Today the prompt is basically repetition.
Nightmare.
Each night, most nights, but with no telling
When, a dream, a flash back to things that
Happened several years ago.
The sound of metal drinking on metal.
The endless ringing of the mobile phone
That was never answered.
The knock on the window and the sombre faces
At the door.
The soft words - I am afraid it is the worst news.
The long hours.
The kindness of a stranger.
The long hours.
The telephone calls the next day.
The long hours.
The careful planning about how things
Were to be managed, to make
Them feasible, one after another.
The well-meaning but destructive help of
Others who thought they knew best.
The long hours.
Realising, again and again and again that
This was real, and that it was not a bad
Dream, it was not a nightmare from which
I would awake.
The long hours.
It is as fresh today as it was then.
And the pain of added wounds has not faded.
The long hours.
There are things that cannot be put right.
Insults, hurt caused, angry words spoken.
The long hours.
Learning that in the end there is
No-one you can trust.
No-one.
The long hours.
The long hours.
(c) 2ndwitch
Monday 1 May 2017
Saturday 29 April 2017
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty-nine
Today the prompt is to take a word from a favourite poem. I have taken 'deer' from 'Hallaig' by Sorley MacLean.
Deer.
The long-night, stag-bellowing, antler crashing
Of the deer on the hill
Is now, as it ever was, the
Ever-lasting fight for prize,
One boy against another,
Vying for the brightest marble or the shiniest conker,
Wanting to be top-dog in the playground.
The running hinds, taunting and calling the calves
On the hillside, hiding in
Fresh green-bracken, waving leaved troops,
Standing sentinel whilst the wind
And rain march past in order,
Giving way only to the sun's passing glance
As it watches and warms the hinds and the calves.
And the bellowing-stag-antler-locked
Crashing continues, day after day after year after year.
Thus it ever was.
(c) 2ndwitch, 29/04/17
Deer.
The long-night, stag-bellowing, antler crashing
Of the deer on the hill
Is now, as it ever was, the
Ever-lasting fight for prize,
One boy against another,
Vying for the brightest marble or the shiniest conker,
Wanting to be top-dog in the playground.
The running hinds, taunting and calling the calves
On the hillside, hiding in
Fresh green-bracken, waving leaved troops,
Standing sentinel whilst the wind
And rain march past in order,
Giving way only to the sun's passing glance
As it watches and warms the hinds and the calves.
And the bellowing-stag-antler-locked
Crashing continues, day after day after year after year.
Thus it ever was.
(c) 2ndwitch, 29/04/17
Friday 28 April 2017
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty-eight
Today the prompt is 'dipodic'.
Guitar
Touch the strings
The music rings
A melody sings
Of painful stings
That all grief brings
And joyful wings
Are gone.
(c) 2ndwitch, 28/04/17
Guitar
Touch the strings
The music rings
A melody sings
Of painful stings
That all grief brings
And joyful wings
Are gone.
(c) 2ndwitch, 28/04/17
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty-seven
Today the prompt is taste.
Imitations.
The sugary crunchiness waves to you
From the bag on the
Supermarket shelf.
You walk past.
Then walk back.
Then on again, but no,
You give in and
Put one bag of those
Sugary crunchy doughnuts
In your trolley.
Back home you
Make a brew
And put one
On a plate.
Then you sit in
Your favourite chair
With a book to read.
You take one bite.
And then you
Remember.
THESE doughnuts are
Gloopy and laggy,
They lack crunch,
They have sweet and sickly
Gooey stuff
In the middle.
They are not
The sugary and crunchy
Doughnuts of your dreams.
To get the proper ones
You need to be at the
Seaside.
They need to come from
A booth on the front,
Fresh fried and
Piping hot, and
Dripping with
Sugar.
THOSE are the
Real Thing!
(c) 2ndwitch, 27/04/17
Imitations.
The sugary crunchiness waves to you
From the bag on the
Supermarket shelf.
You walk past.
Then walk back.
Then on again, but no,
You give in and
Put one bag of those
Sugary crunchy doughnuts
In your trolley.
Back home you
Make a brew
And put one
On a plate.
Then you sit in
Your favourite chair
With a book to read.
You take one bite.
And then you
Remember.
THESE doughnuts are
Gloopy and laggy,
They lack crunch,
They have sweet and sickly
Gooey stuff
In the middle.
They are not
The sugary and crunchy
Doughnuts of your dreams.
To get the proper ones
You need to be at the
Seaside.
They need to come from
A booth on the front,
Fresh fried and
Piping hot, and
Dripping with
Sugar.
THOSE are the
Real Thing!
(c) 2ndwitch, 27/04/17
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty-six
Today the prompt is to be an archeologist of the future.
The Horses.
I remember my grandfather telling me that his
Grandfather had learned to work with the horses.
When they came back, exactly as Edwin Muir predicted.
And now, today, I do not understand what there was
To be learned about them, for they work
Alongside us each day, never tiring and always, always
Understanding the intricacies of the jobs we have to do.
One day, at school, we were told we should bring a trowel
And wear older clothes that were hard-wearing, for we were
Going to dig at the site of the old farm, to see what we could find
About those long ago days, to see if we could discover how they
Had managed, in the days before the horses came back.
We dug slowly at first, looking aways for a find, a thing,
A something that would puzzle but also enlighten.
Then we got bored and someone went home for a shovel.
And the digging was faster now, with those of us not digging
Sifting through the soil, a rough job, but we wanted to be
The first to turn up a new find, that special thing.
We came back the next day, and the next as well.
Someone brought a horse and plough, and we turned
The ground to make it quicker and easier to dig.
Then there was a shout, a cry of shock.
The shovel had hit something metallic.~
We crowded round the hole, and those in the depths
Shovelled dirt to those on the surface, and
It was barrowed away and piled up until there
Was a new hill at the back of the old farm paddock.
Once the metal was clear of soil, we hooked ropes
Round it and used the horse to pull it up.
And that is how we found the tractor.
Some say that having tractors now would be quicker
And more efficient than the horses.
But others say not, else why would tractors have
Fallen into disuse, and why did the horses come back?
(c) 2ndwitch, 26/04/17
The Horses.
