Until Until all the words are out of me, Until all the life has gone, Until all the many worlds of me, Until all my strife is done. Until all the time and days with me, Until all the strife and fun, Until all my stories fade with me, Until all my very sun. Until all the many times with me, Until all the sand and sea, Until all the sounds and sights of me, Until all my humming be. Until all the forms and haze of me, Until all the bouncing joy, Until all the bits and grains of me, Until all the parts of boy. Until all the very print of me, Until all the words and truth, Until all the many grains of me, Until all my glue is youth. I will be on earth for you, I will days be yours, I will stay around for you, I will fight your wars. 14th December 2021


until all the words --

all the life has until all

my strife is done all

By Mark Anthony

I wrote this poem on a cold futile winter’s day. A theme that often crops up in my poems.

I had the thought of waiting for something, usually a lost love or other need, and not being whole until that after the event.

Usually, though, waiting entails missing out on a new life of openness.

It can mean ignoring potential and new life and loves. After all, we have done and are worried about it’s time to take a deep breath and relax.

Our hopes and dreams may have already come to and by this time of year.

Until I am used to and am happy with you, I will wait.

Until things are just right, I will wait.

Why not take things as they are now and make things better?

Why not ask questions after a trial time?

To try and resolve those things that were pushed under the carpet, or left out to dry for another day’s washing?

Does Life’s laundry need to be neatly folded away?