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there are none so blind as those who just agree

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love, Poetry

Fill in the blanks

November 12, 2019 Mark Rozells

with the missing words

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memory, Poetry

Back words

October 7, 2019 Mark Rozells

words backwards

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Poetry

Not again

September 25, 2019September 25, 2019 Mark Rozells

sound bite

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Poetry, Politics

Nursing rhymes

September 14, 2019September 14, 2019 Mark Rozells

stand behind the yellow line

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Poetry, Politics

Sunset

September 10, 2019 Mark Rozells

egg on faces

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love, memory, Poetry

Ever

September 3, 2019September 3, 2019 Mark Rozells

ever had to lose

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memory, Poetry

Fourteen Thousand Six Hundred

September 1, 2019September 1, 2019 Mark Rozells

time after time

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Poetry

The Gift

August 29, 2019November 24, 2019 Mark Rozells

darkest before dawn

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memory, Poetry

Clean slate

August 28, 2019August 28, 2019 Mark Rozells

to restart a heart, first it has to stop.

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love, Poetry

Someplace

August 22, 2019August 23, 2019 Mark Rozells

to lose is to find.

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mind the gap please
dire straits
Ours for sale The only thing worth buying is not really for sale. Sure, you can rent a while but it all eventually goes stale. On the other hand, of ticking, you have in finite stock to use or watch trickling, no matter how secure the lock, down the drain. Bleeding out the days, months, years in pain till the moment, no doubt, it ends in quiet tears. So spend your time carelessly on fools and foolish pursuit, each flower an hour on a tree before dying to fruit. Come sell what's not ours but moments, memories and being to buy trinkets, blinkers and towers; rust and dust - unseeing.
skip generation watching my son drifting sand-soled down the coast with my mother holding his hand, her heart.
THE FURTHEST DISTANCES I’VE TRAVELLED Like many folk, when first I saddled a rucksack, feeling its weight on my back – the way my spine curved under it like a meridian – I thought: Yes. This is how to live. On the beaten track, the sherpa pass, between Krakow and Zagreb, or the Siberian white cells of scattered airports; it came clear as over a tannoy that in restlessness, in anony mity: was some kind of destiny. So whether it was the scare stories about Larium – the threats of delirium and baldness – that lead me, not to a Western Union wiring money with six words of Lithuanian, but to this post office with a handful of bills or a giro; and why, if I’m stuffing smalls hastily into a holdall, I am less likely to be catching a greyhound from Madison to Milwaukee than to be doing some overdue laundry is really beyond me. However, when, during routine evictions, I discover alien pants, cinema stubs, the throwaway comment – on a post–it – or a tiny stowaway pressed flower amid bottom drawers, I know these are my souvenirs and, from these crushed valentines, this unravelled sports sock, that the furthest distances I’ve travelled have been those between people. And what survives of holidaying briefly in their lives. © 2004, Leontia Flynn From: These Days Publisher: Jonathan Cape, London, 2004 ISBN: 0224071971
read this today in an exam paper, originally from @lunarbaboon amazing beautiful I think if I was doing the test I would stop and be a mess.

Read more of my poems here

Read more of my poems here

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  • Mark Rozells
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