I remember my grandfather telling me that his
Grandfather had learned to work with the horses.
When they came back, exactly as Edwin Muir predicted.
And now, today, I do not understand what there was
To be learned about them, for they work
Alongside us each day, never tiring and always, always
Understanding the intricacies of the jobs we have to do.
One day, at school, we were told we should bring a trowel
And wear older clothes that were hard-wearing, for we were
Going to dig at the site of the old farm, to see what we could find
About those long ago days, to see if we could discover how they
Had managed, in the days before the horses came back.
We dug slowly at first, looking aways for a find, a thing,
A something that would puzzle but also enlighten.
Then we got bored and someone went home for a shovel.
And the digging was faster now, with those of us not digging
Sifting through the soil, a rough job, but we wanted to be
The first to turn up a new find, that special thing.
We came back the next day, and the next as well.
Someone brought a horse and plough, and we turned
The ground to make it quicker and easier to dig.
Then there was a shout, a cry of shock.
The shovel had hit something metallic.~
We crowded round the hole, and those in the depths
Shovelled dirt to those on the surface, and
It was barrowed away and piled up until there
Was a new hill at the back of the old farm paddock.
Once the metal was clear of soil, we hooked ropes
Round it and used the horse to pull it up.
And that is how we found the tractor.
Some say that having tractors now would be quicker
And more efficient than the horses.
But others say not, else why would tractors have
Fallen into disuse, and why did the horses come back?
(c) 2ndwitch, 26/04/17
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty five
Today the prompt is to explore a small space.
Comparison
The floor has flagstones, just like his did.
I have a shelf on one side, just like his did.
I have room to put things on the other side,
Exactly like his did.
Mine is not so today as his was.
Mine does not smell like his did.
Mine is not so complete.
I have never used sulphur.
But in so many ways it is just
Like his was.
(c) 2ndwitch, 25/04/17
Comparison
The floor has flagstones, just like his did.
I have a shelf on one side, just like his did.
I have room to put things on the other side,
Exactly like his did.
Mine is not so today as his was.
Mine does not smell like his did.
Mine is not so complete.
I have never used sulphur.
But in so many ways it is just
Like his was.
(c) 2ndwitch, 25/04/17
Thursday 27 April 2017
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty-four
Today the prompt is a poem of ekphrasis.
Margins.
In olden times the monks illustrated their
Handwritten manuscripts and also adorned them
With marginalia, pictures and visual jokes
To leaven the day of toil at a desk
In those days and in these days we still
See illustrated manuscripts of a sort whenever
We walk and notice the world around us.
We can walk in an industrial manuscript,
Decorated with brickwork, glass and concrete,
With graffiti to brighten the austerity, and
Natures little joke of dandelions and nettles.
Or we can walk in a rural manuscript
Decorated with the sunlight's glance on
The trees' new leaves, and where the waves
On the loch draw their own musical stave
To accompany the birdsong, and we
Can see the emerging bracken, curling
In imitation of life from outer space,
Teasing us with a promise of something
Spectacular and outlandish, and then
Bursting into fronds of well remembered green.
(c) 2ndwitch, 24/04/17
Margins.
In olden times the monks illustrated their
Handwritten manuscripts and also adorned them
With marginalia, pictures and visual jokes
To leaven the day of toil at a desk
In those days and in these days we still
See illustrated manuscripts of a sort whenever
We walk and notice the world around us.
We can walk in an industrial manuscript,
Decorated with brickwork, glass and concrete,
With graffiti to brighten the austerity, and
Natures little joke of dandelions and nettles.
Or we can walk in a rural manuscript
Decorated with the sunlight's glance on
The trees' new leaves, and where the waves
On the loch draw their own musical stave
To accompany the birdsong, and we
Can see the emerging bracken, curling
In imitation of life from outer space,
Teasing us with a promise of something
Spectacular and outlandish, and then
Bursting into fronds of well remembered green.
(c) 2ndwitch, 24/04/17
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty-three
Today the prompt is to write a double elevenie.
Twenty-two.
Happiness
Shed tears
Of laughter, smile
When gold shines through
Sunshine.
Sadness.
Shed tears
Of pain, smile
Through dark velvet blanket,
Midnight.
(c) 2ndwitch, 23/04/17
Twenty-two.
Happiness
Shed tears
Of laughter, smile
When gold shines through
Sunshine.
Sadness.
Shed tears
Of pain, smile
Through dark velvet blanket,
Midnight.
(c) 2ndwitch, 23/04/17
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty-two
Today the prompt is to write a georgic. And no, I'm not going to tell you what one is!
In Orkney they . . .
The land is good, and most suitable
To cultivation, but wherever
I went it was terribly neglected
And underutilised.
The stock were not thriving
As they were let to roam
Freely and not fed.
The crops were sparse, and
Sown only for personal use.
But what else could you expect from
Such a lazy and slovenly race?
The words of Walter Scott do
not paint a happy picture of
the Orcadian isles that I know and
love, but then he was writing as
a rich man with all the benefit of
privilege and wealth.
And some of his ideas were
actually relatively sound.
(c) 2ndwitch, 22/04/17
In Orkney they . . .
The land is good, and most suitable
To cultivation, but wherever
I went it was terribly neglected
And underutilised.
The stock were not thriving
As they were let to roam
Freely and not fed.
The crops were sparse, and
Sown only for personal use.
But what else could you expect from
Such a lazy and slovenly race?
The words of Walter Scott do
not paint a happy picture of
the Orcadian isles that I know and
love, but then he was writing as
a rich man with all the benefit of
privilege and wealth.
And some of his ideas were
actually relatively sound.
(c) 2ndwitch, 22/04/17
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty-one
Today the prompt is to write a poem based on or using overheard speech.
Off your trolley?
No, you can't.
Can you see if you can find four the same size?
I saw him the other day and he didn't say anything about it then.
Do they have any larger ones?
And then she told me to bend over.
Will you please stop dragging your feet?
Excuse me, can I get past you?
If it carries on I will have to go to the union.
Seven o'clock.
There's only one left.
You choose which one we get, darling.
Oh look, it's raining again.
(c) 2ndwitch, 21/04/17
Off your trolley?
No, you can't.
