Some of my poetry

[Darksky]

Thank you Fishman, I shall treasure it. It means a lot at this time and the fact you bought in her favourite poem is lovely.

xxxx

[fishman65]

OK well another very belated reply here from myself. Carnation thank you for your very kind words And of course, Darksky It was an honour for me to write it and hopefully gives you at least, a degree of comfort. There is something timeless and eternal about streams/rivers, forever running, on and on.

Right, I've just finished another poem 'Robin'. The other day I sat with suet pellets in my hand, and a Robin snatched one pellet. But yesterday he perched about 4 times on my palm, on 2 occasions for maybe 5 or 6 seconds. It was an amazing and I felt, honourable experience. Will type up now.

[fishman65]

Robin

Your chain of silver notes,
adorn my senses,
poured, fluid as
waterfalls.

When you alight upon
my outstretched fingers,
as if upon my heart.

And in your bright eye
my reflection lingers,
little thinker,
wondrous spirit,
knower of my soul.

April 2024

[Darksky]

Lovely, I think the extra length makes it perfect.

[Carnation]

Adorable poem fishman.
I love Robins.

[fishman65]

Thank you both

They both take pellets from my hand now. I only ever seem to see one at any one time, but they're definitely a pair because one has no tail.

[fishman65]

Mousetrap

Your bright eyes,
dulled to glassy,
stare accusation.

Twitching whiskers stilled,
blood red as mine.

Each new day
you had lived for,
asking only to survive,
the same as I.

Yet I set death to snare you,
the grinning trap
your final breath,
and I knowing,
that upon your tiny frame,
you bore the weight of my shame.

April 2018

[fishman65]

Isolate

Monday morning
post offices,
a pension drawn,
stood in mute queues.

Hers a solitary vigil,
crowded amid the
turned away faces.

Heading home
to radio companions,
to cling to their
bodyless voices,
warmth lost in
metallic hollow.

She craves the
passing postman,
his whistling humanity,
framed between net
curtain shrouds,
is the far place to where
her children have long flown,
and she to linger,
in silent rooms alone.

October 2016

[fishman65]

Opening Time

Sodden Saturday lunchtimes,
spill over to anti-climax Sundays.

A non-life in smoky haze passes,
spent gazing into half empty pint glasses,
chasing a paradise that was never there,
alcohol's delusion giving birth to despair,
lost forever through the fingers of time,
is this existence and it's pointless mime.

And crouching in a quiet corner,
anxiety disorder,
waiting on the trigger
of a starting gun,
to drown a future
before it has begun.

July 2016

[Pkstracy]

Fishman, Your poems are amazing !!!