Be.

Berkelium  a transuranic radioactive chemical element – atomic number 97

Be whatever you want to be

Beginning or be ending

Be dazzled or bejazzled

Be beautiful be belonging

Befitting or befuddled

Beryllium if you’re only four

Betrothed and then be married

Beatitude with an attitude

Beekeeper or be kepter

Belicose and berserk

Berkelium if you’re 97 or

Beccafico if you’re a bird

Be Berberine if that’s your salt

or bengaline if you’re cloth

Bestriding or bestraggling

Beshrouding all the others

Just

DON’T

Be Bewitched.

©joseph r mason 2020

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All Hallows Eve.

© Shutterstock – True Touch Lifestyle

October ends with Halloween

A pointless celebration.

For ghosts and ghouls do not exist

‘cept in imagination.

All Hallows Eve, its proper name

The night before all saint’s day.

To celebrate the saints of old

And I would just like to say.

Halloween is just not us,

Imported from the States.

And of the many things that come our way,

It’s not one of the greats.

So you can keep your Halloween,

Your pumpkins, trick or treat.

Frightening the old and frail,

That live along our street.

We can’t abide your Halloween,

and we don’t want it here.

It’s not the ghosts who frighten me

It’s God the one I fear.

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https://josephmasonauthor.com/about/

Super Powers!

This little missive in no way reflects me or anything about me. I am sure it will resonate with many people, but not me, I have absolutely no concept of low self esteem, depression or anxiety. I am the happiest person I know and the happiest you will ever know. I am my own self appreciation society. So, please no messages of support. No DM me babes, no “wanna talk?” This is not a cry for help, it’s just a poem.

I have a super power,

Hindsight.

I have another too,

Self loathing.

I hate myself with every fibre.

I have another super power.

Failure.

I have another too,

Regret.

It applies to my every action.

The super power I really want?

Foresight.

With it, I could change my every action.

Then life would be so different.

No DM me babes.

Or call if you wanna talk.

No regrets.

No self loathing,

Success instead of fail.

But it ain’t gonner happen.

So this is my goodbye.

Not goodbye friends.

I have none.

Just goodbye world.

I’m gone.

©joseph r mason 2020

Photo by Inzmam Khan on Pexels.com

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FORGIVENESS — A HEART MATTER

A short reflection….

Forgiveness is a work of the heart — first, foremost, and forever.

Beginning in the heart, forgiveness reflects a decision made on the inside to refuse to live in the past. This is critical. You can’t move forward if you are still holding on to the past. It would be like looking at something on one side of the room and, without turning your head, trying to see something on the other side of the room.

In dealing with people, you may have heard someone say, “I just can’t get over it” or “I can’t let it go.” These people have not forgiven. The old adage is true: You don’t hold a grudge as much as a grudge holds you. Booker T. Washington gave voice to a profound insight: “Holding a grudge doesn’t hurt the person against whom the grudge is held; it hurts the one who holds it.” He also said, “I will permit no man to narrow and degrade my soul by making me hate him.”

Forgiveness is letting go of the past and releasing the people who hurt us. Archbishop Desmond Tutu declared, “Without forgiveness, there is no future.”

Forgiveness does not deny the pain or change the past, but it does break the cycle of bitterness that binds us to the wounds of yesterday. Forgiveness allows us to let go and move on.

Forgiveness is like salvation — it is a gift that is freely given; it cannot be earned. We can forgive without saying, “I forgive you,” because forgiveness is a matter of the heart.

Not forgiving costs your heart. In time your heart will become cold, dark, and lifeless. The grudge you hold holds you in the end, petrifying your heart.


Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. Colossians 3:13

Miss Tickle

As Monty Python used to say, and now for something completely different. This is not my normal style, most of the poems you will find on my page are quite serious, some spiritual, some dark, some, according to my friend Laurence, just weird. (I’m mentioning Laurence just to see if he actually reads this stuff like he claims.) But, as a children’s author, I put this little poem in just for fun.

