The best conversations, she thought,
Were those that she held with herself.
She talked through problems, sought
Her own home truths. Kept true to herself.
She entwined dialog in circles that brought
Her inner reflections back on to herself.
And she was endlessly locked, caught
In a loop of self-reflection of herself.
Written for We Write Poems #203 “Shells”
Well, not really. I’m off to play with my grandchildren in warm tropical sunshine.
Winter Hung On Like A Heavy Mug
The sun rose,
an eggy yellow wobble,
tall and high above coursing rain.
Blown clouds, lacy and faceless
hanging on like a heavy mug
and bringing not the foggiest
trust, just failed tests of lore
and trials by weathering
this wintery form.
And those twelve men
of the jury that we appointed,
meteorologists, well …
they tapped twiggy sticks
into boney trees and up bushes
hoping to pry spring’s peep
but all remained quiet.
Sunday Whirl words: eggs, mug, peep, trust, test, trial, not, high, course, form, bring, blown and stick. The photo courtesy of Celi’s http://thekitchensgarden.com/All rights and ownership remain with Celi.
The wind peeled off her one wing,
the sun off her other,
and whenever she bathed
she thought herself
for the sun sinking
into the sea at night.
We Write Poems prompt this week is tell us your version of the story of a thousand birds from, The Conference of the Birds.
That Cramp in the Arch of Your Foot
Be still this twisted strangle,
My foot arched and begging
Like a curled silken cat. Step
There upon smoothed stone,
Soaked cold by night and
Find solace in the relief of ice.
Once Upon A Time When There Were Pockets
My mum made her own clothes,
Dresses with deep pockets she chose,
And because she never carried a handbag
Her pockets carried all the cash she had,
A bit of money, her red lippy and keys,
And off we’d go shopping, my mum and me.
Those were the days before handhelds,
Unless it was my small hand she held.
Written for Poetic Asides “handheld”, Painting by Van Gogh “Child and Women Pouring Coffee” 1890. wikiCommons fair usage.
A Rib for the Telling
Take this rib, fit
it tight in hand,
and stir ancient tales of old,
those told and later dipped
flicked in ink, that rib
now nib, writing long
songs of where hearts belong.
Written for Margo’s “Rib” prompt — Painting by Forrest Bess 1966 “Untitled” (c) subject to fair use.
The Future is Weather
The jet stream dipped
wobbled jelly ribbon,
and we braced our loins, ripped
by wind, wet through by rain.
All night it howled.
Pebbles flew the beach, whipped
ivy cottages and stoned panes
This is our future, we’re told,
a future of weather events.
Written for Resonance #7 photo from BBC Weather Service
Tattooed Aperture Codes
This is my afterlife of bones, played soul-
less like a rusted heart, it’s a song sad
and cold, shivering on a trombone’s slide.
I know this, this flesh on which I’ve written
and inscribed aperture code, this paradise
of tattooed secrets running silent as Nautilus.
Yes, this I know, that my breath keeps me
standing until I’m petitioned by God otherwise.
We Wordle #7
white kitty, fright kitty,
hello little kitty of mine,
button eyes, glassy eyes,
silent little kitty so fine,
done in pink, scent so sweet,
sickening as cherry wine,
scary kitty, staring kitty,
the horror is so sublime.
Artwork by Leslie Holt Artwork “Hello Masterpiece” Written to prompt at Quickly
A Waltz of Words
Hear their music, string sounds
that sing from falling stars,
whisper oohs on waltzing wind,
and traced thin angled shapes
on pages circled rain. Play song
uncurled and hooked by tails,
waltzing letters dropping
floating words. Solid. Sturdy.
Stones splashing sounds,
as they dance on slipper
shoes round and round. Arms
clasped, they’re chanting vowels,
this waltz of enchanted words.
Written for Creative Bloomings
White Sail Thoughts
This path is failed sinew. It’s no support
for the plague of virused thoughts that invade
my sleep. Errant dreams like balls dropping
heap thuds in my court, and I watch the days
passing, each a white sail of detached wonder.
Where is later from today, and where do those
tricks of cards, slight of mind and light reside.
Draw my silhouette on safe lawns so I can
watch brave clouds that frame the wind.
They are fleeting like this stormy mind,
this weathered soul, and we wade through
the wages of decisions, our shared party walls.
