Ancient Love… Revisited… #Poetry

Image by David Mark from Pixabay
Sadness holds all
Grey eyes see the life below
Blowing time on those it finds
Dancing smiling faces
With life, they glow
Silver moon stands high above
The mountain screams of ancient love
Time to let them know
That love of a different kind
Is love after all...

©AnitaDawes 2020

Anita needs a rest, so I found one of my favourites from 2020…

Writephoto ~ Approach ~ #Poetry

#WRITEPHOTO – Approach

#WRITEPHOTO – Approach
Approach – Image by KL Caley

For visually challenged writers, the image shows a foggy day with the sun just emerging through the clouds. Emerging from the fog is a large castle.

Cold crisp winter calling, I feel you
Spring winds, blowing warm, I feel you
Summer sun, bacon burger frying outside, I feel you
Autumn leaves falling beneath the trees
Decaying fast, I feel you
Windswept rainy days, flood warnings, I feel you
Fog filled days, damp, moving, I feel you
Castle gates shut tight, I hear knocking
I feel the empty rooms, ghosts roaming, I feel you
Should I knock back, will they let me in
Keep me, feel me…

© Anita Dawes 2022

#Writephoto ~ Antique ~ #Poetry

#WRITEPHOTO – Antique

#WRITEPHOTO – Antique
Antique – Image by KL Caley

For visually challenged writers, the image shows a collection of tables, chairs, lamps, baskets, teddies and other objects in quite a busy space.

How do we mark the passing of time?
Is it memory alone?
Do the visual prompts take us back?
Bring the past to life
At 75, am I considered an antique?
I certainly feel like one some days
With so many antique thoughts popping in mind
Wanting to live alongside me
Is it a reminder that the time I have left is too short?
So many empty chairs that were once loved
Put in pride of place
So many ghosts that have now gone
Do we still feel them when we sit in an antique chair?
Looking through the window
At once cherished items
I wonder, as I walk home carrying a small red vase
How will it speak to me?

© Anita Dawes 2022

The Angry Pen… #Poetry

Arthur at Tintagel, Cornwall
On Tintagel's rugged shores, Arthur has returned.
Molten bronze, larger than when in life
He should not be there.
He lives in fantasy, a story loved by millions
For many, Tintagel is a sacred space
It should be held that way for the future.
What are English Heritage thinking of?
Money, more tourists to take away the magic
The majesty that is Cornwall.
Personally, I cannot speak about 
The face carved on the cliff wall
This does not represent the might that is Merlin
His magic is in every rock, 
Every wave that washes across the shore
These are the things that live in time, 
Never to be forgotten
Tintagel should be left wild, as he is.
Go to the beach late at night as Jaye and I have done
Sit awhile, feel the raw energy
The dark caves whisper, I am still here...

© Anita Dawes 2021

Merlin, carved on Tintagel cliffs, Cornwall

#BlogBattle ~ Merge ~ #Poetry

December #BlogBattle: Merge

Carrie doesn’t live here anymore
I walk from room to room
The air that wrapped her, touches me
Echoing past time
The cushion on her chair sags with age
Pointing at me, accusingly. screaming
Why doesn’t Carrie live here anymore?
I melt into the wallpaper
Old, musty, dry walls
I feel the weight of age
I see the room through faded colours
Tears held by fading flowers
Paper peeling like old skin
I feel like a ticking clock without the tick
Worn out by time, the hands stuck 
At ten past twelve
I see it on the mantelpiece
The fire long cold, 
as Carrie doesn’t live here anymore
A cold breeze rolled the walls
That’s when I realised, I no longer live here…

© AnitaDawes 2021

The West Wind… #Poetry

Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay
Come find me
Take the wildflowers from my eyes
Let me run with the west wind
Find the source of dreams
The kind that come true
Bring back a bag full
Drop them on sleeping eyes
A Christmas gift from the cosmic winds
Call me foolish, I know happy dreams
make for a happy world to live in
That’s the world I wish
For my great granddaughter
To grow in, to dream in
My work is done
Knowing her dreams will come true
For the heart I leave behind…

© Anita Dawes 2021