Posts Tagged ‘home’

Follow the link to see my wife’s Photography website award winning art you can own and desire “The first half of the 20th century belongs to Picasso, and the second half is about photography. They said digital…

Source: Home

when your home is not
a protective shelter to dignity and heart,
where government scythes away
public voices in favour of a few,
nervous rattle of doors
closing on opportunities
for those we should cherish,
disabled now disenfranchised
workless sanctioned and berated
for just existing,
statistics and targets
media fodder,
minimum wage hunter gatherers
chasing food bank trails
as rent arrears accumulate,
things are getting brighter
economy booming,
so some say
a cautious tale of cynicism
is needed to chew on this pill
of crushed realisations,
we have awoken
but not awake

written in response to the Conservatives taking victory in the elections and Cameron claiming power again

mersey moonlight and shine
across the hills
to river dee,
wind whispers
in the trees and grass,
of park
and shipyard sinew,
bricks of sweat and toil,
urban sprawl,
where smugglers coins
fell to sand,
lighthouse flickers
seen by little eye,
sandstone tremors
and gentle veil of mist,
i feel home
cradled by the lake
and shivering masts
of a yachting few

Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Mersey Ferry          Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Looking at Wales through...  Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Liverpool Waterfront           Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Sailing on Marine Lake a...

Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Men of Crosby           Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Fort Perch Lighthouse...

all photographs copyrighted to Karen Lawrence / SpikeyMouse Photography and all images and others can be bought at

http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/karen-lawrence.html?tab=artwork

follow her on facebook https://www.facebook.com/KarenLawrencePhotography

twitter  @joefishy

blog https://karenlawrencephotography.wordpress.com/

my mersey spine
back and tail
to my wirral home,
breathing over welsh hills
with ebb n flow of dee,
ferry lights
liver city waterfront,
this place so green and urban
has a pull
that lingers
to those toiling at sea
or travelling afar,
landscape pulls you back,
thors stone
lighthouses on the shore,
sandstone peninsula
of ancient times,
from road or motorway
distinctive in it’s way
born from the hundred,
Wirral
it stands
this place
my home

THE HOUSE
from “All’s Normal Here” – 1985

They are building a house
half a block down
and I sit up here
with the shades down
listening to the sounds,
the hammers pounding in nails,
thack thack thack thack,
and then I hear birds,
and thack thack thack,
and I go to bed,
I pull the covers to my throat;
they have been building this house
for a month, and soon it will have
its people…sleeping, eating,
loving, moving around,
but somehow
now
it is not right,
there seems a madness,
men walk on top with nails
in their mouths
and I read about Castro and Cuba,
and at night I walk by
and the ribs of the house show
and inside I can see cats walking
the way cats walk,
and then a boy rides by on a bicycle
and still the house is not done
and in the morning the men
will be back
walking around on the house
with their hammers,
and it seems people should not build houses
anymore,
it seems people should not get married
anymore,
it seems people should stop working
and sit in small rooms
on 2nd floors
under electric lights without shades;
it seems there is a lot to forget
and a lot not to do,
and in drugstores, markets, bars,
the people are tired, they do not want
to move, and I stand there at night
and look through this house and the
house does not want to be built;
through its sides I can see the purple hills
and the first lights of evening,
and it is cold
and I button my coat
and I stand there looking through the house
and the cats stop and look at me
until I am embarrased
and move North up the sidewalk
where I will buy
cigarettes and beer
and return to my room.

Charles Bukowski's home DeLongpre Avenue

Charles Bukowski’s home DeLongpre Avenue

a house wreathed with cobwebs

and love letters turned to mud

behind unwashed curtains

and one last ticking clock,

creaking thunder and a rising breeze,

chance sat on the shoulders of the couple

who hand in hand

washed in rain,

where rings of secret words whispered,

blinked as if stardust clung to eyelids

afternoon fragrance of apples

from nearby orchard

ripe waiting to be picked

and placed in basket,

within those walls he saw them

bite flesh letting juice

run over lips as they embrace,

but they would share with a nest

of memories and swept away brutality,

no stars would shine inside,

and it would be clever to reside

with those ghosts without  rest

poem, poet, gothic

Wordle 129

 

sunday whirl