Poem of the Day – Bricks and Torture

Paintings now at



Bricks and Torture


Valves open: flowing feeling

Cut and bound: no sound an echo’

A breath mists the window.


Delving into the emotive dreads not spoken

A token of the past.


Gates with flowers still hours from the beginning.

Just slipping in the mud; the hills never conquered

The dreams all consuming;


Clever tricks belie the reasons

As the seasons roll on with frozen ground resisting

The tramp of feet; trying to compete with slavish meaning


All too young beneath the blanket:

Wet in rain

Hanging on bedclothes


Stinging rain beating bells

Filling buckets with holes


Digging trenches;

Plugs have broken chains

Blood stains deep red and shining.



Never mind the weather;

The waves; the clapping window panes


Keeping a cleaver at hand

To slice a soft sentence


Vacuums; times without beginning or end

A pat on the back feeling

Well done for reeling

Shovelling deep evenings

Dusk falls

And again a song is dawning.




December 30th 2017

Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright




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