Poetic Expressions: A Mile From My Home.

Poetic Expressions

A Mile From My Home

Themed Collection: Featuring locations from all over the world, this selection of poems was inspired by something or somewhere within “a mile” of each individual poet’s home.

Dream World by Alan Hardy

Mile From My Home a

This poem describes a wood near where I live, and two ‘visits’ to it: an initial one associated with a time of ‘dream-like’ happiness and fulfilment; and the later one where the splendid look of the wood has been compromised, and it looks overgrown and uninviting. I suppose it’s a poem on memory (and the way it distorts reality), as well as the rejection of ‘false’ youthful optimism with the passing of time.


The path was always shaped like a tunnel,

with overhanging branches slotting a neat canopy

I rushed though, many years ago,

to reach, in the middle, the answer to my dreams.

The spring sun, shining through the leafy canvas,

sprinkled fairy dust,

as I stumbled on twigs,

looked at dying trees, in their keeling over

held fast by invisible rope.

I retrace my steps towards the path,

view a tangle of branches and leaves.

The sun licking my cheeks,

the strong colour of tree and leaf,

I look back on,

was always a magician’s spell.

A wood can be a scary place.

I shudder by its side, don’t cross into it.

Searching for a certainty of old,

in trees leaves and twigs,

and the sun that shone in between them,

I recognise I shouldn’t enter too far into

the dreams it fooled me with.

Alan Hardy© 2013


The Station By Kristina Blasen

 The Station

A few months ago my daughter and I moved from a large city in Florida to a very small town called Elko New Market in Minnesota (USA). There’s a main street with a few shops and one gas station which really is the heartbeat of the little town. Like so many towns in Minnesota this one had barely 4,000 people at the last census. The poem “The Station” is focused on the sounds of small town life that we all filter out and ignore as we go about the regular business of our day.

The Station

Cars and trucks head in with careful purpose

Lining up to wait their turn or pulling in close

Their drivers hurry inside to find welcome warmth

All around there is the sound of gravel crunching and sliding,

The slurp of slush as tires spin slowly through snow,

The clank of the gas pump as a man flips the lever,

The scrape as the nozzle slides home in the tank.

Inside in short staccato bursts life goes on

The sharp snap and release as the drawer slides open

The soft crinkle of bills being shuffled

The ping ping of coins hitting and joining the others in their confinement

The door swishes open and clanks closed

As the people go on about their day

Life in a small town is still alive and well today.

Kristina Blasen © 2013


A Secret Place

by William O’Brien

Flower pic- A Mile From My Home

‘My Secret Place’ is perfect in every way from the untouched beauty of nature to the hacked tree resting on the ground. Most of us forget our childhood and the way nature whispered – scents of wild flowers, the wind rushing through leaves and the spirits of the forest. On entering this world we are filled with innocence, while exploring the energies that drift over dimensions. Sadly, as we all progress with our busy lives, many of us lose this connection with devic energy. I hope this reminds a few people of the wonders of the world and helps them connect again – even if only for a few moments.

A Secret Place

There is a place not far from here

And one day I stumbled near the weir

Found a path and followed the way

Overhanging branches where sparrows play

I have lived here for many years

Felt heartbreak and lived the tears

The cobbled stones dry in early May

Opened up thoughts on one bright day

Dusty road and sharp green grass

Embellished the entrance that I would pass

I had never felt such calming spirits

Dancing, frolicking, living Devics

Roses grew, thorny, wild and free

Colours brighter than could possibly be

Whispers sent pricked up my ears

Waters trickled cool and clear

Most people don’t know mysteries sent

But in this place, secrets always meant

Many pass by brushing the morning dew

Notice an old tree fallen and hewed

While elves, toads and mushrooms play

Knowledge given the gifted one might say

A hidden world where everyone walks

Only the chosen can hear them talk

William O’Brien © 2013


The Foots Cray

Meadow Adventure

by Peter John

PJ Foots

Foots Cray Meadows is a large open area near where I live and my nieces and nephews call it The Shire after the area in Middle Earth where Hobbits live. They often play at questing through the fields and fighting off the many hordes of orcs and goblins that reside in their imagination. A short length of twig is usually employed as a makeshift sword and is always an effective weapon against the forces of evil when swung wildly above one’s head.