Sunday Whirl words: fail, support, virus, party, court, frame, later, mind, tricks, brave, wages, safe. Painting from wikiCommons, by Philip Guston
You love the rain, a roll in mud,
You bark at knocks, squeaks and thuds,
Little puppy, twelve years old, such fun
You’ve given, this heart you’ve won.
Written for dVerse Poets
Poppy Jaspers and Silver Scaled Bait
Mother, me, and my little sister,
we three walked the beach, our heads bowed
as if in prayer. We’re looking for poppy jaspers.
We search silken sand that’s dour damp
from tides, unshifting solid against our shoes,
and even though it’s summer, the weather
blew us inside out. Dad’s out there fishing
on a deep-sea trawler with taut lines strung
with silver scaled bait. That bait seemed fit
for dinner, but Mother said don’t be stupid.
Bait’s not meant for people.
Bait’s only meant for fish.
Bait’s so we can catch the fish.
Bait’s so we have a fish to eat.
I said nothing, my head down and quiet in my
thoughts, that we feed a fish a fish
so we can have a fish to eat.
Note: Poppy jasper is a gemstone with healing powers. It is quite rare now, but in the mid’50s they were as common as seashells on the beach. Painting from wikiCommons by Ruth Vollman
Her National Flag
Her hair was the colour
She twisted it like rope,
twirled it tight
around slender fingers,
coiled it into cinnamon roll curls,
and then let it unfurl —
her own national flag.
Poetic Asides – “Hair”
The Mystery of a Gun
What code is written,
what dusty old gene,
what leads little boys
to point sticks,
and shout “BANG!”
We Write Poems “Young Mysteries“
The Little Boy Who Couldn’t Say H
‘is ‘ands ‘eld up, two ‘alf-mast flags,
‘is legs ‘eavy
from the day’s ‘ike
but ‘is mother knew
that a little stroll,
‘ardly more than ‘alf a block,
would do ‘er boy no ‘arm.
And here’s the H-inclusive version:
The Little Boy Who Couldn’t Say H
his hands held up, two half-mast flags,
his legs heavy
from the day’s hike
but his mother knew
that a little stroll,
hardly more than half a block,
would do her boy no harm.
Margo’s prompt asked that we use the word arm in an unusual way. I chose the word ‘harm’ and then knocked off the ‘h’. Margo has great writing prompts, so to join the fun head over to http://margoroby.com/2014/02/11/poem-tryouts-to-arms/
When Love Lights the Colour of Eyes
Your eyes are the colour of summer,
that mossy green of light rainy slumber,
and there’s comfort in your glance,
a suggestion softened yet enhanced,
my delirium’s desire that you tease fuller
on this pyre of need. But what colour
will I see through filtered tears
when your eyes are forever shut closed…
Written to prompts at Qweekly and Joseph’s Resonance 6. Painting wikiCommons Denise Green ’76
Process notes: I am not fond of love poems, and I am not fond of lines with end rhymes. Both seem forced to me, unnatural. It’s like a monkey jumping up and down, squawking and howling … I always notice the yellow banana in its hand rather than the monkey. I hope you notice the monkey in this one, and disregard the banana.
The day limped, and pulled to daybreak’s door.
The sky still slept. Crimson, dyed edges of fire.
Calm were those early hours when pine spires
Stabbed at stars, green inky spells cast at clouds
And fiery frost spilled in breathed lines.
We wake, just as we woke ago from our oceans,
Skin cooled by sleep, and we poured our voices
Out as sweet cordial into choirs of arrival.
Based on 36 words: We Wordle #6
Painting by Morris Graves 1979 wikiCommons Paintings
A gaggle of letters gathered
like geese into a body of words,
meeting and greeting a crowded
list of honking loud inky sounds.
They swam a wistful stream
that flowed with routine plucks
at keys, Ws, Os and Rs and Ds,
type-tap-tap-type. A bell did ring
when it came to the end of the line,
a grasp and swipe of the carriage
returned from right to left, and they
watched those gutsy flying caps
chasing down bereft invisible sounds.
Sunday Whirl words: gather, pluck, type, ring, grasp, flow, list, invisible, stream, body, routine, gutsy
I am green stripe toothpaste squeezed between
two shopping trollies. Two women chat. Friends.
And they’re predisposed to my annoyance.
One moves, smiles a long stretched line
and pardons herself. The other woman
is a grim boulder. A granite slab of immovable
determination. She eyes me with a blink.
Like I am speaking a foreign language.
I reach behind her for a carton of eggs,
and curse myself for saying “pardon me”.