 I’m grateful for the sunshine, I’m grateful for the rain.
I’m grateful for the trials of life, the pleasure and the pain. I’m grateful for this little bloom, of white and yellow flower. That brightens that of winter day, longest night and darkest hour. I’m grateful for its healthy spirit, that beams through muddied lawn. That keeps on growing, through wettest morn and that of coldest dawn. I’m grateful for the buzzard call, that soars on upward flight. Despite all the mocking crows, that tempt it into fight. I’m grateful for the faithful dog, with wagging tail and ball. That comes to lighten any mood, give joy and moment stall. I’m grateful for the ever present, for the time that’s here and now. For the chirp of raven rook, song of tit and moo of cow. I’m grateful for the traffic noise, the constant buzz of car. Distracting sounds from nature’s calm, stretching thought from near to far. I’m grateful for the passage by, of the tinkle of a bell. For the blue sky up above, for heaven joined with earth and hell. I’m grateful for the peace I find, of dropping into zone. At one with which is all around, I no longer feel alone. By Simon Blackler Copyright © Simon Blackler 2020 If you care to comment on this poem at all please feel free to do so below.
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 Guided or misguided, we’re here in this space.
It is what it is. Totems and omens, aplenty in this place. It is what it is. Dead ends and roundabouts, traffic and noise. It is what it is. Litter and pollution, tin cans and toys. It is what it is. Long looks and stares, as questions abound. It is what it is. What are you doing there, eyebrows are frowned. It is what it is. Who are you to speak, to voice your concern. It is what it is. To care for the planet, with heart and discern. It is what it is. Frustration, regulation, cut back, restraint. It is what it is. Progress thwarted, travel constraint. It is what it is. A blanket of virus, knee deep in mud. It is what it is. Missed opportunities, dreams that go thud. It is what it is. Sunshine and showers, rain and rainbow. It is what it is. Strive as we do, to get back in the flow. It is what it is. Uncomfortable being, a pain in the bum. It is what it is. Praying for redemption, some hope to come. It is what it is. Magpies, golden stags, offer a lift. It is what it is. Droplets and downpours, no shelter a gift. It is what it is. Sodden prose now, ink splodged, no write. It is what it is. Still stepping forward, carrying the fight. It is what it is. A horse neighs a whinny, more sure of the end. It is what it is. We wonder what’s next, what life to be penned. It is what it is. Car horns do sound, it’s time for the off. It is what it is. Acknowledgement of self, acceptance aloft. It is what it is. By Simon Blackler Copyright © Simon Blackler 2020 If you care to comment on this poem at all please feel free to do so below. |
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August 2025
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