The pencil, always so poised,
so sharp, so in fashion,
came, one day, to feel its own lead.
The spine within became buckled,
twisted, fantasising
about its own death.
The point became lost,
worn down to a stub, where
nothing, but nothing, was left
but the scratchings of a soul
looking to transcend bereft.
A poem for day 21 of NaPoWriMo 2015: the erasure
I’ll sit with what I’ve got
rather than ruin what I’m not.
Techie stuff will play my brain
to the point I can’t or won’t.
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.
You’re so transient and so cute,
your button eyes squinting and sunk,
your pert little nose so pointy and pert,
your mouth a happy half-moon.
No matter you started from average choc chunks
or your taste is vanilla ice cream,
‘cos you manifest as so ingenious, gorgeous:
your creativity can only dream.
It’s been a rhyming four weeks
with only tiny hints of fatigue.
I will miss the daily beat
of grace, joy and intrigue.
The exuberance of Easter has faded in a week.
Their marshmallow tummies are showing signs of tweak.
The middle chick is cute, and finely still pristine.
The other two distorted, their messy beaks terrine.
The leaning does confuse me: who is zooming whom?
Who believed, and who doubted, the rising from the tomb?
This is my post for Day 27 of NaPoWriMo
My car is pathetic, purple and slow
yet my accelerating thrust
can be devastatingly annoying
to the fast cars I leave for dust.
My athletic girl is diddy and slight:
her running gear shows her tiny waist.
Yet, with her spikes, her ferocious grit
leaves the rest to give her chase.
My spirit was crushed and left for nought
after I dealt with one death too many.
Yet I still live my heart and express my soul,
because the blessings I count are plenty.
Shame makes me
hide my light from the world.
Shame makes me
avoid intimacy in love.
Shame makes me
scared of showing my hand.
Shame makes me
languish in understood land.
Shame’s made me
seek an easy argument.
Shame’s made me
search for something transcendent.
for napowrimo day 25
It began with bricks, I guess,
built from the abuse above.
The big-smile baby knew no more,
no less. But she had no floor
or roof or wall, her
boundaries spliced,
her ego nil.
Her cement did set quite early.
It took years to even see that.
Dreams of locks not working
haunt the trusting times.
The little girl got trapped
with owning, booing crap.
To escape takes more than hair.
Say ‘boo’ to the witch that’s there.
This poem is number 24 in a month’s worth of poems for NaPoWriMo.
Inspired by today’s theme of masonry, mine is a Jung-inspired take on Rapunzel.
Control was my calling card,
what everyone knew me for.
Control was my comfort,
a way to keep the score.
Control took my humour,
replaced it with sour lips.
Control was my defence
against the highs and dips.
Control and I had a battle
until I learned who was boss.
Control gave me power
that was way too easily lost.
Control I gave up
when robbed of those I loved.
Control I still explore
through story, rhyme and word.
inktuition 