Category Archives: life

A poem about fake friendships

Posted on by inktuition
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We all change and move on.

I know that’s a fact.

So why bother to maintain

those friendships with cracks?

Is it to keep those pals

who give you big follows

on social sites?

To spy on their lives;

dazzle

with stories bright?

To delete would hurt

both them and you.

Or would it?

If you don’t like them

and they don’t care,

why be so polite?

There are ‘friends’ in my life

who don’t give a damn

what I feel, where I go,

how I roll, who I am.

Yet I keep a pretence

of wanting to meet.

And when I do,

it’s myself I cheat.

The paint is thinning

on my fake-friends tableau.

The question is why

I just don’t let go.

A poem from the sunset seat in my garden

Posted on by inktuition
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inktuition sunset seat

My blooming great big garden

surrounds my wooden seat

with a tickle of full-grown leaves.

A lushly verdant treat.

Green fingers? Not for me.

I leave my lawn to live

its meant-for, yearned-for life.

And my laziness it forgives,

as the sunset gently butters

the grateful, eager leaves.

I’m full of love for life,

connecting to some heart-felt peace.

A writer’s poem for her blankie

Posted on by inktuition
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You’re my big swathe of cuddle,

what I missed as a babe.

You’ve cossetted me through

the cool and the macabre.

When the snow’s outside

you’re an obvious choice.

You’re generous, holding,

you’re the thing I rejoice.

But you transcend all seasons

especially in spring.

You let me feel safe

when my words are growing.

How could I write

so much brave raw stuff

without my cuddly cocoon

and knowing I am enough.

A poem for my kitchen skylight

Posted on by inktuition
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 There’s a window in my kitchen

With a big diagonal skylight.

I sit under it to eat, drink, read,

Do my work and write invites.

I mostly don’t know the glass is there

It lets in light, it keeps me dry.

But at night it’s the window on the world

My own framed, private night sky.

I like it best when the rain comes to dance

With tapping, cha-cha drops.

The skylight turns into a stage

With a pitter-patter round the clock.

A poem for a dark moment

Posted on by inktuition
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Emptiness swirls within,

sucking my energy dry.

I can’t pretend I care.

Not today. I won’t lie.

Heaviness presses my neck,

a pain of the dullest kind.

My eyes squint to the light,

but my feelings today are blind.

Weariness closes my heart,

torn from its treasured goal.

Will tomorrow feel more joyful?

I’ll leave that up to my soul.

A poem to the mother who battered me

Posted on by inktuition
3

As you swing your hand against my chin

my babyish bones rattle within;

your palm so swift, so hard, so grim,

against my freckly, guiltless skin.

 

I bow my neck, cover my head

with foetal fingers that seek to protect

my sacred centre, locked from view.

But a curled-up child is always your cue

to parade your power, your strength, your hue

that bitterly, darkly claims its due.

 

Inside my head is light and free –

that’s the place you can’t reach me.

 

So, as thunder rams upon my skull,

and in your righteous fury I sense no lull,

I retreat to a place that’s barriered and safe

against which all love will lean and chafe.

 

I first published this poem as part of my MA Creative Writing project: Inktuition – Healing Through the Written Word. It feels appropriate to re-publish it for NaPrWriMo’s Day 12 prompt on saying things I’d like to say, but will never be able to say, to my mother. She is terminally ill with Pick’s Disease, an aggressive and early form of dementia.

 

A poem about un-love

Posted on by inktuition
1

Hate is too strong a word

for you. That would be absurd.

A person who claims uncle-hood,

yet is too absent to be any good,

couldn’t dredge any sense of feeling

or, while I’m at it, any point or meaning.

You pop up when there’s cash

or a chance to cut a dash.

And you act like your heart bleeds

when anyone has a need.

But your soul was sold some time ago

to the devil of distance, or vertigo.

You count your change, your deeds turn sour,

yet you turn up pure at the golden hour.

My un-love for you is cold and life-long.

Hate? That word for you is far too strong.

For NaPoWriMo Day 10

A poem: goodbye to all things pink

Posted on by inktuition
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inktuition pink

There was a time when pink was the shade

For skirts and shoes, bags and braids.

From the palest of rose to a magenta hue

Her world was a sugarplum peek-a-boo.

But princesses, fairies, fluffs and frills

Are no longer the ways she gets her thrills.

I blinked. She grew. Did I miss a trick?

Oh, those pink days just went by too quick.

A poem by the dust under my bed

Posted on by inktuition
2

 I’m made of old skin and yucky stuff.

You can clean all day. It’s never enough.

I collect and clump. The havoc I create

absorbs your projected rage and hate.

With subtle poise I get up your nose.

You sneeze. You curse. A life decomposed.

I lurk. I linger. I’m a puffball of shame

that with your duster you think you can tame.

But I’ve got a special kind of knack

To outlive all threats of attack.

Mop, sponge or sucking vacuum,

I’m stubbornly stronger than a sweep of your broom.

So leave me be. Leave the dust to the dead.

For today, go out and be yourself instead.