Can you see if you can find four the same size?
I saw him the other day and he didn't say anything about it then.
Do they have any larger ones?
And then she told me to bend over.
Will you please stop dragging your feet?
Excuse me, can I get past you?
If it carries on I will have to go to the union.
Seven o'clock.
There's only one left.
You choose which one we get, darling.
Oh look, it's raining again.
(c) 2ndwitch, 21/04/17
Monday 24 April 2017
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty
Today the prompt is to use the vocab of a sport or game of some sort.
Not Nemo . . .
My memory tells me that you are hidden here
Somewhere, the coordinates have not been
Changed, and I am doing my best to follow
The arrow until I get to the hidden treasure.
Or actually, I am possibly looking for a box,
Because however much I want to be FTF
Or part of a team that finds it, I know that
You are now forever a DNF that I cannot
Return and avenge.
(c) 2ndwitch, 20/04/17
Not Nemo . . .
My memory tells me that you are hidden here
Somewhere, the coordinates have not been
Changed, and I am doing my best to follow
The arrow until I get to the hidden treasure.
Or actually, I am possibly looking for a box,
Because however much I want to be FTF
Or part of a team that finds it, I know that
You are now forever a DNF that I cannot
Return and avenge.
(c) 2ndwitch, 20/04/17
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day nineteen
Today the challenge is to write about a creation myth.
In the books.
In the story books, and the ones that are given out in the
classroom at school during the lesson called biology or
possibly, if you are at a progressive sort of school that seems
to abound nowadays, in a lesson about health and stuff,
then mummy meets daddy, they get on very well and
eventually go and see a vicar or something, buy
expensive clothes, have a fancy day that costs a fortune and
where women dress up like exotic butterflies, men like
butlers from a West End farce, and three uncles and an aged
aunt drink too much and do the cancan, and the
lovely couple head off to somewhere like barbados or bognor
and finally discover what the stuff between their legs is for,
and come back with the mummy preggers and all is well.
It is a myth.
It does not account for the sex after too much vodka, or
the battle to win the attention of gorgeous gav from
slutty sal, or to get prim priscilla drunk enough to
persuade her into your bed and keep sober enough to
escape in the morning before she wakes up and
remembers who you are!
It does not account for sex on the back seat of a fiat 500,
or behind the market stall.
It does not account for that lad who promised the earth then
turned out to be married and who now denies
Any Responsibility.
Myth is not Real Life.
(c) 2ndwitch, 19/04/17
In the books.
In the story books, and the ones that are given out in the
classroom at school during the lesson called biology or
possibly, if you are at a progressive sort of school that seems
to abound nowadays, in a lesson about health and stuff,
then mummy meets daddy, they get on very well and
eventually go and see a vicar or something, buy
expensive clothes, have a fancy day that costs a fortune and
where women dress up like exotic butterflies, men like
butlers from a West End farce, and three uncles and an aged
aunt drink too much and do the cancan, and the
lovely couple head off to somewhere like barbados or bognor
and finally discover what the stuff between their legs is for,
and come back with the mummy preggers and all is well.
It is a myth.
It does not account for the sex after too much vodka, or
the battle to win the attention of gorgeous gav from
slutty sal, or to get prim priscilla drunk enough to
persuade her into your bed and keep sober enough to
escape in the morning before she wakes up and
remembers who you are!
It does not account for sex on the back seat of a fiat 500,
or behind the market stall.
It does not account for that lad who promised the earth then
turned out to be married and who now denies
Any Responsibility.
Myth is not Real Life.
(c) 2ndwitch, 19/04/17
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day eighteen
Today the prompt is to use neologisms.
As important as blood.
Each day is compete in itself
A challenge to be met
And overcome.
In the process it is
Necessary
To indulge in something
That possibly outranks
Blood in the service of
Life.
Team - when with milk.
Steam - when with milk and sugar.
(Although adding sugar
Is guaranteed to
Result in my out and
Our opprobrium!)
Cheam - if with spices.
Chea - if the chinese sort.
And
Givememymugofteanow
First thing in the morning.
Of course.
(c) 2ndwitch, 18/04/17
As important as blood.
Each day is compete in itself
A challenge to be met
And overcome.
In the process it is
Necessary
To indulge in something
That possibly outranks
Blood in the service of
Life.
Team - when with milk.
Steam - when with milk and sugar.
(Although adding sugar
Is guaranteed to
Result in my out and
Our opprobrium!)
Cheam - if with spices.
Chea - if the chinese sort.
And
Givememymugofteanow
First thing in the morning.
Of course.
(c) 2ndwitch, 18/04/17
Monday 17 April 2017
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day seventeen
Today the prompt is write a poetic nocturne.
Nocturne.
Stand still, now, just there,
Don't move, but listen.
Hold your breathe and
Hear the song that the trees
Are whispering in the night air.
Pause, now, where you are,
Walk no further on that path
Yet, until you have waited for
The tiny countermelodies of
Nighttime animals and birds,
Of bats and errant breezes,
And until you have heard them
And let them sing in your
Heart, with the trees.
At night, the lake is full of the
Tears you have shed, and the
Soft caress of the breathing wind
Plays like gossamer fingers over
The surface of your memories.
At night, the ache that held your
Daytime soul in thrall is freed
To waltz slowly with your thoughts,
And the words you left unsaid
Will flee away, cloud-borne and
Echoing in the vastness of the sky.
Stand still, at night, stand still
And listen.
(c) 2ndwitch, 17/04/17
Nocturne.
Stand still, now, just there,
Don't move, but listen.
Hold your breathe and
Hear the song that the trees
Are whispering in the night air.
Pause, now, where you are,
Walk no further on that path
Yet, until you have waited for
The tiny countermelodies of
Nighttime animals and birds,
Of bats and errant breezes,
And until you have heard them
And let them sing in your
Heart, with the trees.
At night, the lake is full of the
Tears you have shed, and the
Soft caress of the breathing wind
Plays like gossamer fingers over
The surface of your memories.
At night, the ache that held your
Daytime soul in thrall is freed
To waltz slowly with your thoughts,
And the words you left unsaid
Will flee away, cloud-borne and
Echoing in the vastness of the sky.
