They say the darkest hour is just before you wake,
and so with my front-garden tree:
just when I thought the fragile branches
had succumbed to the fiercest April showers
it blossomed so sweetly and suddenly,
reminding me, perhaps, that life truly goes on,
through seconds, minutes, and finite hours.
My response to Day 8 of NaPoWriMo 2016: write about a flower
You fragrance the warmth that resides in my heart.
Your heat is implicit in my aromatic words,
and yet consistency’s missed from your promised bouquet.
I dream of wild lily to spice your bouquet.
I pray for pale rose to prod my yearning heart
into blooming, creating a garden of words.
You hide in the trees, whispering the words
I need to capture and show in a scented bouquet.
Speak louder, please: help me speak from my heart.
Let me express my heart in a bouquet of ardent words.
My response to Day 7 of NaPoWriMo 2016: write a tritina
She made my favourite the times I came to visit:
lamb steak, succulent and softening in the oven;
glass of red on the side, slinky in finest crystal.
It was the only way she showed me she cared.
My response to Day Six of NaPoWriMo 2016: write about food
my garden of eighty feet
is meant to be so sweet
but instead it feels a foul:
an annual source of scowl.
those genetic green-ish thumbs
missed me this time round.
who cares about the lawn?
mowing is such a big yawn.
tempted to tarmac over
the clumps of turf and clover
so all that’s left is space
for me to contemplate
all that I would miss
from a greenery so big.
is it time to sort some turf:
grant my backyard a rebirth?
My response to Day 5 of NaPoWriMo 2016: meant to be a poem about a garden rarity. Turned into a rant about a garden monstrosity.
The sparkle bursts after you appear:
down comes the twinkle, replaced by dreary
nights of dark, of twisted hope, as
resolutions hit a slippery slope.
You’re endless, you’re mean, you bite
with cold, your grey obscures my light.
We have to endure you first, lest we forget,
the year looms ahead, as if a threat.
You bully the new year into winter submission
cowing my dreams and my fresh new ambition.
My door stays shut, the scratch of frost
makes my windows ache. My whole being feels lost.
My response to the Day Four prompt in NaPoWriMo: write a poem about the cruellest month
Your grace goes free,
a gift to all:
in your lash, your smile,
we’re all enthralled.
Day Three of NaPoWriMo 2016: fan letter to a celebrity
Pic copyright: Lucien Milasan
For the love of us, we’re
Always there:
Mummy, Daddy.
In a perpetual state of
Love osmosis.
You know what that means.
Perhaps the line missed its cue
Or I didn’t follow the Strictly rules.
Rather than feel I played the part,
Tapping into my falsest heart,
Reality veiled. Somehow I’ve tripped,
Although I convince, I fake, I vow,
I continue the line, dismayed somehow
Trying to make sense of the now.
The winds can whisper.
Waves can roar.
My soul’s still alone.
This is my response to Day One of NaPoWriMo 2016, where we’re challenged to write a lune.
my creative heart has been
beating but not seen,
patiently not known,
hoping, lying in wait
that one day, like this,
I would notice its pulse
and take heed of its sounds
listen to its beat,
see all its signs,
act on its guidance.
Create, at last,
what makes it sing.
A full-hearted swing
at life’s infinite joy.
(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/cuteimage)
no more clinging on to the person I was –
in a clothed, hidden, impersonal place,
out of step and out of touch,
yet blessed within ignorant bliss –
I’ve shed the very skin I was in.
becoming conscious is a contract
you sign with your knowing side,
but if you knew what lay in advance,
you’d rip it up, run away and hide.
having pledged my soul this journey
to become more present, more true
I know there’s no return to shore
just the endless ocean to endure.
how I’d love to bring back my false self,
let her dance and laugh with such ease
to shine against the surface of life
and see reflected the mask she believed.
hollow it was, but what’s left in its place
is a sense of being completely alone,
robbed of charm, of all defence,
my ragged heart is, reluctantly, free to roam.
inktuition 