Photography

Markets

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poems on the internet

Markets
Down in the market where life runs free,
Where daily stories are shared,
And there is lots of stuff to see.

Exotic looking fruits to smell and to try,
Stacked high on rough work-man’s tables,
Laid out under a clear blue mountain sky.

Men with packed trolleys weave and bob,
Their job not done ‘tll all are sold,
Locals mingle with tourists, quite a mob.

Dogs bark, kids lark and jokes are told,
All humanity is here in shared pursuits,
Drink your beer while its still cold.

© David R. Durham
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Fireworks

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Abstract_WM

Fireworks
All the fireworks sparkled and crackled,
And the neon lights rippled and shone,
As people sauntered, shopped and surveyed,
Some walked hand in hand.

All their frowns and their glowing smiles,
And their hopes and unquiet desires,
As their animated chatter splashed and gurgled,
Some felt alive as seldom before.

All gifts wrapped with their sweetest words,
And gifts chosen with their fullest of hearts,
As diligently bought as happily shared,
Some gifts won as cherished prizes.

All relishing their mythic journey,
And they loved here and they failed there,
As children they cherished and charmed,
Some bewitched by the soothing embrace of time.

© David R. Durham
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JabberJabber

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poetry

Jabber Jabber
Welcome to the world of the monkey mind,
Which never stops jabbering ’till the end of time,
The news man jabbers and the DJ jabbers and jabbers and jabbers.

Love talks, money talks, pep talks, ain’t it time we had a talk,
The lyrics are sweet, the lyrics are sad,
The lyrics remind us of good times we once had.

Even in our silent moments our mind jabbers on, and on, and on,
All night in our sleep our dreams jabber on and on,
As we jabber on down to the end of our time.

© David R. Durham
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Attachments

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HK Sculpture WM

Attachment
Navigating life’s unfolding flow,
Caught up in happy gifts of memories,
Weighed down by past regret and sadness,
Sweet sticky, foulest sticky moments,
Bold hope now races ahead childlike,
Merciless fear dogs our sleepless night terrors,
All happening where? Happening to who?

© David R. Durham
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Wheat Fields

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JumpingGirl_WM
 
Wheat Fields
Wind rolls through ripened wheat fields,
Weaving and flowing, natural dance,
Children’s shouts echo as they run, run
And play, dogs barking at startled
Wild rabbits running for new cover,
Red combine harvesters revving,
Warm summer’s fragrance fills the air,
Dust gathers round the first clean cuts,
Blades biting and biting the ripe tall stalks,
Earth’s bounty threshed, wheat from chaff.

© David R. Durham
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Labels

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poems
 
Labels
What would we do without labels?
A label for this, a label for that;

Ah yes, now I know you, here’s your label,
Friend, co-worker, awkward git, good sense of humour;

And how would we shop without labels?
Oh yes, I must have this one, but definitely not that one;

Could our health system function without labels?
Mmmmm, you’re suffering from X, with maybe a touch of Y;

Does knowing lots of labels for things make us more intelligent?
Think educational systems, quiz shows, puzzles galore;

And what if we run out of mental space for our labels?
They must take up huge amounts of mental real estate;

Do our labels stop us from looking any further and so semi-blind us?
Maybe we rely on them too much;

Can you sum up a life, a person, an experience with a label?
Maybe there is a label for that problem too.

© David R. Durham
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The Angry Men

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poetry
 

The Angry Men
The angry men swarmed across the Earth,
Cawing with their fractious voices,
Driven by their untamed hearts,
Lustful in their greedy nature,
Filled with perfidious self-doubts,
Friends with fulsome fear.

The angry men ignore Earth’s grace,
Sucking the lands dry,
Seizing their false birthright,
Wealth their unholy credo,
Filled with well disguised grief,
Friends with blood-sucking despair.

The angry men born of pained birth,
Slapped with welcoming rough hand,
Conceived in a fit of poisoned rage,
Inherited complicit guilt,
Filled with dark pools of sadness,
Friends with midnight terror.

