my dream of a suitcase comes only with stress
the clothes to fit in are way too excess
tension mounts: I will miss my flight
nausea rises at my timed-out plight
I wake, and I feel bereaved of my stuff
it’s just my fear I will never be enough
NaPoWrimo Day 4: write about an image from a dream
Video games give a great reminder of lives
too short, and too easily run over;
these days, easily re-built or re-booted,
according to your app, or whatever’s closer.
Your avatar lives as though a real you,
ducking, diving, dashing – always a fight
to save your last life, as though those before
the last one didn’t count for nought.
Except the reality of play is a metaphor of real.
Why play at life, when it’s a fragile gift.
Here and gone in a heartbeat, it is.
Like a game, life’s time is swift.
She made my favourite the times I came to visit:
lamb steak, succulent and softening in the oven;
glass of red on the side, slinky in finest crystal.
It was the only way she showed me she cared.
My response to Day Six of NaPoWriMo 2016: write about food
The melancholy moon, with a
bite out of its side,
does a smiley for the stars
surrounding.
The constellated night jewels
catch my breath,
lining up for their sightly
performance.
Minor. Major.
Who cares what key
they play their twinkly
chords in.
Their well-placed face,
their bling, their show,
will make the dark more
bearable.
Yet the brightest one
I only have eyes for:
It squeezes my heart’s
accordion.
For Day Two of NaPoWriMo: a poem about stars
My dream images
Knew better than me
Grassy ground I refused to sit on
Just as I stayed in denial of death.
Sixteen years after my dear dad’s passing
The grass from my dreams tripped me up
Now all bumpy and countrified
I lay on my front,
felt the ground and cried.
Don’t play me or swathe me
or stretch my trust.
Don’t go for the kill
‘til you’ve proved enough.
You’ve got an agenda
that suits only you.
My naïve old heart
gets twisted and blue.
My soul will learn
what you leached from my life
with your grooming, your promise,
your complete lack of spine.
A furbo fox slips through a net,
a chicken gets surprised.
A wily boss keeps staff on board
with an ever-decreasing prize.
A playboy fools again his wife,
who withholds the sex he craves,
in denial that his wayward ways
will help to cheat the grave.
The soul gets bought with cash or time,
depends on what’s for sale.
Life’s random cull will cut and run,
and blur success with fail.
A famous face suddenly lost, now
is odds to top the charts.
A eulogistic comedy face
is drawing the last laugh.
I can’t find my mother in work,
but I can locate her
in the deepest of hurts.
I can’t find my mother when I drive,
as people cut me up, in the
conflict they contrive.
I can’t find my mother when I cry
for what I’ve lost
and my lungs are turned dry.
I can’t find my mother in love
that’s pretend; a glamour
that’s just a rubber glove.
I can’t find my mother when
betrayal means bereft.
There’s nothing left then.
There’s no one now older than me.
That makes me top of the family tree
There’s no one below to catch my fall.
I’m alone with old photo albums to trawl.
Thought I’d be fine after decades of their stress,
but from their loss there’s now an emptiness
I never expected to feel. After years of abuse
I honestly thought I had nothing to lose.
I hated for so long, resenting them fully
never feeling free to be what I could be.
And yet, without them here, my cellular sense
is vague and unsupported. Money matters clench
my tummy tight, as fear snakes up my throat,
my heart feels hard against parented people who gloat
at their mother’s day, father’s day cards and meals.
Quietly I know that one day they too will have to feel
what it’s like to lose and never get back that chance
to appreciate, to forgive, to enjoy the dance.
Dementia took my mother:
it was goodbye but still here.
A decade of sobbing
could never bring her mind back.
Ten long years it took her
to let go of reasons to live.
Cancer took my father:
it was goodbye and nothing left.
Ten short months of wailing
couldn’t rid him of his assailant.
It ate him up, cell by strand,
and we watched him disappear.
Yet though I’ve said goodbye
Inside, they’re still here.
inktuition 