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Reading what I have just written,
I  stop as if almost on the brink,
On seeing  a kind of artificial mist
Spread over my blank paper.

Why did I stop? I wonder.
Perhaps this was not
What I wanted to say,
And adorned my thoughts
In garish colours, making them
Look like their clumsy cartoons. ....

Same thing happens
When I go to my easel.
But on the blank canvas before me
Chaos is all that what I see,
My brush freezes—I can not paint .....

Oh, what has happened to me?
I feel as if trapped in a tunnel,
Full of darkness and  deafening silence:
Whose door is shut so tightly
That  nothing will escape, nothing will enter.
There seems to be an endless blankness
All around me and spreading on.
Like a drowning person fighting  for a breath,
With great effort I pull myself back,
And with a sigh of resignation,
Close my notebook and turn the empty canvas
Inward against the wall.

© Portia Burton


My Mother- My Angel

My Mother-My Angel

I believe in angels, for me it is my mother,
There's no one like her,there'll never be another.
When I am distressed this angel  holds my hand,
And wiping away my fears  helps me understand,
That  in our mistakes  there are  lessons to be learned,
With each precious new day another page is turned,
Which is full of memories, moments of joy and tears,
Triumphs and defeats, through every passing year.
Her  love is unconditional, she's always by my side,
When no one else would listen, in her I can confide.
With gentle words of wisdom she leads me on my way,
Down the paths of righteousness if ever I would stray.
She is the most priceless of all worldly treasures,
O my Lord , please keep  her for me  here forever.
© Portia Burton