My Mind

Personal website of M.G. Daniel. Sharing poetry, my writings, snippets from my life and whatever's on my mind.


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Hello sir

I think the ongoing courtroom saga of another (once?) elder statesman actor made My Mind drift – comparatively – to Sir Sidney Poitier and of course, with that came flashbacks to “To Sir With Love.”

If you wanted the moon
I would try to make a start
But I would rather you let me give my heart
To Sir, with love


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A String of F Words (that mean fondness)

By M.G. Daniel

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Loves, let us learn to love with love – and freedom, not with fear or fights or fisticuffs or threats or throwing shade or fuming (about posts on social media for example), thinking we can truly know the message or meaning of another’s thoughts. Loves, love. Not with constant finger-pointing, fright or festering fury, forcing famines of affection, or forgetting our form, for it is forever Love. Loves, will we find fidelity if we go fast and too furious fanning flames of fantastical fables in the fluttering green eyes of faithful fiends, falling into furrows flailing and fixing failures, or furthermore fathering the flight to fame and fortune of fillies fleecing the folly of forsaking, the fated and the fêted:
Frenemies
Foreigners
Financiers
Families
Futures
Friends
Fulsome fools
The flight of the foraging, flapping about your foyer, forging peace, fomenting fun.


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For the love of poetry

Happy National Poetry Month to all my buddy blogger poets and lovers of poetry. Better late than never, when April is almost over. I thought a love poem would be most apt to express my good wishes to all who do the labour of love routine working those drafts to completion or perfection.

love note

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Sonnet 116, Shakespeare