The Foots Cray

Meadow Adventure

Flowering weeds of yellow and white are spread across a sea of green.

The soft blades of grass tickle their feet while a river gurgles unseen.

Gnarled old trees with finger like branches reach down with wisps of shade.

A darkness has risen over this land and a force of evil is set to invade.

Venturing forth, the young brave few are all that stand in defence of this land.

Ready to do battle, with adventure filled hearts and makeshift swords in hand.

A wild charge through dew soft grass they challenge the approaching horde.

An army of darkness filled with all the horrors their imagination can afford.

A fearless onslaught against fiends unseen the brave young few fight well.

Driving the horde back into the shadows with wild swings and the occasional yell.

The swish of wood through the empty air and the sound of children’s laughter.

Shines a light on this tale and just for once they all lived happily ever after.

Peter John © 2013



By Joshua Bennett


I wrote this poem after one of my walks around the rural area where we live.. The snow came early, starting in November. Until this year, I lived “the big city” and I never experienced snow like I have since moving to the Ottawa Valley. I appreciate the beauty of the countryside as it sits covered under a heavy white blanket. – Joshua Bennett


Pure and white,

Comes in all shapes and sizes,

Cold to touch, yet beautiful at first sight.

Merciless to many,

A foe we can’t fight,

We can only protect ourselves,

No one can escape its grasps.

It covers the green in a white blanket,

The greens turn brown,

And the brown turns dry and brittle,

In the cold winters night.

When the cold night appears,

The snow is white,

When the bright sun shines upon the lands,

The white turns blue, the blue dries up.

The white is merciless to many,

Yet a protector to some,

It covers the greens,

So that they can bloom again

The whites turn to blue,

And with the blue,

The brown turns green,

And the dry and brittle turn wet and strong.


Pure and white,

Comes in all shapes and sizes,

Cold to touch, yet beautiful at first sight.


Joshua Bennett © 2013


Million Miles Away

by Madhu Kalyan Mattaparthi

Tuk Tuk

When I travel by cab from my home I put on my headphones and allow the music to draw me into a dream, leaving the hustle and bustle of the busy streets behind.

Music is self-expressed poetry with experimental sound designed to stimulate the mind and confuse the senses. We all live for the mind-blowing lyrical effect that comes from the sound. Though it’s not about the sound, in fact, it’s never about the sound; only the emotional output a song gives off, it’s not just the drummer drumming in perfect rhythm or the epic guitar solo in the middle of the song, but the emotion behind it. The sweet sound of the harmonica can only be explained in a saddening tale that is too much for just one heart to contain. Our own self-expressed sound expresses a side that even we have not seen; it shows us our true brilliance in sync. And as we explore this new us, the music becomes better. Some may think “what is the point in music if we have let out all our emotions, we will all become empty shells if nothing else, and there is no point.” well, that, my friend is a statement I cannot truly accept or deny. For one, the shell theory led me to think, that if we are shells of emotions, we are very fragile, and also, endless. There is never an end to the emotions one can pull out of them. Music shows that. Despite all that has already been written, songs are still in the making, obviously, we haven’t run out of motivational emotion yet, and we might never. Music shows more than our emotions, it shows our ability to creatively create sound patterns according to the lyrics desired. Music not only shows who we are, but how smart we are as well.

Million Miles Away

When I pull the headphones on
Switch the music
As loud as it can go
Its when my mind
Can run away for a little while
Forget everything for a moment
Be lost in a world
So new
So different
From your own
Let the music play
And suddenly
I’m so gone
Like I was never there
A day away
A year from you
A million miles
From any thought
Of anything
Let the music play
Get swept up in it
Let it take you away
Let the thoughts
Leave your mind
Let yourself
Get emerged
Lost in the music
And if its only for
Four minutes
Take yourself
A million miles away…

Madhu Kalyan Mattaparthi © 2013


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Peter John: This Is Me.


