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When the morning light hit my face,
and I slowly began to open my eyes;
when I got out of bed,
and I looked in the mirror,
I immediately flashed back to the night before,
and the face I saw and the memory of the look in my eye
that I cannot erase-
the one that said, and always says to me: embrace life,
and let the constant adventure that you are on
take you far and take you high.

At the end of the day,
when the sun has set and it is officially night,
people change like the colour of the sky changes
from blue to black-
the choices you make, the things you do,
what you intake, what you say and listen to,
are different than at any other time of the day,
and people can act like a completely different person
when they can let their hair down,
and drop their guard,
and let their intoxicated instincts guide them
to varying expressions of their own colourful inner-light.

Some people don’t remember hardly anything
after a long night that turns into a morning of crawling;
some people can drink a lot and remember everything;
some people when they drink cannot stop talking;
some people when they are inebriated dance, laugh,
take off their clothes,
sometimes they wrap their arms around everyone,
and when they hear a great song being played
they let their voice be heard loud
and they sing like The King.

A night on the town;
an experience of visiting and going
to many different venues, places, clubs, and bars;
a night of laughs, music,
and pictures of friends enjoying themselves
and acting like clowns,
are great to remember and remind yourself of,
as long as at the end of the night
you don’t end up somewhere where you didn’t really want to be-
like in the back of a police car.

All good things must come to an end,
and so must a long, but great, and fun night;
flashes of what happened and what was said
rise to the surface of your consciousness
and can fill you with both regret and relief;
every night is short, every night is different, every night is brief-
however, every night counts,
and as the sun rises and the dark becomes the light and bright,
just remember that somewhere, at all times of the day on Earth,
and constantly in space, we, like the world we live on,
are constantly turning, spinning, and existing,
in a perpetual night.

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Memories and thoughts,
voices and echoes,
strangers and shadows;
what is going to happen next no one really knows,
what will happen all depends on where
and in which direction you want to go.
You can be just standing in the sun
when a face from the past will stop you
and say hello to you,
and say also ‘remember me’;
you can be lost in thought enjoying the sunshine
when something amazing and out of the ordinary
might happen and take you away to where you were going
and where you need to be.

It is amazing how many people you remember meeting,
and how many people remember meeting you;
it is the best thing ever when you run into someone
you didn’t think you would ever see again,
and you just start talking like no time has passed
between you seeing each other,
and it all just comes unexpectedly and out of the blue.

When I shake someone’s hand and I say goodbye to them,
I always think that that will be the last time
that I will see them in the light of the day again;
when I say goodbye it always feels like forever;
however, time and again, I am reminded that nothing is final,
and that life is sometimes as predictable as the weather.

There is nothing like seeing surprise in someone’s eyes;
there is nothing that feels like perfection than a connection;
there is nothing that is sweeter than a hopeful dreamer;
there is nothing more inspiring and invigorating
than the stories of a true dreamer, adventurer, traveler, story-teller.

When you leave your home, and you roam;
when you see things without having to look;
when you literally get a feeling in your bones;
when you know that something is meant for you,
and meant to happen to you,
and is more than just good luck;
when someone does something for you
and they do it with no expectation of anything in return,
especially if genuine compassion and generosity
doesn’t happen to you that often,
then you will see and believe that something, or someone,
once seen will never and can never be forgotten.

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A song sung for someone;
a poem written for
and because of someone who inspires you;
a picture created so that someone’s light can be shone;
a photo in your mind,
or a memory that you can hold in your hand
that immortalizes a person, a time, a moment,
and a forever place of heaven on Earth
that will always be a part of you.

As raindrops fall on the sand,
as the sea swells and the waves rise,
as the wind blows and you fully extend the fingers of your hands,
as the seagulls squawk and fly,
as the memories flood back,
all around me becomes an ocean that I am happily
and contently under the surface of
that is an energy and a light
that no matter how far I go or how deep I descend
will never go out and go to black.

Names ingrained in Oak trees;
words like ‘I love you’ engraved in gold
and worn close to someone’s heart;
song-lyrics and meaning left for someone to find
and re-read and listen to again-
a beautiful verse of immortalized poetry,
an embodiment of quintessential perfection;
like a unique birthmark;
like a message written in wet concrete;
like the layers of life that build up over time;
like a person that instantly touches our soul
from the moment that we meet;
like the steps that you take as you climb-
every touch, every word, every footprint, every indentation,
is a piece of natural sculpture
and like nothing else that has come before
or could ever come after;
like the colour and shine of someone’s eyes.
Things of importance endure;
people live forever;
every heartbeat leaves an echo and a wave;
everyone returns-
no one truly dies once they have been immortalized.

