A fresh day But winter remains Still I mourn
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Lay me down Wrap me tightly and constrict my movement. Not so much that I cannot breath but as close as possible to that point of no return that at times it seems there is little difference. Is this comfort? Present me with Gold that I have no hands free to spend or Frankincense . . . → Read More: Myrrh For Gayle and Reuben Wife and son are away for the day And I am left alone to play. “Alone to play,” I hear you cry! “Alone to play,” you hear me sigh. Peter Ould 14th November 2009 . . . → Read More: Domestic Singularity – A Love Poem By Scott Cairns Your petitions—though they continue to bear just the one signature—have been duly recorded. Your anxieties—despite their constant, relatively narrow scope and inadvertent entertainment value—nonetheless serve to bring your person vividly to mind. Your repentance—all but obscured beneath a burgeoning, yellow fog of frankly more conspicuous resentment—is sufficient. Your intermittent concern for the . . . → Read More: Possible Answers to Prayer Even though we sit slightly a Part of us Is connected Despite the closeness Exceptions can be made Releasing us from the need (Must?); The honour we show in being Inactive till our skin we choose to Share Peter Ould 25th August 2004 . . . → Read More: Touch Rediscovered this poem of three years ago You asked a statement I replied a difference and so you wonder what my problem is; now you just glare into the mirror that you can’t bare to see Peter Ould 20th January 2005  |
 Aber mit der Heimat
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