cold water swimmers
have got a VERY apt name
they're called 'The BlueTits'
Somewhere over the mountain, hidden away,
There’s a land that is calling; I must not delay.
Somewhere over the mountain, that’s where she’ll be,
In the alpenglow, Mary's waiting for me.
They said I'd never recover from my stroke
A nightmare from which I never woke
A big chunk of me gone, a lower plateau
But I left the home, and off I did go.
It's our lot to grow old, not due to our sins
Trails go cold and entropy wins
But I'll boat down the waterfall where snowmelt flows,
I’ll find Mary in the place that nobody knows.
The terrain is forbidding, the ridge like a knife
Can't undo time, can't crash the afterlife
No country for old men, no breaking the rule
But I have to attempt, to give up is so cruel
Somewhere over the mountain, I wish it were so,
Mary is singing where wildflowers grow.
The starling will guide me, the meteor will show
The path to the valley where lost rivers go.
I went over the mountain, then took a fall
a thousand foot down off a sheer valley wall.
They buried my story, because no one must know.
They say I died then, but I died long ago.
The smooth ink stains bleed a crimson red with each stroke
The pages' colors publish a perilous message against the black granite surface
Black, red, white
Its message is clear
It's time to stop writing
An idea was imprisoned in such a bind
It bounced about within the precincts of the mind
What did it mean I heard you say
I didn’t know about it right away
For it was not alone in there
And had to survive a longish stare
But what was missing in its story
Was the truth in all its glory
What will be written for the ages
In history as you turn the pages
Will it be corrected with a stroke of the pen
Or will the stroke win in end.
© Paul Warren Poetry
I thought this life could get no worse,
But life's new chapter contains a verse,
Brought together a certain way,
A poem is born what will it say,
Life's a story going on and on,
Those tragic moments I thought were gone,
Without pre warning there was no sign,
Apart from this I was feeling fine,
Of all the body it chose this place,
The whole left side of my ageing face,
You think the worst! it is a stroke,
Typical diagnosis from a bloke,
There is a condition I did not know,
It's not a stroke your off deaths row,
It's called Bells palsy it can be caused by stress,
Weakens facial muscles your looking a mess,
So what comes next in my life of gloom,
A suspect package "what's this inside?"
BOOOOMMM!!!!!!!
Thoughts pierced the whites of my brains,
Tainted blood flowed out of my veins,
One half of me then paralysed,
My speech now completely disguised.
Why was I stubborn with the drugs?
My right arm now too weak for hugs.
Beat fast, my heart under my cloak,
Just too bad I now have a stroke.
Recovery now cost fortunes,
Drag I must my distortions,
Since death may even be my fate
Like rats in a trap, I await.
27th October, 2024.
At the stroke of midnight, werewolves come alive
sharpening their nails and fangs, so their plans will thrive
Witches too dust off their brooms, mount and start to fly
their features silhouetted by the moon against the sky
Ghouls and ghosts begin to howl, goblins start to shriek
underneath my covers, I dare not take a peek…
Feh! All of this is childish, of course. I don’t believe in ghosts
Yet when I heard my door creak ~ I leaped over my bedpost
wings whispering, lithe
in bold hues, purple, gold, blue
faded songs, pulsing
Have you ever wondered about all the things that require your signature in life
How about a marriage certificate, I now pronounce you man and wife
A steady hand is needed as you buy your first home
If a writer's cramp occurs with so many places to sign, you are not alone
The car of your dreams you are about to drive off the lot
Or maybe the insurance for that car you just bought
Your passport for an upcoming dream trip you are about to take
The officer speeding ticket for moving too fast, oh for heaven's sake
Your birth certificate your parents sign to prove you are alive
Your driver's license after you show you know how to drive
The only thing I would like to sign is a big check from the lottery I just won
One more stroke of the pen and my work day will be done
12/12/2023
STROKE THE HEART, IGNITE THE FLAME
I went on a heathered journey to his heart.
