbow of an evening

As I write, a soft mist

Falls

The snake slipping through

The landscape

Pass the half built homes

Under steel grey clouds

An evening holding its breath…..

Thatcher Doran

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Inkless Print

at times I am overwhelmed

by the echoes

of forgotten lives

the narrative of lost

shadows

words that lie silent

in dusted books

ridiculed in

inkless print

by eyes that cannot

see

by hearts…cold

by time and distance

the gap…the measure

of youth and old age

the terms and conditions

of modernity

the natural cycle of change

contaminated…..

who is the face behind the mask?

what is the meaning of words?

Thatcher Doran

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Except for the Day’s Ghost

The best time of the day

Is the train journey

To the city

Is the moment the building

Empties

And regains its integrity

Is the scene from the third flor

Window

View uninterrupted…..

A sky boundless

Hosting an unhindered timeline

No tense is best

There is equal ambiguity

After the bloated day

Has belched

Its collective ego

deflated

I take solace travelling

Home

On a train…empty

Except for the day’s ghost…..

Thatcher Doran

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