The Attic (first poem posted)


My mind

attic to my house,
cluttered with antique furniture, paintings, books, boxes of pads of scribbled poetry, a grammar phone to listen to a collection of vinyls.


Dank and dusty

yet nothing to fear

of the memories embedded there


when its time

I can escape ambulance chasers,

attention seeking bible sellers

carpet baggers banging on the front door

news broadcasting tragedy dealers


doing their best to poison my soul



turning off,

pulling the curtains,

locking the doors


I unlatch the step ladder


to the garden of my temple


lighting a torch

to illuminate the verse

versing itself to the beat

of the sweet music

playing itself as background sound


meeting myself

I ignite my pen

seed it from opposite ends

joining it in the middle


feeling the glow

resonating from my heart


the attic becomes

my mandala

a sacred space


these lines





Author: Editor

Poetry lover and writer.

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