what writer doesn’t crave time alone,
to write, float, feel free to create
in a world of imagined forms
yet ‘on your own’ brings up all kinds of stuff:
the thought, the feel, the sense of nothing,
the loneliness of being alone
I thought I’d welcome the time on page
that can stretch so far and deep –
yet now it’s self-pressure to perform
in my restricted bowl, with views of nought,
I have to reframe the reminder ticks
as a chance to live, to write, and transform
If I were enough,
I would devour my here-and-now
and not hunger for some perfect future.
If I were enough,
I wouldn’t wish for someone’s fish
or scoff at what’s on my plate.
If I were enough,
I would ask for a sliceable loaf,
not nibble at leftover crumbs.
If I were enough,
I wouldn’t feast outside
to try to fill my empty insides.
I would nourish my starving soul
and my heart would be totally full…
If I were only enough.
Cast not a clout till May is oot.
Spare those sandals ‘til summer proper.
Keep your toes dry
with shoes and boots.
NaPoWriMo 2019 Day 10: write a poem using an expression about weather
Pic credit: Ralf Maassen
To my younger self I gift
a sense of knowing I have a right to exist,
imperfect and scared as I am
it’s alright to be me.
To my younger self I gift
a trust that life gives as well as takes,
that the blows and hurts won’t destroy me,
but will make me who I am.
To my younger self I gift
a self-belief that’s humble as it’s confident,
that the words I eventually write
will soothe me and touch others.
To my younger self I gift
a pen that scribes my truth.
If I were a cloud I would love all my shapes,
shifting and wisping and forming with joy.
If I loved all my shapes I would welcome all change
and flow in harmony with the sky and the stars.
If I welcomed all change I’d feel freer to fly,
to carry aloft my dreams and ideas.
If I felt freer to fly I would grow my wings wide
and glide through the arc of a rainbow.
One last chance, you said,
to kiss and make up. With
a view from a lake, what could possibly
go wrong, you said, with promise,
that last time before the final time you said it would stop.
So much water had filled my lake, no more could I take.
The turquoise sheen, a diamond sparkle, kiss
from the rounded sun, casting even rounder
and darker shadows beneath
the neat containment, the innocence, of the balcony table.
Yet guilt you denied, filling my ears with
stories re-told, reconfigured, lied,
as I tried to drown you out with the lapping of lake,
the beat of the sun, the silent padding of feet
on the wobble of terrace concrete.
And that was indeed your last chance, as I caress
the rails, robust they are now after a weak defeat.
I’ll feel relief when I close the verandah doors
on a scene about which no one cares how. Just
that now I am safe – inside and out.
What message for me in this fleeting fragment of spring?
Street illuminations shift the softness of blossom
to the moodiness of night.
The pink-white petals cluster in midnight suspense
like candy floss clumps skewered through the dark.
I twizzle my blinds,
the streetlight dazzles my walls with slats
and what do I sense?
A springtime promise, all hopeful and pert,
an epitome of creative grace?
Or a reminder of potential soon to be lost,
a petal carpet of regret to embrace?
NaPoWrimo2019 Day 2: Resisting closure by ending on a question
