Crystal Friday shines through glass.
High time for weekend forecast.
Ice clinks a tinkling tipple.
Cooling chance we can sip from.
Don’t let outside take away
a clear-cut sense of style. Ole’.
NaPoWrimo Day 11: an Anacreontic moment
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NaPoWriMo Day 10: a poetic advertisement for writing
Pick up a pen
and fill a page.
Expressive writing
will calm your rage.
Pick up a pen
and say what you feel.
Therapeutic writing
will help you heal.
Pick up a pen
and write from your soul.
Creative writing
will make you whole.
NaPoWriMo Day 9: the song title challenge
Try it upside down, you say.
The way I taste your world, you mean.
Dream a little dream, I say.
I’m really not ever that keen.
Still, you say, you’ll always save a prayer
just in case.
But in these shoes, I reply,
I refuse to lose my grace.
My 200th post
I’d love my 200th post
To be full of love and stuff
But it comes from a place of rage:
someone who’s had enough
of doing the thinking for others
and always bowing her head.
Well, take it back, you ****ers:
we’re not long til we’re dead.
a poem for my pointes
You live in a box of 70s plastic blue,
a doting reminder of
what I quickly outgrew.
Opened, it exudes a scent of resin
that transports me back
to being eleven.
One touch of your fragrant satin
and I’m back on stage in
a pirouetting pattern.
Your robust pointes are carefully sewn,
your ribbons a symbol of our tie.
To you my love I’ve always shown.
From that first day you were moulded to me.
You are singularly mine, today,
as I was back then: size three.
The day we met, I became whole.
I wept when ballet lessons stopped.
Only the smell of you, now, helps console.
NaPoWriMo Day 6: Needy Garden
The squirrel, with its impudent tail,
scampers up the newly lush tree, showing off
as if it owns the entire garden.
The shed, with its failing structures,
leans too far into the neighbouring wood, knowing
the next door will lay into it soon.
The moss, with its fluffy yet treacherous mould,
spreads across stones like a fungus, meandering
as it pretends nonchalance, but failing.
NaPoWriMo Day 5: The Golden Shovel
I’m still in shock that,
of all my lovers, you –
honest to the core – were
hard to please. Made me feel less
than those you said you’d deceived.
I gave my all, I never put you out
Yet you feigned you were on
when really you were out, on that
desire to claim, on that will to bed,
your obvious needs much more than
I could bring. And yet friends ask of you: is he
the man he always was?
Or is he fumbling and stumbling?
Pretending through his down that he’s up?
As you tread from day to night-time gap, the
lack of sex and intimacy trap, the breathless
lull that leaves you stuck: you climb the stair
to meet him there, urging with some force to
leave his control behind, let some dormant force come forth and burst.
Oh that he leaves his ‘stuff’ behind, changes into
a being that seeks some life fulfilment’s
dream. No more the live-alone desolate
feeling. Can he release the guff that’s trapped in his attic?
Original poem: last four lines of Philip Larkin’s Deceptions
getting over it
My mum dies.
I lose my dad again.
Doubly I cry.
A Charm Against Losing Yourself
Take one low self-esteem
and challenge its main themes:
stop thinking ugly duck
let those bullies self-destruct.
Change the way you mirror
to see yourself much clearer.
Chuck that tired old clutter,
keep that stuff that matters.
Take a good old look
at what keeps you so damn stuck.
Let your tongue slip down a sled,
letting go all that’s unsaid.
Create a dumping ground
to feel loved, alive and found.
the scream of my Banshee
my inner howl’s been there since dawn
but it’s spent a lifetime mute
fearing it would pierce the flesh
with its shriek so sharply acute
and so it’s lurked until the dusk
can shade my lack of youth.
yes my Banshee can maim or pique
but it’s time to scream my truth
inktuition 