a poem for cute wise monkeys

Not only do they see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,

but they’re cutest best buddies, times by treble.

The perfect antidote to a long-old day,

these bunches of fluff have made my soiree´.

 

 

 

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a poem for my flames of fear

 

On a good day I see in the flames

a dancing horse, swishing tail

head upright, ears aloft,

prancing to the heat of the fire,

soul alight with joy.

 

On a bad day I see in the flames

a devilish anger that burns down

all my hard work, a ghoulish glee

that turns my dreams to ash,

hope depleted, plans destroyed.

 

NaPoWriMo 2018 day 7: critic & creator

 

We’re broken and bruised,

battered from birth,

we were built so fundamentally wrong.

The world makes life so bloody hard.

Just give up trying to

create or belong.

 

You break my heart

with your wounded ways.

We’re not defined by our past.

Yet you’ve kept me stuck for five decades

with your sneers, your pokes,

my sad little un-started drafts.

 

Too right there: I get my kicks

when I sit on your shoulder,

sabotaging all that you ‘write’.

You’re far too old for all that hope

now in life you’ve reached

your twilight.

 

That’s enough! I’ve had an idea

about wounds and abuse and stuff.

If I begin to transform all of our pain

into fables strong and true,

you’ll lose your hold over my head

and my heart will take the reins.

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NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 4: my garden of spirituality

 

It’s the quality and direction of light that tells me

of presence, of a beam, of something greater than me.

Like torchlight from an invisible source,

it pools between thick leaves, through autumn cloud,

illuminating the darkest part of my garden.

 

The new-grown laurels have taken root,

wildly, greenly, not caring they’re uneven, mismatched.

They huddle around the scraggy old wooden bench

with its rectangle feet set firmly in the shingle:

a bench with a view, that leaves you with a sore behind.

 

The cheeky red berries shine crimson in the sunshine of youth

amidst the demure and dappled undergrowth,

their cherry fire and beaded little heart in full-bloom denial

of any future state of wither or decay.

An so shines the purity of that insistent beam of light.

 

a poem to my creative blocks

 

my blocks pop up in colourful ways

sometimes when I least expect,

and often – when I’m pulled

by that crazy creative force,

that desire to put my words out there –

the opposite has to exist:

primed to put a stop to my course,

to cut me from my source.

 

the horizon may be dewy,

the breeze may be blowy

the potential stretching out

may be incredibly alluring,

and yet a part of me,

a stubborn and relentless saboteur

wants to stub out

the scary unknown.

 

what I’d like to do is

kick those blocks aside,

send them scattering

off the pier of fear,

and to open my future

to run wildly, wind in my hair,

trust at my feet, sun in my dreams,

and strength in my belief.

 

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