On the island,
As traffic surged by,
Lost in a world of words,
What is different at 6.09
That makes the eyelids droop?
What elixir, eluded at every other 09,
Draws forth with the first hint of light
Bringing sleep, finally, at the dawn of the day?
Souvenirs: She manoeuvred
the cart carefully, mindful
of its precious cargo and
the threat to it posed by a
slippery, cobbled, market
square. She had only twenty
of the tiny, precious
amphora left. With travel
restricted, people would
pay a high price for such a
reminder of home. These
were the last of their
haul, unless the professor
could find a way to
replicate more, they’d soon
be living on air for real.
Kirsten Luckins has been experimenting with weird prompts and invited people to join in…so I did…
Prompt 3 of 30, and I’m offering an alliterative brain-blurt, which was the best I could manage. In fact, I also very nearly managed to finish a short story for this prompt, but as prose is not my metier I ended up bogged down and paralysed. So – bouncing out with a bit of babble was my way to get back on track.
And the ever-game Lisette Auton sent me one for number three as well – I can relate…
I mourn the lost body. I berate the folds and jiggles. Yet when I see a photo from before I think I looked beautiful then. Why can’t I think I look beautiful now?
Big thanks to Bernie McAloon for this snippet.
She considers this from another angle
until thoughts that escape from dresses
are suspended in stockings hanging
from the breast of a mantel.
Plus get a load…
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Signs of Life. He bumbled and grumped through his morning routine. Bedroom drawers rumbled open with no clack of closure. Water spattered from taps. Downstairs, doors clumped shut, cutlery crackled against crockery. The kettle clicked into rumbling action. She waited, quiet, listening. How loud it all was. These noises intruded, silencing her thoughts, quashing her dreams, tethering her to this life. Their life, his life, only partly hers. Later, she would make noises of her own.
I found this in an email from way back in 2014. It was a submission to Paragraph Planet. I can’t remember if it was accepted.
Grief hits at the most random moment. A song, a smell, a phrase overheard in conversation, each
reduce her to a mess of tears and sobbing and snot. She hears his voice, calm, in her head, “It is what it is. Enough now. No more tears.” But the tears will not stop, not yet. She feels the pain of his absence, as real as any wound, raw and red. The tears are her only salve.
In memory of my friend Alan.
Hastily tidied, desk
gains semblance of order –
the weekend beckons.
Stumbled on a haiku from 8 yrs back. Quite apposite.
The words had been carefully placed. Dropped like pebbles into water they rippled outwards in infinite circles. The repercussions would drag them all down. The chaos he had held in check for so long was breaking loose, and he knew without a doubt attempting to stop it now would simply churn the waters more. It was unfair, but once uttered, those words could not be taken back. Helpless, he watched as life collapsed around him.
Paragraph Planet 10.1.2019
Peter folded the paper, carefully aligning the edges, and slowly scored the crease with his thumb nail. His gaze focused somewhere off in the distance as he absently tapped the paper with his forefinger. Tap. Tap. Tap. The movement and sound seemed to pull him back to the present. He looked at the paper, tapped it again – tap, tap, tap – then tucked it carefully into his pocket. Time later to deal with that, he thought.
Paragraph Planet 17.10.2018
Duvet up to my chin.
Cat curled sleeping
Peaceful, beside me.
A step on my grave.
A ghost passing by.
Fairweather friend. I am not your fairweather friend. I am your foul weather friend. I am your friend for the dark days, the stormy days; the days when you roar and stamp and everyone else runs for cover. Not for me the days of sunshine and sweet talk. On those days I am sidelined, shunned. On those days my presence is too painful. I disturb the peace of your sushine days with my stormy memories.
Paragraph Planet, Nov 9th 2017
Tweaked it slightly.
burning like bile
in her throat,
She chokes it down
Water was everywhere. Running from over flowing gutters, streaming slick-like down brick walls and fences. The drains had given up long since, throwing back the water in fountains of protest. It pooled into puddles on saturated lawns. A gust of air sent a drum roll of droplets across the polytunnel. Be careful what you wish for, Granny used to say, you might just get it. Who had wished for rain for the garden, she wondered?
Submitted PP July ’17
I begged you not to clown around.
You said it was impossible. “Clowning around is just who I am”, you said.
It’s tattooed across my forehead. You can’t see it. It’s in some special ink but it glows whenever he is around like the trails left by bees and ants near a tasty snack or a particularly fertile wildflower meadow. Invisible to the human eye, it sends out a clear message to him. “Come on here, she’s ripe to swallow your honeyed crap today; drop your best line and wait.” I fall for it every time.
The day they said we couldn’t be friends, I stood and argued for you, for us. No-one could tell me who I could or could not have as a friend, I’d said. I challenged them. Demanded reasons and defied their logic. I raged at them. I fought for you.
You chose a different path. To protect me, to save our friendship, you said. You denied me to them. You hid me, shrouded me in secrecy, made me invisible so that they would forget. But, they did not forget and I remain hidden, shadowed, not quite invisible, denied, but still your friend.
“I think I am keener than you.”
She laughed but didn’t contradict.
Better he should think that
Than know the truth.
She couldn’t afford to offer a sliver of hope.
Much better for everyone
If he never found out how
Keen she really was.
too little motivation.
Things really can’t
I have not writ
one single word
much less a line or verse.
Day 4 Poem? 1
He needed four things, he said. “You, me, a bed and a day.” It sounded simple, but she knew better. Even if they could find a day, there would be no bed. And she wasn’t fooling herself. They could barely manage an hour together before he was called away. A whole day was a pipe dream. Still, it was a lovely dream, so she allowed herself to believe in it, just for a little while.
This month is Post-it Note Poetry Month, a very informal challenge designed to be a fun way to get people writing. There is no pressure, just an invite to write something small enough to fit on a post-it, everyday for the month.
I have joined in for the past 2 years but this year has proved difficult and I don’t quite know why. There is a lot going on at the moment and my writing has suffered. Not that I am a serious writer, in that I don’t make a living at it, it’s my hobby. I do it for pleasure and the pleasure hasn’t been there lately.
So I have not managed even a bad post-it poem everyday. However, I did manage this one inspired by a rosehip I spotted still clinging on against the odds in February.
It seemed a good fit for the Daily Post Photo Challenge.
What’s so good about science? I asked.
Atomic lego, you said. You said it sheepishly not quite meeting my eye.
It’s like building the universe with bricks, you said.
And you talked, of benzine rings and elements,
Carbons and hydrocarbons, oxygens and nitrogens.
And the words tumbled out from your mouth
Your hands scooping them up to mould them into
Something a poet might grasp.
Have you paper? Yes?
It’s like this…
And out they came. Diagrams spreading across the page like spider webs.
And you talked of ratios and rules. Of complex formulae.
Your eyes, bright, held mine.
It’s just like Lego, you said. Only the right pieces fit together.
A bit like you and I. You said.
Conversation. This is how it goes; I say something, then you say something. Ideally the thing you say would be related to the thing I said, but it’s possible that you’d respond with something random. The key then would be for me to absorb it and bounce it back to you, building a rally of somethings between us. Otherwise it’s just me batting words against a wall and that’s not a conversation, that’s a monologue.
It’s a while since I had something on Paragraph Planet though to be fair it’s a while since I submitted too. This was dashed off in frustration at various people who either never respond or just never really listen… It was featured on the website on Sat 7th Jan 2017.