Tethers float & tickle like feathers
I'm aloft unaware of outside weathers
Evening enhanced by colloquial pleasures
Malleable & manipulated
Esoterica like yours specifically stipulated
"Tie me to your tongue" I sing
Oh I utter the strangest things!
Yet I must admit I'm fully focussed
Overjoyed at this conversational hocus pocus
Unusually laid back & vocally gushing
Rampant points of interest gain further pushing
Tantalise & give me traction
Obligated now to end-goal satisfaction
Nerve endings sever in hyperspace
"Great subject matter expert kept perfect pace!"
Unbiased reviews are fully flowing
Eloquence like yours has me all glowing
TOKENS OF RECOGNITION
in
delicate
persuasive
discussion
give
negligible
differentials
momentum
remains
juxtaposed
in
genuine
radiance
expounded
dimension
interpreted
in
gestures
with
focussed
recipient
iconic
quotations
to
experience
&enable
isolate
ambitious
individuality
HOMAGE TO OTHERNESS
cultural
preserves
in
ambitious
secondary
reproductions
& reservations
imitate
the
inevitable
thematic
choices
with
distinctive
paraphrased
oblique
adaptations
apparently
& unusually
plausibly
unadulterated
yet
conspicuous
focussed
perceptions
If I had kept holding the past, I would have become dangerous, so I let it be.
I left the past somewhere I could visit it, and it could visit me.
I got on with my life, happy I was finally feeling free.
I explored and enjoyed myself enough to open up and see.
I had ignored it in my past all this time, that my past was also holding life's beauty.
I was focussed on the pain and the want,
I was looking at what was moving past me.
I was seeing what I was missing out on,
Unable to see what I was growing to be.
All of that pain I once felt, that I left behind,
It had become beauty, and I was truly set free.
Against the back drop of green leaf copses, dulcet bird chirp, and bubbling pavement fountains,
that dawning from the azure blue sky a silken whisper,
to follow street signs on my route to work with ample gusto and much verve,
each metal
pointer to destination a micro mirror on its surround,
stoic indicator of direction, that upright unique urban compass,
clustered by behemoth scenic grandeur at its mint spring zenith,
and surging throngs who sashay in brisk step patterns so diverse yet firmly focussed,
as I am whilst counting on that reference point, that fixed point usher,
that deep-dyed friend at each crossroad safe in the knowledge of arrival,
and in tandem with a spotless day’s heroic toil in bright prospect,
how symbolic are these pathway guide rails to one who warms to flagship growth,
in its august transit on foot slog pitfall strewn road of expertism,
pole mounted emblems, silent sentry solid, detail for me on daily passage.
Earlier today, I had a small-group evaluation
that I’ve been quietly dreading
and frankly, I wasn’t sure I was ready.
See, I’ve neglected things of late
I had the flu and couldn’t concentrate.
But once that was over, I could focus,
and I did some uneducated guessing,
about what the physiology skill-drill might be.
My group peer-assessed me, and those guys can be savage,
and a fail on the quiz could block my module passage.
I showed what I’d prepared, 2-hours focussed on things like prioritizing diagnoses.
Their questions were pointed but they didn’t reveal their prognoses.
How’d I do? I haven’t a clue.
I was quivering with exhaustion when I was through.
The professeur seemed pleased, and I got a few nods and smiles,
in my clinical-presentation debut.
.
,
A song for this:
Diary by Lucy Tun
You Need Therapy (Ready) by Mila Smith
non-compensatory - A fail in ED/PBL can block module passage
Days end and I want
the last light to be
as it is, unfiltered,
not focussed through me -
to fall softly on the joyous
feet of children wading
the shallows
and on the kind faces
of people who smile
as they pass me
on the promenade.
I want the light
to illuminate the perfection
of the moment,
its oblique angle to shine
into the places within me
that have been
in shadow for so long
and its warmth
to linger there
all through
the long night.
PLAGUED BY MEMORIES
Some memories shimmer but don’t last
Yet others put down roots so very deep
Creating versions as dreams when sleep
And earn their place that they can keep
In the mind’s timeless universe, so vast
They cause an outbreak, like the plague
Hidden for years, then total devastation
Much more than any mere perturbation
One can wonder about their motivation
Always sharp focussed, and never vague
It’s torture, just explain it to me, please
The stuff of nightmare, but whilst awake
Tell me, just to stop, what would it take
Some blessed relief, for Goodness’ sake
Or am I still to be plagued by memories
Let off a lead,
freedom bounds
as if all joy is held
within a bouncing ball
to be retrieved
and brought back to lay
at a lover's feet. Then
sent off to do again.
