being sick

being sick by phil burns

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being sick

it isn’t funny being sick in the autumn
it isn’t funny being sick at any time
it isn’t fun when you suspect the bits and pieces you eject
are as close as you can get to writing rhyme

it isn’t funny when you stare into the mirror
and realise you don’t recognise your own description
when your look at life is wry and you wish that you were high
but the only drugs you have are on prescription

it isn’t funny when you’re confined to barracks
when you’re stir crazy and going off your head
you think of running wild but in fact you’re reconciled
the only place you’re going is back to bed

it isn’t funny when you should be getting better
but this nonsense drags on yet another week
your doctor’s running out of drugs to combat these wretched bugs
you don’t have a paddle and you’re still far up the creek

it isn’t funny when you waken in the morning
although it’s better than the alternative they say
but you splutter and you cough and think oh please buzz off
now you’ve got to suffer through another ghastly day

it isn’t funny when you discover that it’s Saturday
the thought of writing poetry makes you weep
you are completely uninspired and you really are dog tired
so you shrug roll over and go back to sleep

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dream of life

you’re still there by phil burns

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dream of life

is this my life a dream so sweet
or is it real and then
when I awaken from my dream
does my life come to an end

I don’t know if these words make sense
I don’t think I really care
I do know that I’ll be content
to know that you’re still there

for I don’t want to live a life
where the pain is so extreme
in any world where you are not
either real or in a dream

for one truth I must tell you
if you have not already guessed
of all the things that ever happened
you are easily the best

you are perhaps life’s greatest pleasure
seeing you smile each time you give
whether you are real or in a dream
I love just watching you live

and now so many years have passed
since I saw your face again
so I’ll awaken from my life
let my dream come to an end

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horseshoe bay

horseshoe bay by anelephantcant

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horseshoe bay

she does not listen to my voice
she can’t tell my soul is crying
she laughs and skips in carefree joy
through the Valley of the Giants

her heart is full of happiness
mine broke when she said no
to her life is an orchestra
playing tunes in Songbird Meadow

new flames consume this white flawed fool
compared to her all fires turn pale
her steps have prints like angels’ feet
she leaves no trace on Ladyfern Trail

how can this be I ask myself
why is the sunshine always dark
she lights her way with just a smile
she brightly glows in Lighthouse Park

an artist who can paint a dream
a poet with no words to say
she colours the Pacific waves
but I am drowned in Horseshoe Bay

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family

magic by anelephantcant

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family

in a house
on the outskirts
of a medieval village
built on Roman baths
looking across
the North Italian plains
to the sharpened Alps
to Atlantean Venice
and to the Val dee Fade
the Valley of the Fairies
(where
the Anguane
dance
the Lumiera
work
and the Mazzariol
make mischief)
lives a family
part of a greater family
who welcome
with open arms
open homes
open hearts
the lost daughter
of a long gone
much loved
never forgotten
brother
showing
warmth
generosity
and love
far surpassing
that required
but yet
given
freely
unquestioningly
simply
because
for them
she is them
always

asolo by anelephantcant

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rootless

rootless by anelephantcant

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rootless

if
I didn’t
have you
I’d just
float away
I’d drift
with nothing
no anchor
to hold me
here
or anywhere

so
everything
I have done

has brought me
to now

when
I realise
that

our first encounter
was
the most important
moment
of
my
life

it was
on
a beach
or
in
a bar
or
maybe

at
an airport
I think
but
I don’t
remember
I
can’t
remember
which
of these
is true

I
am
drifting
rootless

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the clock ticks

the clock ticks by anelephantcant

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the clock ticks

every time
the clock ticks
we grow
a little
older
the lines
are deeper
and
the hair
thinner
and
greyer

we are long past
the mid-point
of our life
and
watch
more and more
carefully
the signs
that indicate
the approaching
inevitable
finale

we consider
frequently
what
we achieved
and
what pain
we inflicted
and
in the night
we feel
less pride
than
guilt

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down the drain

down the drain by Phil Burns

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down the drain

the picture on the wall shows people leaping
from the cliffs into the waters far below
you hope to stay wrapped in my arms till morning
but fear the clock hands move round far too slow

I hear you call my name from through the doorway
where I find boxes scattered on the floor
I see your head and shoulder weeping in the first one
I am now afraid to look in any more

the back stairs appear to lead upwards to nowhere
the main staircase is well lit and very wide
when I get to the top I am still puzzled
I know my room is on the other side

the bottles on the shelf are almost empty
I have no desire to sample them again
I wonder what effect they have upon our memories
but I forget to pour the contents down the drain

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