A Sunday Afternoon in March

My dear and lovely friend Jacqueline, who happens to be a follower of this blog, indeed was my first follower, is helping me edit some of my poems ready for publishing.  I've decided my Golden Year will be celebrated by me getting a book of poetry together.  I'm so grateful for her precise and clearsighted expertise, her ability to correct my somewhat slapdash punctuation and her belief in my writing.

Perspectives, and other views of the Bridge

There comes a point when you have no idea if what you write is good or bad.

I strongly suspect this is awful, but I quite like it anyway.  In my mind it's never been about the First World War.  Or me.

What do you think?

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

How does it feel
To know that you have failed?
When decent men are asked
To form a queue,
Your name will not be called.
Men who know what trust,
Respect, faithfulness and reliability
Really mean.
They stand there quietly chatting
In skins that fit them,
Lives that are not perfect,
May not be easy,
But are lived with dignity and strength.

And so you watch from the side
As this throng of grown ups walk
Through that gate and out of sight.
And you turn away.

Do you know what you have missed?
Or has something shiny caught your eye,
Distracted you again,
And you cannot see
What lies beyond the gate.

Day and Night, Night and Day

I've been a bit stuck recently, with regards to writing.  I'm not sure why this is, but I think I need to try and push on through and see if I can find any way of illuminating this problem.

Is it a problem?  Should having to write be regarded as a healthy thing, or an odd obsession?  My trouble is that rather than just writing for the sake of it, it would appear I now have an audience.  Maybe it's performance anxiety.  I've developed a style, you've developed expectations.  But am I the person of these posts, or was that just a transitory phase in my development and recovery, and the person you have come to read about doesn't exist now.