Stand still, at night, stand still
And listen.
(c) 2ndwitch, 17/04/17
Sunday 16 April 2017
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day sixteen
Today the prompt is a letter.
Dear Mother.
I am in receipt of your last, my thanks for
Your words of advice.
However, I fear I need to remind you that
It is now too late to regret the birth
Of several children, and that your repeated
Suggestions regarding abortions and the like
Would be construed as murder when the
Children in question are alive and in this world.
Yours sincerely, Daughter.
I am again in receipt of your letter, for which
I thank you for taking the time to write.
I am well aware that you consider the man I
Married to be a waste of space, however regardless
Of your views, I am married to him, and as he is the
Father of the children you have previously
Recommended I abort, then I think you will have to
Come to terms with the marriage as well as their existence.
Yours sincerely, Daughter.
I am in receipt of your recent, again I thank you
For expending your energy and ink in writing.
I do realise that if you had arranged to have an abortion
When you became pregnant with me there would
Not be this exchange of letters, and nor would
You be in a position to chastise me for my choices
And actions since I was born.
I acknowledge and accept that I am a disappointment to you,
But I fear that I am now too far down the path I am on
To return and change anything.
I would find it difficult and not appealing to become
A son that you might have preferred.
I gather from your comments that using my brain to study
And pursue education is not a commendable activity.
This is a pity, as study is one of the few things I am
Competent at.
Yours sincerely, Daughter.
I finally got the telephone call last night, dear Mother,
Although the initial calls were ignored as someone
Was at the time harassing me over the return of some
Music, and was refusing to accept that it would be sent as
Soon as we could organise the posting. I think he wanted
Me to get in the car and drive 30 miles to deliver it there and then.
Anyway, it meant I missed the call from the hospital that
Told of your demise.
So in death, as in all of my life, I failed you.
And I will simply have to live with that knowledge.
Yours sincerely,
The fat, ugly, useless, failure of a daughter that you created.
(c) 2ndwith, 16/04/17
Dear Mother.
I am in receipt of your last, my thanks for
Your words of advice.
However, I fear I need to remind you that
It is now too late to regret the birth
Of several children, and that your repeated
Suggestions regarding abortions and the like
Would be construed as murder when the
Children in question are alive and in this world.
Yours sincerely, Daughter.
I am again in receipt of your letter, for which
I thank you for taking the time to write.
I am well aware that you consider the man I
Married to be a waste of space, however regardless
Of your views, I am married to him, and as he is the
Father of the children you have previously
Recommended I abort, then I think you will have to
Come to terms with the marriage as well as their existence.
Yours sincerely, Daughter.
I am in receipt of your recent, again I thank you
For expending your energy and ink in writing.
I do realise that if you had arranged to have an abortion
When you became pregnant with me there would
Not be this exchange of letters, and nor would
You be in a position to chastise me for my choices
And actions since I was born.
I acknowledge and accept that I am a disappointment to you,
But I fear that I am now too far down the path I am on
To return and change anything.
I would find it difficult and not appealing to become
A son that you might have preferred.
I gather from your comments that using my brain to study
And pursue education is not a commendable activity.
This is a pity, as study is one of the few things I am
Competent at.
Yours sincerely, Daughter.
I finally got the telephone call last night, dear Mother,
Although the initial calls were ignored as someone
Was at the time harassing me over the return of some
Music, and was refusing to accept that it would be sent as
Soon as we could organise the posting. I think he wanted
Me to get in the car and drive 30 miles to deliver it there and then.
Anyway, it meant I missed the call from the hospital that
Told of your demise.
So in death, as in all of my life, I failed you.
And I will simply have to live with that knowledge.
Yours sincerely,
The fat, ugly, useless, failure of a daughter that you created.
(c) 2ndwith, 16/04/17
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day fifteen.
Today the prompt is about being halfway, or in the middle.
Halfway.
Wherever you are
You are halfway
To somewhere.
Wherever you were
You were halfway
To here or there.
Where you will be
You will be halfway
To the next place.
Halfway is not
The beginning
Or the end.
Halfway is
A movable feast
Between then and then.
The past is gone
It was halfway
Between the distant
Past
And the recent
Past.
The future is
Halfway to the
Distant future.
So, whatever you think,
Wherever you imagine
Yourself to be,
You are always
Only
Halfway
There.
(c) 2ndwitch, 15/04/17
Halfway.
Wherever you are
You are halfway
To somewhere.
Wherever you were
You were halfway
To here or there.
Where you will be
You will be halfway
To the next place.
Halfway is not
The beginning
Or the end.
Halfway is
A movable feast
Between then and then.
The past is gone
It was halfway
Between the distant
Past
And the recent
Past.
The future is
Halfway to the
Distant future.
So, whatever you think,
Wherever you imagine
Yourself to be,
You are always
Only
Halfway
There.
(c) 2ndwitch, 15/04/17
Friday 14 April 2017
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day fourteen
Today the challenge is to write a clerihew.
Running away from Waverley!
The young Walter Scott
When on holiday from court
Went to sea in the Pharos with a party of men
To view many lighthouses then back home again!
(And in doing so avoided the furore over the whether or not he wrote the Waverley novels!)
(c) 2ndwitch, 14/04/17
Running away from Waverley!
The young Walter Scott
When on holiday from court
Went to sea in the Pharos with a party of men
To view many lighthouses then back home again!
(And in doing so avoided the furore over the whether or not he wrote the Waverley novels!)
(c) 2ndwitch, 14/04/17
Thursday 13 April 2017
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day thirteen
Today the prompt is to write a ghazal. In my case I shall write something that is a bit like one, if I'm lucky.
The Guitarist.
The slender body of the musical man is rapt and focussed on strings;
His mind entertains no existence other than this, the tautness of strings.
The fingers caress the metalled tension, they stroke and strike, picking the tune
The rhythm of the chords walking the melody on the path of the strings.
The head is bent, hair falls across his eyes, hides the echoing pain of life
A light, silver then gold, that flashes in time with the melody of strings.
The intimacy shimmers, one man makes love to the guitar, to music
And caresses from their tightened length the thrill of the climax of the strings.
There are no words, no phrases, that can supplant this symbiosis of man
And instrument, no witchery can replace the ecstasy of the strings.
