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    The Funeral of Bosco Jones Over twenty years ago Bosco Jones died after a long and purposeful life. His children, (long departed from their roots), returned. “Don’t worry, Mum”, they said, “we’ll see to everything. We’ll make all the necessary arrangements.” They arranged a splendid funeral with a vicar and hymns and flowers. A lot of people went, for Bosco had made an impact during his life. They left the doors open so that all those outside could hear And join in the proceedings. There was nice churchy music and an atmosphere of peace and serenity. The vicar began the service with a lot of talk of God and Mrs Jones stopped crying. She started to look around her and take in the proceedings. She seemed somewhat agitated and alarmed. Then she stood up and shouted at the vicar, shaking her fist, “I’m having none of this!” she cried, “My Bosco didn’t believe in all this claptrap and nonsense!” Some people cheered in agreement and she sat down again. The vicar, a dedicated pro...
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  Stardust I saw stardust   in your eyes. I caught it, breathed it in and felt its magic transform me, light me up, give me wings   release my spirit. I exhaled   to give something back and watched as your beard turned white, I watched   as the paper grew blank. My portrait was no more. I was no more, blown away flown away into blankness. https://books2read.com/TRQP-Balm-3
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  Ruined The tides had turned and the Man in the Moon   was bleeding, dissolving withering away as he melted down. He cried out to   Father Time hiding there on Earth but there was no help to be had There was no time for it, no hope left only deaf ears and everything in ruins. https://books2read.com/TRQP-Balm-3
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  Cycle I felt such bright energy flowing I couldn’t wait to move with it and be transplanted and reborn at the time when all of nature was recreating itself and starting afresh, I too would feel the new buds open bursting and shooting into a new life. I would open up my blowsy petals   and let my heart show through pulsing, exuberant, ready to turn towards the summer sun, not believing it would destroy my bloom, make my petals fade and fall when the shock of the new wore off and the fresh green shoots grew brown, preparing for the season of wrinkles which always follows. I am only one part of nature’s cycle where nothing will change, except that summer will have gone, winter will surely follow fall and spring will be a long way away. https://www.thegsj.com/current-issue-spring-2026.html
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  Words Words Words I’ve been walking through myself everyday a different life I said I must stop and I will I will stop but my words             words my words are spilling                  out and nobody understands them and I can’t find myself in them. Oh for a draft of Dublin and I’ll walk through it                drink its words                           every step and then I’ll stop                     found I will I will stop still now      with so many words to be coffined       with me                 words my words     dying to be understood. https://rochfordstreetreview.com/2026/06/15/lynn-white-words-words-words-bloomsday-supplement-2026/
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  Burying the Hatchet Where better to bury the murder weapons than under the bodies in their graves. No one will know and there’ll be no hard feelings then. So that will be my strategy to bury hatchets under buried bodies so that all quarrelling will cease and everyone will live happily ever after, everyone still living, then.
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  Immortality They tried them all, the amulets and potions of their time and place. Some worked for a time but death overcame them in the end   and proclaimed their ungodlike mortality. They were buried like treasure with their treasures   from this life readied for the next, living on only in memories which faded like funeral flowers. It was not enough. So portraits were painted   on the bindings of mummies or the wooden lids of coffins, stone effigies were carved   on tombstones, but only   for the rich and already godlike. It’s democratised now. Ceramic portraits carefully incorporated into gravestones, likenesses to be viewed   down the centuries, glimpses of a life passed, a brush with immortality.
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