Tag Archives: poetry

A poem about un-love

Posted on by inktuition
1

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.

For NaPoWriMo Day 10

A poem for NaPoWriMo Noir

Posted on by inktuition
1

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.

For NaPoWriMo Day Nine

A poem for my inner eight-year-old

Posted on by inktuition
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inktuition climbing frameIt’s not very often I do my daughter proud

As I struggle to climb a colourful frame or slide.

While she clambers free and easy, giggling long and loud,

My bones feel far too worn, my hips that bit too wide.

But one muddy day through a field freshly ploughed

The only way home was over a fence that could subside.

She cheered me on as I inched slowly over the gate,

Saying: ‘You’re just as good as someone who is eight.’

A poem: goodbye to all things pink

Posted on by inktuition
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inktuition pink

There was a time when pink was the shade

For skirts and shoes, bags and braids.

From the palest of rose to a magenta hue

Her world was a sugarplum peek-a-boo.

But princesses, fairies, fluffs and frills

Are no longer the ways she gets her thrills.

I blinked. She grew. Did I miss a trick?

Oh, those pink days just went by too quick.

A poem by the dust under my bed

Posted on by inktuition
2

 I’m made of old skin and yucky stuff.

You can clean all day. It’s never enough.

I collect and clump. The havoc I create

absorbs your projected rage and hate.

With subtle poise I get up your nose.

You sneeze. You curse. A life decomposed.

I lurk. I linger. I’m a puffball of shame

that with your duster you think you can tame.

But I’ve got a special kind of knack

To outlive all threats of attack.

Mop, sponge or sucking vacuum,

I’m stubbornly stronger than a sweep of your broom.

So leave me be. Leave the dust to the dead.

For today, go out and be yourself instead.

A poem: the battle of him and me

Posted on by inktuition
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He wants it quiet. I like it loud.

He prefers himself. I crave a crowd.

Listen to the battle of him and me.

 

He needs attention. I create it all.

He wants to know what’s real. While I just feel surreal.

Sense the battle of him and me.

 

He likes his sauce red. I much prefer brown.

He always shops for stuff. I prefer to verb and noun.

Articulate the battle of him and me.

 

He wants it every day. I’m more like once a week.

He’s pret-a-porter. I’m much more boutique.

Wear the battle of him and me.

 

He can forgive. I can judge and blame.

He sleeps with calm. I lie awake with shame.

So maybe this battle’s between me and me.

Take time to rhyme on World Poetry Day

Posted on by inktuition
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If you’re thinking of taking a pen

To explore your innermost thoughts

Then today’s the day to do it:

It’ll help unravel your knots.

The UN’s World Poetry Day

Is a chance to feel what’s real

In the deepest darkest depths

Of your starkest startling dreams.

Whether rage takes hold in angry red

Or the blues cry over the page

Trust what comes, let it all spill out:

Free your soul from its strangled cage.

Poem: The Creative Escapee

Posted on by inktuition
1

Your boss is always right, she says,

As she wields a pen of heavy red

That bites and wounds my worried words,

And my former self-belief goes blurred.

 

Your boss is always right, she mouths,

As my typo sends her humour south.

I hang my head, gut full of shame,

Have all my creative leaps gone lame?

 

Your boss is always right, she shouts,

As my brain cells begin to cower in doubt:

Is my work that flat, that nondescript,

Does her critique always have to be sour-lipped?

 

Your boss is always right, she yells,

As I reflect upon this straitjacket hell

Of rigid rules, of constant digs.

A model of how you can’t forgive.

 

Your boss is always right, she screams

Hysteria’s norm? That’s what it seems.

A dumbed-down doer is all she wants,

But there’s more to me than a size-12 font.

 

I may type your amends

With intentions well meant

But you can’t reach the real me

‘Cos I’m a Creative Escapee.

 

So yes, the boss is always right

But the red pen certainly doesn’t delight.

What rules my world is being in sync

With my authentic guide of true-self ink.