This is me.

I was born in Bromley, Kent back in the early seventies. I spent most of my childhood riding bikes, playing tag and kicking tin cans around the street, unless there was an actual football to hand. At the age of fourteen I had a milestone experience. Prior to that I had never shown the slightest interest in writing, if I remember rightly I wanted to be an astronaut, but then I got put into detention one afternoon. I had failed to bring in my homework assignment and the teacher had punished me by forcing me to write a short story during the lunch time break. While all the other boys kicked tin cans around the playground, I was sat in a room on my own with a sandwich, a carton of Kia-Ora and an exercise book. I picked at the sandwich while staring at the blank pages in front of me and then it happened. All of a sudden a story formed in my head and I almost instinctively threw in down on the paper. 45 minutes passed in what felt like seconds and the short story which I had called ’Thinking Crash’ was spread throughout the exercise book in my scruffy, barely coherent handwriting. I had never fallen into a story like that before, where my hand was struggling to keep up with my brain and I didn’t look up once from the pages until I heard the lunch bell ring. Ever since that day I have been hooked. I could have been circling the earth in a tin can and eating my dinner out of a tube if it wasn’t for that one stint in detention; I still like to consider it as a lucky escape.

My book:


Dead Medium By Peter John

The deathly silence is about to be broken. She disliked the company of others and death did little to warm her spirit. She had led an independent life and she faced death in much the same way. She was finally alone, finally free from the mindless babble of others, at least that’s what she thought. May Elizabeth Trump was the rarest of spirits and she was none too happy about it either. She was a dead medium, a ghost who can speak with the living, and her services were to become in great demand. Flung into the limelight and smothered with unwanted attention, May soon discovers that it is not only ghosts with long awaited messages that have taken an interest in her. Something dark was lurking in the shadows, stalking her. Even the dead are not left to rest in peace. Dead Medium: A humorous, character driven story and a unique vision of life after death. Not your average ghost story.

Do you believe in ghosts?


You would expect me, being the author of a paranormal comedy, to be a great believer in ghosts but you would be wrong in that assumption. You would then presume that I have never seen a ghost and again you would be mistaken, confused yet? I consider myself to be a hopeful skeptic; hopeful because I would really like to be able to break free of my own Cynicism and a skeptic because no matter how hard I try, I can’t. Even after seeing things that I can’t explain myself, I fail to convert myself into a believer on the basis that just because I can’t prove it false doesn’t mean it’s true. I regret this standpoint entirely, I see all the benefits in believing in something as strongly as some people believe in the existence of ghosts and other forms of supernatural beings but I don’t seem capable of stepping over that final hurdle of doubt, and I blame psychics for this entirely. Years of hearing how people have been fleeced for more money than they can comfortably afford by Clairvoyants and Mediums has left me armored against certain aspects of the supernatural. Con artists and schemers who have promised them answers to the soul burning questions that we all ask of ourselves during times of grief. Is there more? Are they truly gone or are they just behind the curtain of death, waiting for me to join them? Are they watching over me, right here, as we speak. My mother is a great believer in the spiritual powers of others and has often remarked on her own psychic ability. I have to agree that on occasion she has made remarkable predictions that have turned out to be true, though sometimes it has been in a ‘ball park’ kind of way. Through out my childhood I have listened to her stories about what this medium said and what that psychic told her but I have also listened to the recording of such spiritual meetings. “I have a name coming through. It’s faint but I think it begins with an A, it might be an O or an E. It’s definitely starts with a vowel or there’s a vowel in there somewhere at least”. My mother never failed to fall hook line and sinker but, even at a young age, I could see the vague and fishing manner in which they all spoke. It made me cynical and distrusting when it came down to beings from another plain of existence and I have yet failed to shrug this guarded approach. Maybe one day I will find the proof I need, or experience something that will turn my head a full 360 until I’m skeptical about whether living people actually exist, but until that day I will remain full of questions, doubts and hopes.

Author site


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