(c) 2ndwitch, 13/04/17
Over the years I have come to love the music of the guitar more and more. There is an exquisite sense of perfection in the mastery of human over strings, and this intrigues and beguiles me. There are some guitarists who are one with the instrument, there are some for whom the instrument is their lover, and as I once unfortunately described the sublime Martin Simpson . . . there are those who do both!!!
This poem is about the relationship between a man and his instrument - however good his voice, however good a singer, for me the guitar playing comes first. It could be Martin Simpson, it could easily be Michael Chapman, it could be John Doyle, it could be Steve Tilston, but this poem is actually about watching and listening to Ivan Drever.
The Guitarist.
The slender body of the musical man is rapt and focussed on strings;
His mind entertains no existence other than this, the tautness of strings.
The fingers caress the metalled tension, they stroke and strike, picking the tune
The rhythm of the chords walking the melody on the path of the strings.
The head is bent, hair falls across his eyes, hides the echoing pain of life
A light, silver then gold, that flashes in time with the melody of strings.
The intimacy shimmers, one man makes love to the guitar, to music
And caresses from their tightened length the thrill of the climax of the strings.
There are no words, no phrases, that can supplant this symbiosis of man
And instrument, no witchery can replace the ecstasy of the strings.
(c) 2ndwitch, 13/04/17
Over the years I have come to love the music of the guitar more and more. There is an exquisite sense of perfection in the mastery of human over strings, and this intrigues and beguiles me. There are some guitarists who are one with the instrument, there are some for whom the instrument is their lover, and as I once unfortunately described the sublime Martin Simpson . . . there are those who do both!!!
This poem is about the relationship between a man and his instrument - however good his voice, however good a singer, for me the guitar playing comes first. It could be Martin Simpson, it could easily be Michael Chapman, it could be John Doyle, it could be Steve Tilston, but this poem is actually about watching and listening to Ivan Drever.
Wednesday 12 April 2017
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twelve
Today the prompt is to use alliteration and assonance.
The cold of warm embrace.
Deep and dark, the moonlit hours dance
Mournfully towards the morning, the
Morning's soft and soulless light scatters
Shadows across the grey and ghostly landscape
Of the day, the darkling day.
The thin and threadbare tapestry
Tells tales of what was, and now what
Will never be; the tapestry rent, riven
Right from hem to hem, and cast aside
Discarded, never again to hang
Upon the castle wall.
Airborne, forlorn, the dreams and hope
Hang now in tatters, the flag at half-mast
And music muted into disharmonious murmer.
Perhaps, perchance, one day, some day, there
Will be a way to bring back to life the broken
Promises, but in the meantime, the dreamtime
Nightmare is sharp and cutting, the window-fingers
That keep on tapping never end.
(c) 2ndwitch, 12/04/17
The cold of warm embrace.
Deep and dark, the moonlit hours dance
Mournfully towards the morning, the
Morning's soft and soulless light scatters
Shadows across the grey and ghostly landscape
Of the day, the darkling day.
The thin and threadbare tapestry
Tells tales of what was, and now what
Will never be; the tapestry rent, riven
Right from hem to hem, and cast aside
Discarded, never again to hang
Upon the castle wall.
Airborne, forlorn, the dreams and hope
Hang now in tatters, the flag at half-mast
And music muted into disharmonious murmer.
Perhaps, perchance, one day, some day, there
Will be a way to bring back to life the broken
Promises, but in the meantime, the dreamtime
Nightmare is sharp and cutting, the window-fingers
That keep on tapping never end.
(c) 2ndwitch, 12/04/17
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day eleven
Today the prompt is to write a 'bop'. No, I'd never heard of it either, but apparently it is a thing.
Remember the . . .
I am but a storm-tossed leaf, floating back and forth
On the angry burn of someone else's life.
I am the shuttlecock, hit with force from left to right
And back from right to left again.
I can see my goal, but am kept so far away, and
Having no money makes it all the harder.
And the words that danced the reel are dancing still.
I try to call the players out, to listen to my tale, to
Not forget that plans, once made, should not be
Forgotten; but I am not of note in this, and the pain
That other humans use to play a vicious game
Blinds them to the pain that is caused for me, and
Then I am dragged in to a dispute that is not mine
And each thinks that I will side with the other
When I only side now with myself.
And the words that danced the reel are dancing still.
I know now that I cannot walk this path without
Hard words, and I know that hard words could
Have the effect of moving me further from my simple
Goal, but yet, do I not have the right to be heard, and
To be known and be a constant not part of the fight.
Things are not easy, and there is no answer.
And the words that danced the reel are dancing still.
(c) 2ndwitch, 11/04/17
Remember the . . .
I am but a storm-tossed leaf, floating back and forth
On the angry burn of someone else's life.
I am the shuttlecock, hit with force from left to right
And back from right to left again.
I can see my goal, but am kept so far away, and
Having no money makes it all the harder.
And the words that danced the reel are dancing still.
I try to call the players out, to listen to my tale, to
Not forget that plans, once made, should not be
Forgotten; but I am not of note in this, and the pain
That other humans use to play a vicious game
Blinds them to the pain that is caused for me, and
Then I am dragged in to a dispute that is not mine
And each thinks that I will side with the other
When I only side now with myself.
And the words that danced the reel are dancing still.
I know now that I cannot walk this path without
Hard words, and I know that hard words could
Have the effect of moving me further from my simple
Goal, but yet, do I not have the right to be heard, and
To be known and be a constant not part of the fight.
Things are not easy, and there is no answer.
And the words that danced the reel are dancing still.
(c) 2ndwitch, 11/04/17
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day ten
Today the prompt is to write a portrait of someone important to me.
To my granddaughter.
I cannot but be sad to see the way that you know are so like I was then,
But there is no changing the disposition of genetics, no adjusting of the
Genetic code to make things be different. And you have the curl in
Your hair, the twist that sometimes turns against the rest.
You have the eyes that gaze with wonder and a knowledge beyond
The understanding of those of us who watch you as you wander
Through this broken and damaged world.
In your laughter lies the key to reparation, the key to
Mending that which is so broken, and in your smile
Lies balm and peace to end all wars.
