beat me at the 4a.m read

i see a page that gives
words once as progeny
becoming blue scented nothing,
perched over it
in a damp saffron autumn
umbrella a discreet protection,
i had bathed in those dreams
yearning to be magellan
seeking
beyond the evil trolls,
petals in the forest
delicate uncut,
giving kisses on the souls
which resonate to those who are dead,
strawberry meadows
by the river
tiny seeded red,
dont go asleep
or you will miss
the elephants post themselves
about the pillar,
returning the hopeless
as is the passionate,
consuming beyond sainthood and glory,
arriving back
to a turned page
with fingers that have ancient tremors

home

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

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Miguel de Unamuno – My Vulture / Mi Buitre

This ravenous vulture grim scowl
that devours me the fiery bowels
and my only constant companion
till my pain with his hooked beak.
The day we touch the last sip
I rush my black blood, I want
it leave me with him alone and landmark
a moment, no one as hindrance.
Well I want to win, doing my agony
as he my last stripping swallows
surprise in his eyes somber
look to see the fate that threatens
without this dam as satisfying
the terrible hunger that never goes out .

and in Spanish

Este buitre voraz de ceño torvo
que me devora las entrañas fiero
y es mi único constante compañero
labra mis penas con su pico corvo.
El día en que le toque el postrer sorbo
apurar de mi negra sangre, quiero
que me dejéis con él solo y señero
un momento, sin nadie como estorbo.
Pues quiero, triunfo haciendo mi agonía
mientras él mi último despojo traga,
sorprender en sus ojos la sombría
mirada al ver la suerte que le amaga
sin esta presa en que satisfacía
el hambre atroz que nunca se le apaga.

the defining spark

those roots grab you back

coffin laden on barley

lifted on the wind,

your voice  i heard once

as cars exploded on the streets

and police batons fell,

i grew listening to you

embracing my heritage

not strangers to a landscape,

scattered  with grass seed

upon heavy peat bogs,

alone with your pages

paper yellowing in the sun

i got to know what

rhythm made the music inside

and caught magical light,

you where a viking

a warrior of words

forged by the great anvil,

i still read you

as many do

your place is deeper

than sinew and bone

you are a molecule

of a fresh soul

coming to a brighter

day

poet, ireland, seamus heany, nobel prize

Seamus Heaney
1939-2013

life and all inbetween

knotted wings of crows

with scarce strength

rise into rain,

below vegetation

burnished by fall

listens to the calls,

damp rooted trees

in eroded soil

cover to our

consummation,

revisited after twenty

years,

as one we move

our lives wove a story,

origin in these fields

birth from these fields

as cells would watch

these fields and woodland,

a last exhalation,

we would not return

an act of memory

physical and intricate

framed in the cortex

for tomorrow

119

 

Sunday Whirl, poems

Sunday Whirl 119