Smells wafting
from tree trunks,
fence posts and tufted grass
flood the air with molecules
sending canine bladders
into spasm eager
to mark the moment
as their own.
Focussed on what is firm
beneath their feet,
every nerve they have
is wired to ‘now’
whilst I, looking on,
try and retrieve phantoms
bouncing across what was
and what is yet to come.
Smiling at strangers, or saying hello
passing the time, on my walks down the street
with mixed responses, from those you don’t know
some stare at their phones or else at their feet
Joggers those nodders, take you in their stride
focussed on fitness, or some sort of race
barely acknowledge that you moved aside
they'll choose to refuse a look at your face
Pushy young parents, oh so self-aware
they hurry by without hesitation
gripping their pushchairs, as though they don’t care
now I worry for new generations
But those with their mutts, serial walkers
No ifs or buts, they're serious talkers.
So many stars overhead.
The cold evening air gives
a focussed clarity to each speck
of light and a little of the chill
from space seems
to trickle down to earth
and settle this night.
Thoughts reach up as if
to grasp some meaning encoded
there in the morse of light,
a message perhaps left by a hand
but there is only a silence
on which the cosmos writes
its usual chatter,
the tortured cries from dying stars,
groans from galaxies
being torn apart,
a catalog of death and doom
and there caught on a web strung
between two trees, the smothered
screams from a half eaten moon.
I am blessed to have many skills but navigation isn't one of them! But, I do learn a bit more every time I get lost somewhere.
Navigation is important. If we don't know where we are, we can't find our way back to safety or know if the new horizon is the correct path for our souls.
Good luck to us all as we navigate our lives.
Every detour is a reminder
By Michelle Morris
31/07/2024
I've travelled so many winding roads
Some have been lanes; some have been highways
But every single one has taught me something
About how important it is to navigate our landscape
Nothing is wasted effort
Even if we as humans think it so
Every detour is a reminder
To stay calm and focussed under pressure
As we navigate our lives
It's important to be clear on where we are
Where we want to be
And if we should be following a specific arc
There's safety in places that we know
And the horizon is often daunting
But if we're clear on our soul's purpose
Our journey will not be faulted
So, focus on your soul's calling
Focus on your intuition and guidance
And as you stumble and glide and shimmy
May you remain forever excited
© Michelle Morris, 2024
Her story is hidden in every third word.
Our hunter sought deer. He tracked silently while he bounded over brooks, away, into woods, zigzagging amongst trees, through undergrowth, while the doe jumped dense thickets ahead. Forest birds screeched and took flight, evading chance of danger. It was her he tracked. Instinct and guile kept him focussed. Her near silence ahead bewitched him: She seemed so rested as she quietly evaded him. In between moments a cool breeze, hidden, opened a spot. She was watching, unmoving as the arrow left hunter - aimed well, but hitting wood. She waited. He slipped another shaft into his bow. The forest waited, hushed. He sensed depths as eyes of each met. The arrow stayed; woodland breathed again.
In the liveliest REM stage of his night
Bert beholds an unusual sight.
A troupe of pink elephants sound a trumpet blast
Then stomp united towards the grass.
On the other side, a team of tall strong guys
March to the pitch with focussed eyes.
"I'll be the goalie!' Dan told Bert.
'I'm least likely to get hurt."
Bert referees. His reminder the same,
"The joy's in the play, not winning the game."
At half time, a call is heard from Phil.
"How have the elephants scored two nil?
It's not right. It makes no sense...
Football's not for elephants!"
The guys huddle up and devise a plan
To catch as many mice as they can.
When the teams take position on the green
A commotion begins. A chaotic scene!
The elephants pale to white as a goose
When all the mice have been let loose.
The guys score goals before the mice disappear
The elephants play on, when free from fear.
Bert awakens amazed and confused.
He starts to laugh, feeling quite amused.
He answers the question written on Suzanne's face.
He fills her in on the match that took place.
FIGURISTA
existing
where
what you see
focussed
is
what you get
as
it really
looks
representational
infused
with
reality
of
the everyday
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