As time moves on you will grow and learn, and perhaps, just perhaps
You will lose some of the wisdom that you have now but cannot
Give words to express; or perhaps you will keep it, adding,
Day after day to its sum, and gaining only that which can
Build and heal, and make once again a world where all
Can live together in friendship, where fishes swim the rivers
And the seas, and where plants and man live with animals
In one great complementary global union of valuing difference.
In your hands is the future, guard it well.
(c) 2ndwitch, 10/04/17
To my granddaughter.
I cannot but be sad to see the way that you know are so like I was then,
But there is no changing the disposition of genetics, no adjusting of the
Genetic code to make things be different. And you have the curl in
Your hair, the twist that sometimes turns against the rest.
You have the eyes that gaze with wonder and a knowledge beyond
The understanding of those of us who watch you as you wander
Through this broken and damaged world.
In your laughter lies the key to reparation, the key to
Mending that which is so broken, and in your smile
Lies balm and peace to end all wars.
As time moves on you will grow and learn, and perhaps, just perhaps
You will lose some of the wisdom that you have now but cannot
Give words to express; or perhaps you will keep it, adding,
Day after day to its sum, and gaining only that which can
Build and heal, and make once again a world where all
Can live together in friendship, where fishes swim the rivers
And the seas, and where plants and man live with animals
In one great complementary global union of valuing difference.
In your hands is the future, guard it well.
(c) 2ndwitch, 10/04/17
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day nine
Today the prompt is a nice line poem. Some examples are given, but I am going my own way!
Nine seasons.
Bare twig, bare branch, bare tree,
Dead leaf, fallen, and fading
Thin wind, lazy wind, cold wind.
Soft caress of snow, a winter fee
To pay for promises spring making,
And slowly, 'neath white shroud begins
The spring's warm promise, buzzing bee
And summer sun, green leaf parading
Marching tall the trees beckon autumn in.
(c) 2ndwitch, 09/04/17
Nine seasons.
Bare twig, bare branch, bare tree,
Dead leaf, fallen, and fading
Thin wind, lazy wind, cold wind.
Soft caress of snow, a winter fee
To pay for promises spring making,
And slowly, 'neath white shroud begins
The spring's warm promise, buzzing bee
And summer sun, green leaf parading
Marching tall the trees beckon autumn in.
(c) 2ndwitch, 09/04/17
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day eight
Today the prompt is to use repetition.
My England.
The limestone edges, sculpted by water
Are timeless, changing and never-changing.
The caves and chasms that lie beneath
The heather and bracken of the moorland
Are timeless, changing and never-changing.
The white clouds, chasing each other across
The vast northern skies, sun-kissed and rain-washed
Are timeless, changing and never-changing.
This land.
Our land.
Limestone land.
Granite land.
Heather land.
Forest land.
Sea strand land.
Wheat field land.
High crag land.
Not land of blood.
Not land of flags.
Not land of names.
Not land of religion.
Not land of skin shade.
Not land of empire.
Not land of slaves.
This England.
(c) 2ndwitch, 08/04/17
My thanks to the writing of Hamish Henderson and of Maggie Holland for my inspiration. My 'thanks' to Brexit for coalescing my thoughts.
My England.
The limestone edges, sculpted by water
Are timeless, changing and never-changing.
The caves and chasms that lie beneath
The heather and bracken of the moorland
Are timeless, changing and never-changing.
The white clouds, chasing each other across
The vast northern skies, sun-kissed and rain-washed
Are timeless, changing and never-changing.
This land.
Our land.
Limestone land.
Granite land.
Heather land.
Forest land.
Sea strand land.
Wheat field land.
High crag land.
Not land of blood.
Not land of flags.
Not land of names.
Not land of religion.
Not land of skin shade.
Not land of empire.
Not land of slaves.
This England.
(c) 2ndwitch, 08/04/17
My thanks to the writing of Hamish Henderson and of Maggie Holland for my inspiration. My 'thanks' to Brexit for coalescing my thoughts.
Friday 7 April 2017
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day seven
Today the challenge is to write a 'fortuitous' poem. I cannot say it fascinates me, but . . .
Only in my dreams.
When the wind touches your hair with the lightest of touches;
When your tea is just that bit too hot for you to drink;
When you go to bed after a good day, and feel the caress of the sheets;
Like these, one day, a thought passes into your mind, and you
Watch the dogs racing down the disused road, fighting
Over a stick, rolling and tumbling as only dogs can;
And you glance down when you get back into the driving seat
Of your so-practical estate car, and see the pen that you thought
Had vanished in the pocket of the rather seedy salesman who
Had spent ten minutes trying to convince you to buy double glazing.
And you put the pen, safely, into your pocket,
And drive home to your already double-glazed house.
But even that does not erase the memory that drifted into
Your conscious mind, and it does not erase the echo
Of laughter that you will never ever hear again.
(c) 2ndwitch, 07/04/17
Only in my dreams.
When the wind touches your hair with the lightest of touches;
When your tea is just that bit too hot for you to drink;
When you go to bed after a good day, and feel the caress of the sheets;
Like these, one day, a thought passes into your mind, and you
Watch the dogs racing down the disused road, fighting
Over a stick, rolling and tumbling as only dogs can;
And you glance down when you get back into the driving seat
Of your so-practical estate car, and see the pen that you thought
Had vanished in the pocket of the rather seedy salesman who
Had spent ten minutes trying to convince you to buy double glazing.
And you put the pen, safely, into your pocket,
And drive home to your already double-glazed house.
But even that does not erase the memory that drifted into
Your conscious mind, and it does not erase the echo
Of laughter that you will never ever hear again.
(c) 2ndwitch, 07/04/17
Thursday 6 April 2017
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day six
Today the challenge is to write a poem that looks at something from different perspectives.
Turning Point.
One day
Is sufficient
Now.
There is waiting
Soft air
No noise.
A bustle
Of nurses
Attend.
Unexpected
The knock
On the door.
The long
And slow
Decline.
I
Have said
My goodbyes.
(c) 2ndwitch, 06/04/17
Turning Point.
One day
Is sufficient
Now.
There is waiting
Soft air
No noise.
