PAD 28

Day28 NotTheNews

It’s Just Not News

It’s not news that night air finds solace
in black, or that time is a station of life,

or that water decants a sea green or that
man is a reflection of light. And it’s not

news that left can never be right or that
love’s dead virtues are a lamentable world,

or that a man and a woman’s body slip
together like notched Lincoln Logs.

It’s not news, I reckon, because
nothing is without its own music.





NovPad Day: 28, [blank] News


PAD 27

Day27 Airplane

A Return

When I walk,
I race.

I feel the Neanderthal weave
in my collar. Those old needs,
that crave for beasty meat,
a growl, a hook
from my caveman days.

And I know,
I’ve trod this chase.

I’m the hunt and blood,
of hands flayed from gathering.
Crimson those days, good riddance,
those ways gone, I say, as I step
through breeze, blossom drop,
broken leaves and snap stems.

But when a sweep brush of rain
settles on my skin,
and I am returned.






NovPAD Day: 27 “Appreciate” – this poem might seem a stretch for the prompt, but I was thinking (while walking the dog) how appreciative I am for simplicity. Image from UnSplash

The Games We Used to Play, by Viv Blake


Viv “Plays” at Red Wolf Journal. An enjoyable read …

Originally posted on :

The Games We Used to Play,
by Viv Blake

Plainsy, clapsy,
round the world
to backsy, with a ball
against the wall.

Hopscotch and skipping games,
ball games, marbles and the like
all out in the playground
in healthy cold fresh air.
Pontoon, rummy or Monopoly
On rainy days indoors.

Cowboys and Indians,
camping on the island.
Growing up to team games
like rugby touch and rounders
and flirting round the bike sheds.

Years of Bridge, and adult games
like chess, Mah Jong and Scrabble
before the babies came
with patacake
and this little piggy went to school,
to repeat the whole rigmarole.

Plainsy, clapsy,
round the world
to backsy, with a ball
against the wall…

Viv Blake is a late-developing poet and quilter living in rural France, recently published in  The Book of Love and Loss, and in the first issue of Gnarled Oak. Her work may be read at

View original 2 more words

PAD 25

Letters Home

I’ve taken a table near the fire,
a view on the lane to my left
and the front door straight on.
This table has a wobble, an ancient
weakness much like this pub.
And its customers. I order a coffee,
nod greetings to a woman sat on a sofa.
She shades her face from the fire’s
heat but seems content to stay seated.
My coffee arrives, I add milk, and
surrender my pen and lined paper
to my abstracted attention.
I write. I must.
Mother loves my letters home.







NovPAD Day: 25 “Love”

I’ll Be Anything But W

I’ll Be Anything But a W

When I was a girl, I never thought -
I’ll be a woman. That woman.
The right woman. Wrong woman.
Or anything starting with a W.
I was a sensible girl. I’d be a sister,
a niece, maybe an aunt, a mother,
someone’s grandmother, or maybe
Goldilocks or Red Riding Hood, but
never anything starting with a W.


PAD Day 24 “I’ll be ….

PAD 23: Alone

A Flutter with Anxiety

I have moments when I’m gripped
into a pirouette,
into a miserable spin,
and my thoughts spill cloudy
and flutter into drifts and stains.
Deeply jolting.
And still I don’t know why. It’s not
for neglect nor stray decision,
these feelings are like resolute children
that cling and fill my heart with chill,
for I am not as I always appear.
I must hold tight,
breathe strong,
and remember that I’m not alone.

Written for NovPAD Day: 23 “Alone”