my cruel inner judge

There’s a cruel inner judge that lives inside my head

It shuts down doors and fills me with dread.

 

Doling out shoulds and musts and oughts

It steals my dreams and makes me fraught.

 

A thought may emerge that’s shiny and hot

But the judge will shame and tarnish the shot.

 

When I sit to write, the judge becomes strong,

Knowing what’s right, telling me I’m wrong.

 

It’s scary feeling my work with no sun

Where judge lives on, my words are undone.

 

Scarier still is realising the fact

that judge takes control with defence and attack.

 

I’m scared that judge lives inside for free

and its voice sounds uncannily just like me.

 

NaPoWriMo Day 4: Write a sad poem in 14 relatively short lines.

a mistake on a lake

One last chance, you said,

to kiss and make up. With

a view from a lake, what could possibly

go wrong, you said, with promise,

that last time before the final time you said it would stop.

 

So much water had filled my lake, no more could I take.

The turquoise sheen, a diamond sparkle, kiss

from the rounded sun, casting even rounder

and darker shadows beneath

the neat containment, the innocence, of the balcony table.

 

Yet guilt you denied, filling my ears with

stories re-told, reconfigured, lied,

as I tried to drown you out with the lapping of lake,

the beat of the sun, the silent padding of feet

on the wobble of terrace concrete.

 

And that was indeed your last chance, as I caress

the rails, robust they are now after a weak defeat.

I’ll feel relief when I close the verandah doors

on a scene about which no one cares how. Just

that now I am safe – inside and out.

 

 

NaPoWriMo2019 Day 3: Write something that involves a story or action that unfolds over an appreciable length of time.

the secret of night blossom…?

What message for me in this fleeting fragment of spring?

Street illuminations shift the softness of blossom

to the moodiness of night.

The pink-white petals cluster in midnight suspense

like candy floss clumps skewered through the dark.

I twizzle my blinds,

the streetlight dazzles my walls with slats

and what do I sense?

A springtime promise, all hopeful and pert,

an epitome of creative grace?

Or a reminder of potential soon to be lost,

a petal carpet of regret to embrace?

 

 

NaPoWrimo2019 Day 2: Resisting closure by ending on a question