Poetry

Start. As you mean to go on. As you mean to be. Take a moment to choose a direction to take. Don’t worry too much about which way is best. Just begin. Anywhere.

It’s the lively crunch of snow and the sparkle of lights It’s jolly red noses and cold toes, warmed by roaring fires It’s the cheerful smell of hot chocolate and the taste of mince pies It’s precious moments savoured, full

Courage in the fear and the art of living Courage in the spirit and the heart of giving

The noise has a heart that beats staccato as it surrounds and isolates. It is brash and it is reckless, and I am excluded in retreat, from the raucous din of competing chatter.

There’s a colour to the touch of your hand as you pass by, warm like golden sunshine, the sensation savoured as it lingers, rich in tone and treasured more than fortune.

There’s a whisper on the wind that speaks of wisdom, bringing insight to those who read between the lines.

In an instant we see a new reality where minds full of hate laugh as they reap rewards won with lies. Secure in arrogance, charming and charmless, on the make as they take, leaving nothing behind but a bitter pill

Books are the plane, and the train, and the road. They are the destination, and the journey. They are home. Anna Quindlen, How Reading Changed My Life

In the shadows she waits, a fool perhaps, to take this chance again.

In a moment of anger, through a haze of scarlet, I see destruction born of fire and obsession and blood and I feel remorse.