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It’s always strange looking back at old photographs
of yourself for some reason,
we sometimes feel more comfortable looking at picture of others-
it’s a weird moment of reflection that occurs,
and a wave of deep introspection that engulfs you
and helps to resurface memories and emotions
you have felt which are closely associated
with unforgettable thoughts that you had
and lived every second of that you dream about sometimes
when you are under the covers.

Looking at old photos, reading back old diary entries,
experiences, and memories, that you recorded,
but forgot about-
looking and finding a piece of your past
always reminds you, and always reminds me,
instantly of where I was, who I was, what I was thinking,
and what life was showing me and guiding me to
with its many sign-posts;
reading a note that we once wrote,
and which ended up being left intact for us to find again one day,
now and forever reminds me again and again
that things happen for a reason and are meant to happen
beyond any doubt.

I have been to many places,
and I love to go back to these same places on a different day,
at a different time, with a clutch of new colours
to my life and me in-toe.
Every day, everyone, and every place is different-
even though they and we may look and feel the same,
everything and everyone changes,
life in fact dictates this for its and our own survival,
and that is the best way to think
and the best way to go.

I look back often, because memories are important to me-
as are the people that I have met, all and every one.
I take pictures of lots of things, and self-portraits of myself
everyday to record and make a moment and a memory last
for as long as it can.
I look forward, and I look around me, every day at
the people in my life, and who I see every day with my cyan-coloured eyes.
I write and capture as much as I can.
I am inspired, and I share every hello that makes me smile,
and every goodbye that makes me cry.

There are things that happen to us that are incredibly
and intensely personal, and they should be kept
and they should stay that way-
but I do believe that there are a great many things
that happen to all of us that must be shared,
because they too can light-up the life
and brighten the face of someone else and make their day.

The world can seem like a smaller place now,
because we can share any-thing and every-thing
with literally millions of people simultaneously
all around the world in an instant;
the world feels more interconnected,
and our lives have become more interlaced,
and sewn-together like a patch-work quilt.
Ever since I was a child I have always felt
someone’s presence before I saw them,
and ever since I went to school, and I started meeting
new kids and I started making friends,
I instantly realized the importance and the power,
the brilliance and the magic, of strangers,
friends, and unique once in a life-time memories.

Life begins, and passes you by in a flash
that can seem, when you look back,
to have all happened in the fraction of a second.
There is more that happens to us than we realize,
and there is more to see than could ever be seen,
by you and by me,
but I just enjoy and live every second
as if each and every one was my last on Earth,
and I love the gift of life and living free
so much that I have to write when I can
about the poetry in my heart, and all around us-
when I sit down and share with as many people as I can
the exposure of the world that I see
in my poetography.

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A picture to remember us by,
a photo to look back on
and relive the happy memory
of a shared experience and a shared time;
a shell from the beach where two people used to walk
hand in hand and barefoot in the soft wet sand;
a ticket stub from a trip to the cinema you took with someone
to see a great film late at night;
an old receipt from your favourite restaurant,
a birthday card, a letter, a message-
a tangible memento that you can still feel
and still remember when and where and why and with whom
this meaningful and special thing to you
became a memento to you, and became so important to you
because of its connection with that someone that effected you
and always will, or because it just reminds you of the days
when you and your life were in their prime,
and everything felt perfect and right.

When times get bad,
when the waves of the sea of reality get rough,
when instead of looking forward you want to look back,
when you want to appreciate something in all it’s greatness,
when you want to remember the instant when you first fell in love,
when you want to go for a walk in the park of a relationship
when things were at their best,
when you are stuck inside on a rainy,
it’s good to take out and look at things-
things that may be spread all over your house
in places where you can constantly look to and know they are there,
things you always carry around with you in your pocket,
or things that you have collected together in a scrapbook for yourself
to look at and remember-
and that is why it is so important to keep what you can,
and don’t throw everything away.