So passionately anxious was I to depart.
To his welcoming mountain cabin in the woods.
I walked through the fresh snow, as best I could.
Where a warm, welcoming, fireplace awaited me.
Through the falling snow I could barely see.
His most alluring shadow on a shade I did see.
Only a few more steps, to be wrapped in those arms
that winter, magnificently.
The table was set with utter perfection.
Quickly, I entered,nearly running in his direction.
No time for useless chit-chat at all, now.
The candles flickered our shadows on the wall, oh wow!
Oh, night of passion’s amberness, truly divine,
two magical lovers, intertwined.
A kingdom of tenderness, when I was fully thine.
I’m laying here not knowing who I am
Bleeding drains my soul
Lost my way of who I am
Drifting eyes looking up
Crazy glazed
Closing my mind
Waving like a prom queen
Falling from grace from my body
I don’t know where I’m going
Frantic eyes drifting in air
Reaching out
Grabbing hold
Reaching out
Grabbing hold
Grabbing hold
Free falling what life held
Only to see nothing in front of me
Going home someday
To say hello to all my relatives
Going home someday
My good friend, neighbor, had a stroke.
I called my church group, friendly folk
who vowed to help her; she was broke.
Aid was planned, day by day.
Our lives were changed as her A-team;
to give support became our dream.
Healed by God, her face on high beam,
such joy is our mainstay.
The extra mile has been defined.
Simple matter - heart and mind
led by God’s Spirit, thus assigned
to go out of one’s way.
"At the Third Stroke.
It will be four, four, and 40 seconds, precisely."
"At the Third Stroke.
It will be four, four, and 55 seconds, precisely."
Old timers like me can remember
when time was voiced on the telephone when you dialed '1984'.
To get the 'Speaking Clock'!
or were told the time in tolls of local church bells.
or the number of gongs of town hall clocks like 'Big Ben',
chimes on the hour, half or quarter.
When you could ring up on 'me old telephone' at
some ungodly hour in day or night,
and hear the recorded time precisely there and then.
When your grandfather's job
was to chime the time in the hall.
When God told you the time
with church bell gongs and rings.
Can you remember when you lost track of the
time, when you lost track of the count of number
of the chimes or of tolls of bells?
Less important perhaps
at midnight than midday,
but this had you reaching
for the 'Bakelite'
black telephone to
hear the time precisely,
"At the third stroke".
Or you could wait for the 'pips' on the hour,
the six short sounds on the radio,
still going strong after 90 long years.
pip, pip, pip, pip, pip, pip!
There 'tis some ungodly hour precisely!
There were times in the past.
I stood by your side
I learned nothing ever last.
No one there to confide.
Spent day after day waiting for her to come back.
Lost what I wanted to say
Time went by
My heart started turning black.
No more tears left to cry
Time didn't heal
Sometime during the tears I cried
I just lost what it meant to feel
Does that mean, the love has died
A new me now can start
The beginning of a new day
Chains that now wrap my heart.
In the guarded words I say
As I slowly reach for all my tomorrows
Can't play no ones game
As I step past my sorrows
I find life's to blame.
Whatever you may think
Have I gone insane
Love took my heart to the brink
Left me in so much pain
Now that my heart is free
No more lost to desire
That's how I want it to be.
Can't let no one stroke that fire.
Visually impaired - I view the mirrors
The effect - I danced in life
Colors - Hues impressed my very soul
I became the artist -I painted
Love of life's beauty - realism indeed
Even the flower the challenge at most
Sanity within me as I push brush
Exerted up all night it takes a toll
Teachers- astounding bringing best
But yet I see the critique in me built
Esteem developed it is the roll
I too cultivate some derogatory weed
I paint views -. Opinions , it's a test
IQ in painting challenges the mind
Imagery I still see that prism of colors
Hues in front of me, yet still I find
That the warms and cools I stroke
Yet should I charcoal first too
The beloved conte then broke!!!
It shattered the mind - ideas now
In a bind......
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