A bustle
Of nurses
Attend.
Unexpected
The knock
On the door.
The long
And slow
Decline.
I
Have said
My goodbyes.
(c) 2ndwitch, 06/04/17
Wednesday 5 April 2017
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day five
The challenge today is to write a poem based in the natural world.
Fractured and formed.
The rocks, laid down in an ice age so many years ago, are bare to the atmosphere
And the rivening force of the rain and snows, the wind driving particles upwards
Into the atmosphere, and seeding the storming clouds with miniature rocks
And airborne gravel; those rocks, forming the river bed and banks,
And guiding the torrents from mountain to sea, ox-bowed lakes
And random pools, swirling and spinning in the whirlpool of life.
Your life was part of those rocks, part of the limestone pavements
And the granite cliffs, part of the river bed and the grey-cast screes,
Your breath was interwoven in the soaring trees and waving bracken,
And your laugh carried on the last breath of the evening breeze.
(c) 2ndwitch, 05/04/17
Fractured and formed.
The rocks, laid down in an ice age so many years ago, are bare to the atmosphere
And the rivening force of the rain and snows, the wind driving particles upwards
Into the atmosphere, and seeding the storming clouds with miniature rocks
And airborne gravel; those rocks, forming the river bed and banks,
And guiding the torrents from mountain to sea, ox-bowed lakes
And random pools, swirling and spinning in the whirlpool of life.
Your life was part of those rocks, part of the limestone pavements
And the granite cliffs, part of the river bed and the grey-cast screes,
Your breath was interwoven in the soaring trees and waving bracken,
And your laugh carried on the last breath of the evening breeze.
(c) 2ndwitch, 05/04/17
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day four
Today the prompt is to post an enigmatic variation, where something is alluded to but not actually described.
Long nights.
The soft feathered shroud of evening falls,
As it is always said to do, although perhaps
It would be better to suggest that it 'settles'
Or 'alights', as falling has a heaviness to it
That belies the reality of dusk, of
Daylight gate, however when it is a shroud
The perhaps it does fall, it does land
Heavily and solidly on the land?
Long hours, long dreams, a reminiscence
That cannot be denied, a dream that spins
And circles without pity, falling, falling,
Yes, indeed falling, a chasm of darkness
And repair, with a soundtrack of horror
And gothic nightmare interwoven in
The fabric of existence.
I do not care if the gloves are white
Or non-existent, they will tap on my
Window again and again, and the
News will repeat without mercy.
(c) 2ndwitch, 04/04/2017
Long nights.
The soft feathered shroud of evening falls,
As it is always said to do, although perhaps
It would be better to suggest that it 'settles'
Or 'alights', as falling has a heaviness to it
That belies the reality of dusk, of
Daylight gate, however when it is a shroud
The perhaps it does fall, it does land
Heavily and solidly on the land?
Long hours, long dreams, a reminiscence
That cannot be denied, a dream that spins
And circles without pity, falling, falling,
Yes, indeed falling, a chasm of darkness
And repair, with a soundtrack of horror
And gothic nightmare interwoven in
The fabric of existence.
I do not care if the gloves are white
Or non-existent, they will tap on my
Window again and again, and the
News will repeat without mercy.
(c) 2ndwitch, 04/04/2017
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day three
Today the challenge is to write an elegy.
This post is back posted due to being elsewhere and busy.
Given my intention to use this month to more closely examine some painful stuffs, this prompt is both easy and hard. I am sure my reader who knows me will expect one specific subject here, but I am not doing that - I might in some way by the end, but not yet.
Let's do it.
The power of the internal combustion engine always held you in thrall
And on a fine day, any trip, any trip at all
Would be met with a smile
And 'Let's do it'.
So we did all sorts, you and I, from the Lakes to the Dales
And down the Midlands and Wales;
And as the bike ate the miles
You said 'Let's do it.'
We stopped for a bun and a mug of strong driver's tea
Or sometimes we stopped for the scenery.
Wherever we were, whatever beguiled,
You'd say 'Let's do it'.
But it was not so easy, we did not always concur
And plans and ideas caused rancour.
We argued and bickered and riled
As you said 'Let's do it'.
You gave up on the bike, bought a fancy new car
And thought we could us it to travel afar,
But I had exams, and all the while
You'd say 'Let's do it'.
In time we decided, as we grew and matured, to try life apart
And our last words were in anger, to sting and to smart.
And no longer a couple for a period of trial
You said 'Let's do it'.
One week on from that last heated affray
You set out to visit me on Valentine's Day
You never arrived, two of you died
And so we've never done it again.
(c) 2ndwitch, 03/04/2017
(The two who died were the subject of the elegy and the driver of the bus that was in the collision. I will always grieve more for that innocent family man who died because of carelessness than I actually do for my ex.)
This post is back posted due to being elsewhere and busy.
Given my intention to use this month to more closely examine some painful stuffs, this prompt is both easy and hard. I am sure my reader who knows me will expect one specific subject here, but I am not doing that - I might in some way by the end, but not yet.
Let's do it.
The power of the internal combustion engine always held you in thrall
And on a fine day, any trip, any trip at all
Would be met with a smile
And 'Let's do it'.
So we did all sorts, you and I, from the Lakes to the Dales
And down the Midlands and Wales;
And as the bike ate the miles
You said 'Let's do it.'
We stopped for a bun and a mug of strong driver's tea
Or sometimes we stopped for the scenery.
Wherever we were, whatever beguiled,
You'd say 'Let's do it'.
But it was not so easy, we did not always concur
And plans and ideas caused rancour.
We argued and bickered and riled
As you said 'Let's do it'.
You gave up on the bike, bought a fancy new car
And thought we could us it to travel afar,
But I had exams, and all the while
You'd say 'Let's do it'.
In time we decided, as we grew and matured, to try life apart
And our last words were in anger, to sting and to smart.
And no longer a couple for a period of trial
You said 'Let's do it'.
One week on from that last heated affray
You set out to visit me on Valentine's Day
You never arrived, two of you died
And so we've never done it again.
(c) 2ndwitch, 03/04/2017
(The two who died were the subject of the elegy and the driver of the bus that was in the collision. I will always grieve more for that innocent family man who died because of carelessness than I actually do for my ex.)
