This is a performance peice rather than a read poem. It should be read out loud with pauses for short reflection between each stanza. The tone and pace should echo the words and meaning... I'm dreaming of silence,not the kind that comes with snow,but the silence that follows after the shouting,after the endless noise of …
How has technology changed your job? I am retired and have been for over ten years, so technology has no effect on my work, because I don't! However, I lived through what to me seemed like an exponential change in the way things were done. As an engineer, I saw the demise of the drawing …
Who was your most influential teacher? Why? I went to school in the 1950s and 60s. Teachers then did not inspire, and they were hardly influential. The only thing that they were good at and that brought them pleasure was corporal punishment. In that, they excelled. So, no, none of my teachers at school were …
Blogette Number 1. A Blogette is a short or small blog. Today, January the 11th, I was guest poet/writer/speaker at a church 'Creative Writing Group' which meets every month on the second Saturday. I was really quite nervous about it, as they not only listen to the poems but then discuss them afterwards. I was …
Seven Sisters Cliffs, near Eastbourne. Well, that's another month done and dusted, soon be Christmas, and then, before we know it 2025. Let's not dwell on that, when you get older, the months just fly by. The years disappear, it's almost as if we are in a hurry to get it all over with. Talking …
Here in Eastbourne, we had a wonderful display of the Northern Lights a few days ago, local writer Vicki posted this... https://wp.me/pdMdyl-108 https://josephmasonauthor.com/about/ Please help a thirsty author and treat me to a coffee https://www.buymeacoffee.com/josephiu Thank you.
Flowers, withering without water. Drying, dying, none to care. Petals dropping, one by one, Dying, drying, abhorrent, uncared. The slightest breeze and several fall Dried, died, yet still fragrant. Their perfume fills only the imagination. Reality is the smell of stagnation. The aroma of death, By midday sun or moonlit night They fall, dead, dry, …
Brown circles on the grass mark the place of landing. Flat and trodden down where they milled around. They come at night, stay a while, then disappear as if they had never been. Leaving the brown circles of dead grass and the smell of fuel hanging in the air, testament to them being here. They …