I think photo-albums are amazing;
I think keeping a diary or writing in a journal is a fantastic thing to do,
and I think it is a brilliant way to record days, events,
and recollections of moments in your life;
I think a scrapbook is the best thing to start with a child
when they are just beginning to understand why certain things
and certain times mean more to us than others,
and why certain people constantly pop-up in the memories we have
and we return to, because it teaches them early-on,
and will remind them every time and always,
why we replay and know all the lyrics to the songs we remember and sing,
and that everyone can live on, as can we, after we die.

It’s sometimes only when we are alone
and looking for some reassurance about something
that we choose to look, re-read, remember, recall,
where something in our possession originated from
and who gave it to us-
it could be a faded photo;
it could be a worn-out piece of paper
with someone’s unique handwriting on it;
a t-shirt that you refuse to wash
because it still has someone’s smell on it;
it could be a precious, special, memory,
from which there are no souvenirs, or photos,
or anything that you can ever hold in your hand,
because it was so brief, instantaneous,
and because you simply did just have to be there to understand
the true meaning of the moment-
they are the very best, and they are the incredible,
and irreplaceable, mementos.

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When I first began on the path
I was like the statue that I was standing next to;
when I first looked at what I could see before me,
I couldn’t see anything or anyone-
but at the same time I felt this draw,
I felt the edge of this wave coming towards me,
as if the path were a river,
or like the wind outside an open door;
I felt something in the cold air that took my breath away from me-
like the chill that you feel from a draft.
I knew that I either had to close the door or walk through it,
or perhaps turn back and walk away;
and then, right then, I heard you, I saw you,
I knew I had to be where you were,
but I knew you were not at the end of the path- you couldn’t be-
because that would be impossible;
but I have never believed anything is truly impossible,
and I have never, and will never, give up hope on anything or anybody ever;
and that was when all my answers came to me.

The sun was above me and behind me,
and its light guided my way and made the path shimmer and glow.
The trees that lined the path on either side
moved and jostled in unison for a second,
and as they did, for an instant, I could have sworn
that I was somewhere else, in another place, at another time-
like I was reliving a memory,
but which I didn’t recognise as being mine,
it felt like someone else’s thought,
it felt like yours-
and that was when I knew I had to walk the path.
I could see the end that awaited me,
and I knew where I had to go.

It had been raining earlier,
and there was still a slight and fine mist in the air.
As the rays of golden light from the sun
bounced off the wet ground rainbows appeared
and veiled the path in every colour of the spectrum;
and that was when I felt caught and pulled,
as if by a current, or as if the very ground beneath me
was moving by itself and taking me along with it.
Walking the path as it appeared now made me think,
feel, and experience the sensation of walking
through a hall of mirrors at a fun fare.

I heard nothing but the sound of a slight breeze through the trees,
but there was also this faint echo
that seemed to be getting loauder and stronger
the farther I walked and the closer I got to there end of the path-
the echo was a voice, your voice;
the drumming I felt was my own heart beating.
As I passed the empty black painted benches with the brown wooden seats,
I thought for a second I could see someone sitting there
looking at me, or reading, or listening to their own music-
like impressions, echoes, or shadows in the sunlight,
left and preserved forever-
like a moment of emotion and contenment captured in time,
that may fade but wont ever be forgotten
and will draw back those who made those impressions
to this spot, time and again.

As I neared the end of the path,
I felt lost and consumed by the flow of energy all around me-
and like when you swim out to sea,
I felt compelled to turn back and look at the path behind me,
and in that moment that was when I literally felt your vibration,
because that was when I saw, realized, and then read
a message from you that you had just sent me-
and in that message was a picture of your smiling face
that you wanted to share with me,
and also a text from you telling me that you love me.

I instantly replied to you with a photo of me smiling
on the path in the park and a message from me
that ‘I love you too’, and as soon as I sent you that message
there was a blinding flash of light,
and as I turned around to look at the rest of the path in front of me
I saw that the path didn’t end as near or as soon as I originally thought,
and I suddenly had this epiphany that these next few steps
in the beautiful sunlight were not my, or our, last;
and I saw that there wasn’t an end or a definitive finish line
to where I was, where I am going, so that is why I kept going,
looking, feeling, and smiling, as I continued to walk the path.

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Life is short,
and as a butterfly knows only too well,
and what the life of a butterfly teaches us all too well,
is that we are all in a constant state of metamorphosis,
change, and adaptation-
we all live a butterfly life,
and the appearance of a butterfly
and the significance of it’s meaning to me
is a sign of renewal, a fresh start, a new path,
a clean slate, a feeling of elation.