©Mr. Men belongs to Renegade Animations, Cartoon Network, Sanrio and the Hargreaves. Drawing by Izaylin Arias.

Of all the Mr Men chaps, and all the lasses too.

The one my grand-kids love the best will be no surprise to you.

They all love Mr Funny, they all like Mr Bump

They laugh at Mr Messy, he reminds them all of Grump.

But the one they always want to read, and you may think them fickle

Is the one that makes them laugh the most

And that will be Miss Tickle.

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The Potters Wheel.

A Poem for National Poetry Day 2020 on October 1st.

The potter sits at his spinning wheel

hands slippery with water and clay.

Thumbs dig deep as his fingers feel

a bowl curling up on the way.

It pleases him to see its form,

with its wafer thin shape at the edge,

it’s everyday life, to him it’s the norm,

a finished and fine featheredge.

A slip of the hand, the work is a ruin

returned to a pottage of clay.

Fear not, he thinks, I know what I’m doing,

there’s plenty more time in the day.

The clay, is it just like a person?

Fragile and easily damaged?

Ruined by one stupid action,

left as a wreck if mismanaged.

But that’s not the end of the story,

like clay, we can all be reformed.

Remoulded, rejiggered more finely

I know, I’m reliably informed.

It says so quite plain in the bible

Jeremiah, in chapter eighteen

When broken and down we are liable

Be made best that we’ve ever been.

©joseph r mason 2020

Photo by Gustavo Fring on Pexels.com

At the Potter’s House

18 This is the word that came to Jeremiah from the Lord: “Go down to the potter’s house, and there I will give you my message.” So I went down to the potter’s house, and I saw him working at the wheel.But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him.

Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.®

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Look to your own future…

Photo by Oleg Magni on Pexels.com

A crystal ball? An amazing tool,

it can be believed by any fool.

Makes up the future, the now and past,

and it can not tell you how long you’ll last.

It can only tell you that now you live,

that you’re here now, that you believe

that there may be a future too.

One day you’ll die, now that bit’s true.

Apart from that, the future’s yours,

You have to make your own encores.

Divining the future is just a lie,

the only truth is, one day you’ll die.

So don’t believe in tarot readings,

crystal balls and new beginnings,

Believe in you, what you’ll achieve,

Not fairy tales you don’t believe.

A crystal ball’s just a piece of glass

On a piece of wood and a ring of brass

It has no power to call its’ own.

No one’s future has it ever shown.

©joseph r mason 2020

In response to Eugenia’s weekly prompt:

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The Sky Below.

This style of poetry is quite avant garde to me and not my usual style, here using single word lines, giving space to the writing in keeping with the theme, centre aligned text as a nod to the shape of the Milky Way. So it is an art form as well as a poem. An installation of prose on paper, rather than separate entities, they are part of a spectrum of communication using words and form.

Photo The Milky Way by Sam Kolder on Pexels.com

Night-time.

New-moon.

Cloudless.

Without wind,

The lake.

Motionless, tranquil, silent.

No fish break the surface.

Dragonflies sleep.

Water-boatmen hide in reeds.

Look deep into the water.

Observe.

Look again.

The Milky Way,

There

Lying on the bed of the lake.

Look up.

It’s there.

The cosmos spread across the sky.

Look down,

there.

Still.

Resting on the lake.

© joseph r mason 2020

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Autumnal tones and winter.

Photo by Ian Beckley on Pexels.com

Joseph’s coat of many colours,

looks pale beside the autumn leaves.

Summers days all clad in green,

so mundane ‘gainst late year eves.

Golden hues from beige to crimson,

crisp and fresh on dew soaked grounds.

Carried on late summer breezes,

blocking byways, forming mounds.

Autumn, fall, what e’er you call it,

its beauty shown at every turn.

It harkens winter’s frosts and snowfall,

when naked trees begin nocturn.

August followed by September,

and October then begins.

With icy hands and frosty bowers,

autumn fruits and huge pumpkins.

So each year comes and each year goes,

as we think back and remember.

That life is just a splendid time,

as autumn leaves September.

©joseph r mason 2020

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