My hunched shoulders
swept the floor
as I shuffled to the doorstep.
My thin cotton dress offereing
no protection from the coldness.
I picked at first one scab, then another.
My arms a jigsaw of broken skin.
Warm blood dripped from my elbow
on to the cardinal red concrete -
where it camouflagued itself.

She will never love me
it was a harsh lesson
but well learned.
I wish she was dead, no -
that would make me a bad person.
I wished I was dead,
but I already was.
I was stupid,
I should have picked the poppies -
Poppies are for the dead.

But I did have one element of freedom,
that I used with inpunity
when she beat me and locked me up.
When she degraded me, and used
all manner of names not fit for pigs.
I hate you, I hate you!
It was my lifeline, it felt so good.
I HATE YOU -
Only I didn’t hate her, I loved her -
and just wanted a mother’s love.

Paradis

The knowledge
bundled inside
faded jackets,
waiting to be spilled -
A treasure chest
of words.

Paradis

Paradis

Paradis

The thief darts,
spills the apple cart.
That wasn’t smart.
Have a heart officer,
it wasn’t me,
I didn’t do it….
Yet,
I bet,
his pockets are filled
with treasures,
pleasures,
take measures
to see he won’t
sin again.
Give him 28 days!
Hurray,
another criminal
locked away.
But there are more,
there are always more,
lock your door,
before,
they steal your fortune.
Yes, they wants your stuff preciousssssssssss!

Paradis

The essence of poetry.
Facsimiles of life.
Rose petals in the wind.
The thought of your kiss,
your hand in mine.
My best day…
picking forget-me-nots.
Intoxicating scent.
The smell of leather.
Deepest secrets.
Intensified feelings.
Laying in grass.
An apple shared.
Remembering…
that day.
A hidden CD track.
Opaque amber.
High in the sky…
cotton wool clouds.
Blah…
here am I
on a tangent.

Paradis

It’s hard to compose a villanelle,
it’s hard to make it work…
so most people tell.

A sonnet is really simple,
a cinquain too, I’m told, but
it’s hard to compose a villanelle.

the humble triolet is easy,
with it’s iambic tetrameter,
so most people tell.

and what of a pantoum?
That’s a piece of cake, but…
it’s hard to compose a villanelle.

Haiku is full of discipline,
yet even that is fine,
so most people tell.

Free verse and blank verse
are smooth as silk, but
it’s hard to compose a villanelle,
so most people tell.

Paradis

Rain
taps the window
and asks
may I come in
It’s wet out here.

Paradis

Moleskin books
pages full of memories
the scratching of his pen
can still be heard
twenty years on.

Paradis

We wear masks
to hide
from each other
making the whole world
invisible.

Paradis

A
seagull
eyes the waves,
flapping it’s wings
into the strong wind,
while on the horizon
nature rears it’s ugly head.
A hurricane is coming soon,
men busy themselves boarding windows,
while women gather supplies – life goes on.

Paradis

Paradis

Above -
candyfloss clouds
waiting to be eaten.
I devour them with hungry eyes,
tasty!

Paradis

And the fog
swirls about me
engulfing my thoughts
in it’s icy grip…

The clock ticks,
but time slows
like quicksand,
with legs so heavy…

I’m drowning.

Paradis

Abstract thoughts collide,
and cut the silence,
like skeletons scraping
with boney fingers.
The twilight glides like velvet
as the mists drift in,
while the city of dreams
lurks in the far distance.

The daffodils I picked
laid haphazardly
upon the gravestone
as if to ease your death.
It’s surface scarred
with years of neglect.
There will come a time
when everything changes -

then -
then I will forgive you.

Paradis

Elsewhere a woman sips tea on a sidewalk.
Seated at a table overlooking a river,
she buttons her coat to keep out the chill
from the breeze that’s blowing off of the water.
She watches the ripples as they float ever wider,
and thinks of the man she has given her heart to,
she smiles and wishes he could share in this sight.

Paradis

Paradis

Paradis

Paradis

The domestic problems separated Wordsworth from his beloved and neurotic sister Dorothy, who was a very important person in his life. With the help of his two uncles, Wordsworth entered a local school and continued his studies at Cambridge University. Wordsworth made his debut as a writer in 1787, when he published a sonnet in The European Magazine.

Wordsworth’s financial situation became better in 1795 when he received a legacy and was able to settle at Racedown, Dorset, with his sister Dorothy. Wordsworth spent the winter of 1798-99 with his sister and Coleridge in Germany, where he wrote several poems, including the enigmatic ‘Lucy’ poems. After return he moved Dove Cottage, Grasmere, and in 1802 married Mary Hutchinson. They cared for Wordsworth’s sister Dorothy for the last 20 years of her life. Wordsworth’s happy home life turned to tragedy when two of his four children died within a year.

In 1843 he succeeded Robert Southey (1774-1843) as England’s poet laureate. Wordsworth died on April 23, 1850.

Dorothy Wordsworth

English prose writer, the younger sister of poet William Wordsworth, famous for her diaries and ‘recollections’. Several of Dorothy Wordsworth’s own poems or notes in her journal were included in various editions of her brother’s poetical works. She published nothing during her lifetime, and spent the last twenty five years struggling against physical and mental illness.