This post concerns itself with imagination and a touch of nostalgia.  Our imagination shines with a glittering intensity during early childhood, no doubt about it. I am regularly watching my granddaughter delve into her strong imaginary world. It is wonderful to watch her create worlds and characters with much delight. When I was a small child, I recall relishing the thought of being able to fly like a bird, glide like a butterfly and soar above the ground. I imagined being invisible. I envied those creatures who could walk across the ceiling in the manner of a housefly, a gecko, or a spider.  I was in awe of their ability to stick to walk up walls and stick to the ceiling.  I would sometimes lie on my back and imagine walking across the ceiling. So, this poem, 'A Flight Of Fancy' is a salute to those far off days of vivid imagination and all the rich thoughts swelling around that time in my life. What were your weird and wonderful imaginings as a child? Do you recall some of

  This poem took exactly a year to write! Well, let me explain. I started writing it in the month of August and was having trouble finding a suitable ending, so I put into a folder of unfinished poetry pieces. Almost a year to the day, I stumbled across it again and immediately knew the words I wanted to use. The problem had resolved itself. It serves as a clear example of why writers need to distance themselves from their writing occasionally. A little distance provides a clearer appreciation of the words. Sometimes it's good to let your words marinate a little. Maybe not a whole year, though! Sneaker Look Discarded sneakers Scuffed and mangled Laces frayed Twisted Tangled Both lay rejected by the door They’ll not see action any more No more housing smelly socks Running Leaping Scrambling rocks The sole is smooth Colour faded Worn out, torn out Dejected Jaded And worst of all On each sad shoe Is a giant hole Where a toe pokes through Their value has at last diminished Sad to say T

As poets, we take pride in our capacity for close and considered observation. It is a skill we must consciously practice and hone. The senses must also be alert and alive when we venture into our worlds. We do get better with regular practice. All this is tied up in the idea of living life twice, where one experiences a moment, an experience, or an event, and then relives it through writing. The following poem owes its origins to my regular practice of morning walks. An everyday experience that delivered me words I could not deny... Reflections On A Brisk Morning Walk My brisk morning walk Came with some minor revelations Not life changing, Nor, earth-shattering, Merely noteworthy. There was a singular encounter with a lone jogger A woman, small in stature Who passed with a laboured gait And a strained face Reminiscent of a failed  bowel movement. Two young women  Passed by jauntily Resplendent in active wear And incongruously vaping smoke signals -to track their location,  perhaps. Th