Our Word Poem by GRANT FRASER

Sometimes I awake again,
back in that old attic of words,
and leaf through the whole stock
of what I tried to grasp or memorise,

Dictionaries of meaning,
one was required to bite into,

And as I remember, felt like a
talking walking tape recorder,

Some words I scribbled on the backs of
supermarket receipts,
others I found much later, hidden,
because I was so high, I couldn't
remember where I put them...

'Now what the hell, does that one
mean again? ',

And I used to sweat at night,
thinking about them, or dreaming,
as if they were alive and parading
around my bed,

Occasionally I took out the big ones,
and would sail them like paper aeroplanes
at some unassuming head,

and most usually nose dived...

- forgot the point? -

And would return to my bedroom,
all annoyed and frustrated,

like what do you want from me?

Ok! Ok! let me in - let me in...

I think the sky will crash down soon,
unless I come up with something bigger...

'Bloody things! ',

But secret love always intervened
to save me,

Keep at it, don't stop digging,
disappear down the word hole altogether,
galvanise yourself with thinking...

Don't ever let the controlled bigger
forces of expression,
Dig a grave for you,

Now presently it would seem,
I'm no nearer, but this much away,
a smidgen,

For understanding that it matters
most when it doesn't - flip you away!

It's everybody's and only enriches
when the glitches behind good thinking
breaks free,

For one's testimony, always speaks
louder....