SLAM. You score.
Because I called you a bore.
BAM. You skip.
After you give me some lip.
DING. I throw.
You’re no longer my beau.
DONG. I yell.
Living with you is hell.
DAMN. We’ve lost.
Are we counting the cost?
A poem for a slammed door
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Tag Archives: napowrimo
A poem about a cruel word
Criticise me to make you feel big
Belittle my efforts to cut me quick.
Pick your topic to slice me deep,
one that’s callously, coldly cheap.
Mock my spirit, fool my world.
Your cruelty’s the grit to my inner pearl.
Because in your denial you’re up to your eyes.
So who are you to criticise?
A poem for a dark moment
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 for my intuition
You rock up just when I need you
Unexpected, welcome, a surprise.
Force you to come
and you’ll hide and seek.
Unbidden, you’ll lift your disguise.
Synchronicity’s your friend
though I don’t always see her.
You tee up my clues
with your caddy of cleverness,
waiting for me to hit par.
You’re a coach to my inner knowing,
my always-there, everyday chum.
And with you on my brightest side
I’m guaranteed to hit a hole in one.
A poem for my self-doubt
Doubt is the opposite of faith
and often has double the strength.
It wheedles, it whines, it stretches my nerve
from width to depth to length.
Doubt is the enemy of hope
and stamps on my self-belief.
It taxes my time, my gut, my soul.
It’s nothing but an insidious thief.
Doubt is the victor at night
as an unfulfilled day draws dark.
But it’s no match for a shiny new morning,
full of light and love and spark.
A poem by the ‘who is the fairest’ mirror
I’ve had to lie, for most of my life
to princesses, witches. Oh, what strife.
Who cares who’s the prettiest of all ‘dem t’ings?
Whoever asks the question is really disturb’ing.
So what do they see in that reflection of mine?
I’m guessing a false kind of self divine.
Cos your real self ain’t a patch on that fake.
What do you want today? Transparent? Opaque?
When you ask me a question, don’t expect the truth.
‘Cos if you look too hard, you’re just chasing youth.
A poem for a shy spring bud
Who would blame you
for tucking your head
into the luxurious leaves
of your flower bed.
Is it safe to look out
with that rain pelting down?
Spring’s playing hard to get:
you could risk getting drowned.
But your bud is cute,
your petals are pert.
Don’t waste the chance to
swish your fragrant skirt.
Before we know it
you’ll be facing the sun.
Your edges will wilt,
your time will be done.
A poem for a rescue dog
You were an abandoned child,
left to fend for yourself,
not knowing what you’d done wrong.
Cruelty hurts your emotional health.
You were scooped up and saved,
given a safe home and a place
until someone picked you for theirs.
Kindness softens your sense of disgrace.
Your round, pleading eyes
pull compassionate strings in my heart,
so up you eagerly jump on my lap.
Love feeds you a chunk of my tart.
A poem about un-love
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.
A poem for NaPoWriMo Noir
NaPoWriMo sets the challenge today
to focus on ‘noir’.
How can I not obey?
A glamorous fringe, sweeping one eye
is hard to resist.
Like a bullet bye-bye.
What’s not to love about murders untraced
that whisper round corners,
waists unlaced.
But my kind of noir travels way within,
to the shadow of self
that’s my evil-ish twin.
Because dark in a mirror without conscience or soul
will haunt my life’s work
like irremovable kohl.
inktuition 