my eyes are totally on the prize
as I lockdown my life
I’m more focused than before
and my treasures lie beyond shore
yet the urge to mine those gems
keeps my purpose on point and aligned
he loves her when she’s sweet and juice
she is loved when needy and loose
he takes offence when she doesn’t give truce
she feels tears as he shouts his dues
he takes hold when reaching a sluice
she holds cold, fearing an energy noose
he is truth, she is bruise
she is now, he’s set loose
NaPoWrimo Day 3 2020: playing with a word bank of rhymes
Fitting together, bit by tiny bit,
this is getting me through.
The notches that link, the bumps that won’t,
the picture that’s slow to reveal.
The colours that work, the shapes that don’t,
the purpose it helps me feel.
Finding meaning in a baffling world
can help an anxious mind to subside.
Yet the notable gaps are there to remind
the work that keeps me alive.
Poem 1 on Day 1 of NaPoWriMo2020 / GloPoWriMo2020
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.
Stand tall, stand true.
Find balance in what you do.
My four diamond holes
to help find what you extol.
My three central blocks
to stay firm against life’s knocks.
The column at my core
to align with what you adore.
The security at my base,
to remind you to live with grace.
Tides come, tides go,
time shoots its arrows.
Stand true, stand tall.
One day you won’t be here at all.
How much longer will I pad the dreams
of others who pay me daily.
Why is my vase full of distracting sand
instead of pebbles that count, that matter.
My true life skills, my singular gifts
are stifled in admin, thoughts of bills.
Striking out, writing stories down
feels impossible, crazy, waste of time.
And so I count, I help, I fix, I support
the sorry souls of others.
But when will it dawn that I could die
with my stories still inside me.
you look at us grown ups
as if we know our stuff
but really we are playing,
getting by our days in
our mixed-up, chocka-busy ways
praying and hoping it’s our heyday