© David R. Durham
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The Offering

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poetry

The Offering
Sacred invocations gently calling,
Sculpted ebony hands, clasped prayer like,
Tribal keepers of lore, wisdom and love.

Voices awash with ancient memories,
Earth pulse, effortless dancing, raptured chants,
Forgotten time, forgotten self, home again.

Love woven hearts in blissful surrender,
Earthy fragrant aroma melts their minds,
Naught but this, naught but complete release now.

© David R. Durham
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Old Photos

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poetry

Old Photo’s
Bending to tie my shoes, seems a little
Harder this year, I sit, baggy trousered,
Caressing the old blue photo album,
Embossing slightly worn, occasional
Pages are a little loose now. Opened;
Love lost remembered, discovered
Between stuck-together pages, brushing
The grey stubble on my chin, grinning, my head,
Bow’d slightly, silently reminiscing.
Bairns now grown, girls now grans, adults long dead.

The dented kettle boils, its’ aged long
Blackened spout pouting wisps of warm mist.
“Come on, time for tea.” She used to call us,
In that everyday voice, that home-spun warm tone,
Voices from a childhood world we did not
Realise would end so soon. Done play’n, done work’n,
We noisily brought our mess in, our human stain,
Generation upon generation.
Skilled in hand, passionate in deep breath,
Long tribal memories not passed on,
No secret diaries or home-crafted poems,
Just a few edge-discoloured photos
Of familiar, half-familiar faces.

Ah now, which cup? Funny how tea seems to
Taste better in the old cracked one,
Stained brown patterns, worn timeless with age.
Lived in, doubted in and dreamed in.
The old kettle rattles to a grudging
Halt, satisfied. A homely job well done.
A satisfied human life well lived,
A few cracks here and there, well worn with age,
Lived in, loved in and dreamed in.

© David R. Durham
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A Created Life

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boat photo

Mind Games
Pealing apart the layers of our mind,
Glued together with words, stitched by time,
It unfolds unevenly, breaking up on
Reflections of what probably happened,
Quivering at heart felt dreams of what might
Have played out, had no winter arrived.

© David R. Durham
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Memories In Stone

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poetry

Memories In Stone
Can memories turn to stone? Can the breath
Of life leave enduring traces, skeletons
In time, long past the memory of living
Men? Pulsating, vibrant mind, captured in
More than flesh and blood of flowering brain.

© David R. Durham
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Dancing Through Each Day

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Tree Tops WaterMark

Dancing Through Each Day
It hit me one Autumn morning;
As I shuddered to a halt.

All future plans went up in smoke;
And my past became just vague memories.

My mental Juggernaut ran out of gas;
Is this what death feels like I wondered.

For those whose time is up;
A terminal condition diagnosed and delivered.

No pretty words to save us;
In fact, no words at all.

Yet, all was calm, all is calm.
No panic, no breakdown.

Just a reminder of what is real;
And who I am not.

A still-point in a moving world;
A silent pause in a long line of chatter.

An alignment in time and space;
When all cycles cancel each other out.

The rhythms pick up;
Whose rhythms I’m not sure.

Rhythms of cells, of souls, of universes;
Dynamic as if by Grace.

New rhythmic cycles begin to unfold;
Dancing through each day.

© David R. Durham
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Tribal Roots

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poetry

Tribal Roots
Tickle the time when your dreams can come true,
Leave behind old scores unsettled, magnify
Your hopes and twist the reality we call fate.

Lie merchants breath life into old bones dangling,
In the soft comfortable chair paused in time,
Channel after channel of dreamers delight.

Seldom have we marched to one drum beat,
Seldom have we sung one anthem so loud,
Tribal roots calling, calling us back home.

Shuffle softly to the head of the queue,
Where dark dim archways beckon us away from
The cold, caves of welcome invite us in.

© David R. Durham
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O’ Bag a Bones

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dead bird

O’ Bag a Bones

O’ bag a bones does thou lie t’ me? Now
I recognise thee on waking, thee I
Know, Does’t thou recognise waking me?

O’ bag a bones thy life so fancy, thy story
Well told, again and again thy rymes unfold, each
Passing second, each fanciful hour thy
Tale weaves another carefully wrought thread of life.