A butterfly has no control of its life,
but even as a gravity-bound caterpillar
it feels this natural drive to go forward,
to take in all that it can so as to change
who and what it is, so as to one day
use everything that it has ingested to surround it,
and evolve and regenerate and grow
and spread the gift of its wings
that have been a part of it since it was born,
and do what it has always been meant to do.
To me a butterfly is not just a sign of change;
to me a butterfly is an example of fate,
a paradigm of destiny, a beautiful epiphany.

I see a butterfly every day-
even if it is just a picture of one,
a drawing of one, a mural of one
painted on the side of a wall,
a tattoo of one, a preserved one,
a memory of one, a living and breathing one-
and every time I see one I smile,
because I know that I am being drawn to somewhere,
to something, or to someone, that will change my life in some way,
and I always follow a butterfly to where it is guiding me,
even if I have to run.

There are butterfly people in this world,
there are butterfly events that happen to us
that effect us and shape us,
make us, and resonate with us,
that are like music that vibrates through the air
and on the wind that can coalesce into one special,
beautiful, perfect moment that has the feel
and the shine of a pearl.
There is buttefly poetry being written
indelibly over all parts of the Earth
that will last forever and be interpreted
and reinterpreted, and read and rewritten
in a billion different ways.

A butterfly is as special and as precious
as the touch of an angel;
a butterfly is as magical and wonderful
as the laugh of a child;
a buttefly is a daylight reflection of nature’s beauty,
and that can be seen in the colour of it’s wings,
the way it moves, it’s instincts,
and in the way they fly.
A butterfly has one of the most important purposes
and messages that can be found anywhere, in anything,
and that is what is so amazing, special, and beautiful,
about remembering what life is all about
for everything and everybody;
and why it is important, if you can,
to think and to live the butterfly life.

I put everything into every thing;
I give all my attention to something or someone as much as I can;
I make the most out of every instance,
and I hear and I feel the significance and the difference
in any and every thing;
I believe every word, every song, every action,
every gift, every talent, every touch, every look,
has meaning to it, and that there are life-changing moments of light
and clarity that are a beacon to a new direction you are destined to take,
and not just a flash in the pan.

I am so sentimental.
I never forget a thing.
I love holding on to pieces of the past,
and remembering the actions of people
whose life was torn away from them before their time,
like a constant memorial.
I have a hard time letting go of people who meant something to me
and to this world, who gave so much every day
without a second thought to the recompense their choices would bring,
who would have given all that they could to anyone, to their last.

Everyone is searching for peace.
Everyone wants a little satisfaction once in a while.
Everyone is eager and grateful for some much needed release.
Everyone wants something in their life to make them smile.
That is why people keep so much and never throw anything away,
that is why some people cherish memories, photographs,
messages, and letters, from those who we will never see in the flesh again,
but who still live, and who you can still hear and talk to,
because of the connection that will forever be in what they shared with you-
for some it is what gets them through the hours of every day.

Don’t ever forget a thing.
Don’t ever regret a thing.
Don’t ever forget anyone who touched your heart,
made you smile, made you think, made you dream.
Don’t ever regret any thing that has happened,
because if they never happened you wouldn’t be able to ask
the question of what could have been-
and then not be able to see the amazing journey
that you took to get to where you are from where you started,
and remember all the great things than happened in between.

I never get enough of the intensity and the passion of somebody.
I never get enough of seeing the intensity of someone’s light.
I never get enough of the intensity, the love, that you feel
when you know that the well-being of others is a welcome, full-time, job
for someone, and not just something they can simply pick up
and put down like a hobby.
I never get enough of feeling the intensity of life.

I wonder how many people leave their house and home these days
every morning without a plan or a roadmap
of what they are going to do;
I wonder how many people embrace
the not knowing what is going to happen;
I wonder how many people are truly free to think,
stop talking, look, and listen;
I wonder how many people are truly able
to stay in one spot and not move.
I am lucky to be able to do just that,
I am lucky to be able to sit back and relax
with a coffee in a comfy chair, like I am doing now,
looking out, and thinking about so many things-
I know not what-
and just writing something, anything,
whatever is on my mind, and what I see-
wanting to say what I can’t say outloud.

People love to express themselves so much,
people love to talk and share more than they realize,
people can’t wait to divulge,
people can’t wait to tell someone something face to face-
it’s written all over their expressions,
and you can tell that they have been desperate to disclose
their inner thoughts and opinions,
from the twinkle that you see in their eyes.

