The Consist Reminder

Day to day

The endless cycle

Turns

The consist reminder

A persistence…

A tenacity…

Oh beautiful but frail

Humanity

Blake’s words of innocence

And experience

Of faith and dreams

Beware…

The four horsemen

Of the apocalypse

 

Thatcher Doran

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Slip, Sliding Away…

The last train

Slips

Through deserted yard

Pass metal fence…

That naked lazy bank

And on

Towards satellite posts

Then, the flatlands

This snake will blink

And wink

At ditch and tree

Into the last hour

Of a vexed day

In the quietness of a carriage

A man rests his head

Against a moving pane

Another dying day

Weighs heavy

Against the almost silent

Ticking watch

Slip, sliding away…to dream

 

Thatcher Doran

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Leave a Sign

It’s a very fine thing

To read, perhaps to learn

Then sit, read again

Broad and deep

But do…

Leave a sign!

Just here and there

Mark a path

Tie that knot

Write a note

A gesture…

If only to be remembered!

 

Thatcher  Doran

 

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Memory Resides

In an April sky

Memory resides…

Clouds of renegade

Gray

Remind me of a time

A city after the blitz

A city pulled asunder

Streets still in bits

Of bread laced with

Dripping

When less than a shilling

Got you into the flix

French beret and belted

Gabardine

Short trousers licking knees

In an April sky

Memory resides…

 

Thatcher Doran

 

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It Howls…

In a field of green

Two cars sit

The rain has painted

Brown

The air will change

To shades of red

It howls…

A silent shout

A picture …not quite!

An installation…

Modernity… found out…

Society framed

In green and rust

 

Thatcher Doran

 

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For Things that Went Amiss

Strange

How odd, that buildings

And spaces in-between

Brews a lament

For things that went amiss

For people no longer here

And, unable to return

In a fissure of a moment

Or in the melody of a prayer

There is an echo

A residue of a dream

But in the mist of Time and Place

Melancholy is there…

To abate

Or at least soften the tears

For things that went amiss….

 

Thatcher Doran

 

 

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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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