O’ bag a bones thy feels so old, a story
Long in the tellin’, a stop start yarn, a
Dream come true in eaten moments, thy’s not
Me lad, thy’s not me, but who are thee in
Striding rhymic gait and in winceful smile.

O’ bag a bones thy story stinks. Thy thinks folk
Like thee, thy thinks folk ignore thee, nay lad,
Thy thinks too much. Thy’s imagining it lad.

O’ bag a bones lay down thy heavy burden,
Stop thy dreaming, thy imagined fanciful
Life. Thy’s story tellin’ from morn’ ’til night, in
Pain and pleasure, wi’ boredom and fear, in
Well rehearsed lustful hardship.

O’ bag a bones thy day is through, thy end
Is restful night, dark night, lost again to sleep,
Lost again to hope of what new day might bring,
O’ bag a bones am I thy lie of me?

© David R. Durham
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Sleepy Head

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poems

Sleep
Sleep, sleep and rest your time filled head, rest
Easy in your time liberated dreams. Dance, dance,
Flow with the rhythm of life’s dream-time, before
Simple me arises again with the morning sun.

© David R. Durham
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Entrances & Exits

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poetry

Tell me Mr. Doorman, what shall I pay you
To keep the world at bay? The other world,
That other place, you know which one I mean.

Tell me Mr. Gatekeeper, what fee must
I pay to let me pass this way? A long
Forbidden path, you know the one I mean.

© David R. Durham
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Time

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poems

Time

Has no edges, stacked, unstacked, leave behind,
Now moving ahead, we flow
unconsciously.
No way to change direction, we imagine other
Paths, dream in vain of other happier times.

Onward tumbling we go, no rest or pause,
A parachutist’s committed descent, body
And soul, until
Death adds a final full-stop,
Untwined once more, tiny yet vast,
remember.

© David R. Durham
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Big Blue Yonder

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poems

Big Blue Yonder

You hope to meet me in a distant heavenly tomorrow;
A kettle starts to boil.

You catch a glimpse of my face in the moon and stars;
Letters drop through the door.

You call for me in your darkest, loneliest hours;
My shirt it smells fresh, newly washed.

You find brief respite in the words of great teachers;
A cough reminds me to buy some more vitamins.

Your holy mantras sing of love and longing;
The noise of children playing disturbs my restless thoughts.

You search in vain for me on the mountain tops;
When all the time I am here, here in the your valleys and homes.

Eternally present in your heart of hearts.

© David R. Durham
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Cafe Style

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poetry

Cafe Style
Blind rules didn’t necessarily
Mean too much to him, he skiffled
And shuffled up and down the stairs.

His rough worn manual labour hands,
Are gripping, floating, rubbing, flirting
With polished grained wooden rail.

He seldom looked down, his sure
Falling feet finding their usual
Well rehearsed home trodden place.

© David R. Durham
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The Journey

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london bridge b&w

The journey begins, upsidedown
Weather, foul beeze wrapping round me
Solid thighs. Horn calls clatter
Of’d starboard bow, caught in taught
Fever of blue cold mornin’ rush-hour.

© David R. Durham
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Leaves & Snow

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poetry

Circumscribed by her warm smile,
Feelings of comfort, memories of
Home flutter, falling falling with
Winters’ white grace.

© David R. Durham
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Winter Reeds

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poems

The Words Come Softly

The words come softly;
At the break of the day.

The words come softly;
And speak of fears they want to slay.

The words come softly;
Union is forever they say.

The words come softly;
Who’s words, who’s thoughts come today?

The words come softly;
When Spirit comes our way.

The words come softly;
For those who chose to listen.

© David R. Durham
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Slumbering Memories

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trees in silouhette
 

Slumbering giants soft reverie mellows
In winter’s slanting rays, whispers whispers
Of spring’s future unfolding green pleasures.

 

© David R. Durham
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Rural Simplicity

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poetry

Rural Simplicity
The natural order rests in rural peace,
There is no strain no forced modern pace.
 
 
© David R. Durham
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