I don’t mean to be a watcher, and an observer of other people
just going about their daily lives;
I don’t mean to be a magpie of the interesting things
that I hear people say-
the chat of friends meeting up after a long while,
the back and forth of boyfriends, girlfriends,
husbands, and wives;
but I am always fascinated and entranced
by the stories of everyone I briefly come into contact with-
while I just sit there, drink,
take out my notebook, and think;
but I don’t think people truly realize how much they give.

I do this a lot, actually.
Every week I find myself at my favourite coffee house,
and I write about what is on my mind-
what I am feeling, and I am always asking a question of myself,
as I talk at the top of my voice
in the language of poetry,
because some things, I have discovered, cannot be said
without first finding the words and the means
to say what you want to say,
without the feeling of being limited in any way, or confined.

This poem, like most of my poems,
is a memory, a time-capsule,
a black and white fraction of time,
that was a part of my day, today.
This poem, like most of my poems,
is, and was, just a musing, a burst of inspiration,
and creativity, that I wanted to share,
and write, right away.

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As I look out my bedroom window,
as I watch the wind displace the leaves
as it gusts through the branches of the trees
and makes telephone cables
and power-lines sway from side to side with every blow,
as it seems as if every leaf is now well on the way
to changing colour for the season,
I look down to the street below
and I see a little boy riding his bike
on the pavement outside my house
wearing a big coat and a bobble-hat;
and instantly I feel a wave of something come over me,
as if the winds of time were blowing in unison
with the winds of the world outside, and taking me back
to a time, to an autumn day like this one, when I was a kid-
a time when I loved to play outside with my friends,
and my sister Clare,
and play a ‘catch me if you can-type of game’ called “tag”
in which I never minded being the one who was “it”.

I used to love riding my bike;
I used to love exploring the great place where I lived;
I used to love looking out my window
on a dark, rainy night, and being in awe of the sound of thunder,
and energized by the sight of a lightning-strike;
I used to love playing hide and seek-
and I swear no one could ever find me,
nor think of the right place where I was hid.

I had a very happy childhood;
I had everything a child could ever want;
I had so much love bestowed upon me,
and I was taught so many lessons and I learned so many skills
from my Mum and Dad- from appreciating the value
of the smallest of things, and the briefest of moments,
to the importance of hard work,
and knowing the best way to cut wood.

I remember smiling a lot when I was a child,
I remember laughing, creating, watching,
constantly asking questions, and learning from everyone,
I remember times when I used to sit quietly,
I remember times when I used to run wild,
I remember having so much fun.
I remember the good times, and the bad;
I remember the people I knew and who knew me who just suddenly died,
I remember the times when I had to say goodbye.
I remember all the times when I felt so happy
I thought my heart was going to explode;
I remember the tears that came after a fall,
and the times when I didn’t know what was going on,
and I felt sad.

The world has changed.
I have slowly, but surely, grown up.
The home I have known all my life
feels like a picture that is constantly being reframed.
I am outwardly very different from the boy I was-
from my shoe-size, to my likes and dislikes,
to my hair colour, and hair cut.
Inside I am still the same-
I feel and I know that, even now.
Inside I am under no illusion in my belief
that in everything I do, and to everyone I meet, I make a difference;
I don’t always know why, in what way, or how,
but I do feel, and I have always felt,
like everything that I was doing had a purpose and meant something-
even if I was writing a story, or painting a picture,
even as a child I knew that there was so much more to be seen
than could ever be seen, and that no matter the dark clouds
that sometimes swirled around above your head
there would always be something to have hope for,
that there is always a silver-lining to everything,
and that there would one day be a great,
beautiful, and bright future.

Looking at my own reflection in the glass of my window,
as the sun shines on my face,
I look into my own eyes-
the eyes that have seen thousands of sunrises,
the eyes that have seen so much beauty, hope, and inspiration,
in their time, and which have imprinted on them images
that I will take to the grave,
of sights and faces that nothing could ever erase.
I look at my own reflection,
and I see the boy that I was,
and the joy and the hope in his eyes, in my eyes;
I look at my own reflection, and I see the man who I am,
the boy who I am always going to be,
who still lives in the place, the house, the home,
with the memories he treasures,
and will always remember and return to,
in the middle house of three, on Fair field rise.

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