Panic; ATTACK! (A concrete poem)

                                                                                               Spiralling

                                                                                                                out

                           of

                             control.

                              Reality fades

              into darkness.

 

This scary place,

Where I am,

alone.

 

 

                                                                 Alone

                                                                  with

                                                                 myself;

                                                                   The

                                                                Enemy.

     Whispers in the shadows…strangers stealing sanity…

     So dark…no air! Gasping, shaking, twitching, praying;

                                                             Please stop…

                                                                  God!

                                                            Make it stop.

                                                                There’s

                                                                    no

                                                                  more

                                                                  breath.

    Stillness.

                                                                   Am

                                                                     I

                                                                  dead

                                                                   yet?

 

 

© T. Rymer

 

 

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The Garden Gnome

The garden gnome guards the gardenias,

Stands by his post night and day.

This dutiful gnome, doing his deeds,

I wonder what he would say;

If he were to part his plastered lips.

Would he whisper to the plants?

‘Stand my ground; I’ll be back soon,

I think I’ll take a look around’.

He then patrols his base,

And screws up his cherub face,

When a cat tramples through the tulips.

Once again he parts those plastered lips,

And let’s loose a threatening ‘hiss!’.

Little gnome circles the bird-bath,

And debates whether wise,

To scale the ornament and shower in disguise,

As a colourful cockatoo!

He decides it’s not something he should do.

With a pleasant sigh,

the gnome returns to his stand,

Relieves the plants of their duty;

And mounts back into the land.

From here he can see, all of his country.

His plastered lips form a smile,

He thinks he may stay awhile.

© T. Rymer, 2006.

A Lullaby

Sleep tight
my little baby;
Close your little eyes,
Rest that little body;
and welcome the night.
Dream your little dreams,
as stars dance above your head,
Sleep tight
my little baby,
In your little bed.

31/07/2010 ©

Upon hearing of a friends’ wifes death

“She didn’t wake up”

“They tried to wake her but…”

“He got up early and went to work; they had to come get him before lunch”

“She was only 40 years old”

“What happened”?

“Nobody knows”.

Poor Tommy’s wife; Tommy’s sons’ mum,

went to bed and now she’s gone.

(Was she dead while he put his socks on)?

Was she still warm when he kissed her goodbye?

(One final unknowing goodbye).

Did her soul leave her body as her husband left for work?

All these questions; these feelings, fill my heart and head;

and the most curious question – (along with a feeling of dread);

is when will I

wake up dead?

18/01/2008 ©

Strangers

Strangers are the strangest friends
that you could ever meet.
There’s the woman who serves you
at the corner store;
(the one who calls you ‘sweet’);
And the “smoking dude”
in the little black car
that zooms up and down your street.
Strangers meet strangers,
everyday, and in some little way, relate.
A nod, a wave, a polite conversation;
turns a strangers foreign face,
into a familiar formation.
Strangers are the strangest friends
that we will ever keep.

T.Rymer ©

Writer’s Rage

Thousands of pages
on the floor,
Half torn;
Some screwed, all thrown
away in scorn.
Thousands of pages
on the floor,
Scattered like felt-tip pen foetuses,
born from my brain,
I want them no-more.
Thousands of pages
on the floor,
I wonder if you
should be the lucky one?

17/07/2007 ©