Sunday 2 April 2017
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day two
Today the prompt is to write a recipe as a poem.
Foolproof recipe for a broken person.
The ingredients for a broken person are varied,
And various, changing depending on the season
And year of initial conception.
In general it is best to have two parents, one
Of either gender, as this is the simplest
Method of creating the initial mixture,
But of course there are alternative approaches
That also result in a small human person.
Once the person is created, then the processing begins:
A balanced and unbroken person will have been
Raised gently, and will know they are loved
So if your intention is to guarantee that the
Person is demonstrably broken, then rough
And thoughtless handling is the first stage.
Make sure that they are not hugged too often
And that they are punished for crying or
Being unsure.
If the growing small person becomes inquisitive
As they discover a wider world, shout at them
Often, and smack them when the chance arises.
Once the small person is large enough to venture
Into the company of others they are
Ready for the initial proving:
Send the child to places that frighten them, and
Do not forget to explain to those in charge that
This child is 'trouble' and must be watched carefully.
Ensure that the place chosen incorporates a wide
Range of activities that the child is unhappy about,
And be sure that they are compulsory.
A year or so in this environment will
Be sufficient to have the child ready to be knocked back:
Take the child from the place you first chose and
Send them to school.
Be sure they are already different, perhaps 'hothouse'
Them into early reading, or focus on musical skills,
Anything like that to make them stand out from
The crowd, and to allow their peers and teachers
To ridicule them for showing off.
If that is not possible, you can encourage the
Peers and teachers to see them as thick and stupid
And thus also make ridicule appropriate.
This knocking back will then allow the rising:
Take the child from the school that they have
Slowly and painfully learned to negotiate and
Send them to another, larger school, with many
More children and rules and uniform and many
More potential pitfalls and problems.
At this stage there is a danger that some teachers
Will see the child as not broken, and as worthy of
Positive attention, so in compensation, if this happens,
The parents need to be extremely careful to maintain
The attitude of criticism and disapproval in the home.
During this rising, finding the subjects in which the
Child might excel allows further damage to be
Inflicted by not allowing them to study these things.
Once these years of schooling are ended, the risen
Child is now ready for baking:
Force the child to go to college or other establishment
That will allow them to learn skills for a career.
Be careful to reinforce that they are not as good as
Any other child there, and remind them at all times
That they are an inferior person who is not worthy of
Help or support, and who is unlikely to ever meet
Someone who loves them, as they are unlovable - their
Life to this point has surely taught them that - or
To be employed as any employer will immediately
See through the act and recognise the failure that
They really and truly are.
For best effect, the baking should be interrupted
Midway, and the person removed from the 'oven'
And subjected to some form of major life change
Like pregnancy or serious illness.
The person is now ready for attempted consumption:
Take a sharp knife of ridicule, a testing of means
Or worth, and slice into the person, thus
Bringing to public view the uncooked and
Mangled interior, the raw dough, grey with
Manipulation, and the rotten, fetid smell.
Cast the person to one side as useless, and
Good only to be beaten, or raped or ignored.
Then, in due course, when the broken person is
Destitute and on the streets, a fat politician can come
Along and condemn them for their lack of application
And poor life choices, and make sure they are blamed
For all the ills of society.
(c) 2ndwith, 02/04/17
Foolproof recipe for a broken person.
The ingredients for a broken person are varied,
And various, changing depending on the season
And year of initial conception.
In general it is best to have two parents, one
Of either gender, as this is the simplest
Method of creating the initial mixture,
But of course there are alternative approaches
That also result in a small human person.
Once the person is created, then the processing begins:
A balanced and unbroken person will have been
Raised gently, and will know they are loved
So if your intention is to guarantee that the
Person is demonstrably broken, then rough
And thoughtless handling is the first stage.
Make sure that they are not hugged too often
And that they are punished for crying or
Being unsure.
If the growing small person becomes inquisitive
As they discover a wider world, shout at them
Often, and smack them when the chance arises.
Once the small person is large enough to venture
Into the company of others they are
Ready for the initial proving:
Send the child to places that frighten them, and
Do not forget to explain to those in charge that
This child is 'trouble' and must be watched carefully.
Ensure that the place chosen incorporates a wide
Range of activities that the child is unhappy about,
And be sure that they are compulsory.
A year or so in this environment will
Be sufficient to have the child ready to be knocked back:
Take the child from the place you first chose and
Send them to school.
Be sure they are already different, perhaps 'hothouse'
Them into early reading, or focus on musical skills,
Anything like that to make them stand out from
The crowd, and to allow their peers and teachers
To ridicule them for showing off.
If that is not possible, you can encourage the
Peers and teachers to see them as thick and stupid
And thus also make ridicule appropriate.
This knocking back will then allow the rising:
Take the child from the school that they have
Slowly and painfully learned to negotiate and
Send them to another, larger school, with many
More children and rules and uniform and many
More potential pitfalls and problems.
At this stage there is a danger that some teachers
Will see the child as not broken, and as worthy of
Positive attention, so in compensation, if this happens,
The parents need to be extremely careful to maintain
The attitude of criticism and disapproval in the home.
During this rising, finding the subjects in which the
Child might excel allows further damage to be
Inflicted by not allowing them to study these things.
Once these years of schooling are ended, the risen
Child is now ready for baking:
Force the child to go to college or other establishment
That will allow them to learn skills for a career.
Be careful to reinforce that they are not as good as
Any other child there, and remind them at all times
That they are an inferior person who is not worthy of
Help or support, and who is unlikely to ever meet
Someone who loves them, as they are unlovable - their
Life to this point has surely taught them that - or
To be employed as any employer will immediately
See through the act and recognise the failure that
They really and truly are.
For best effect, the baking should be interrupted
Midway, and the person removed from the 'oven'
And subjected to some form of major life change
Like pregnancy or serious illness.
The person is now ready for attempted consumption:
Take a sharp knife of ridicule, a testing of means
Or worth, and slice into the person, thus
Bringing to public view the uncooked and
Mangled interior, the raw dough, grey with
Manipulation, and the rotten, fetid smell.
Cast the person to one side as useless, and
Good only to be beaten, or raped or ignored.
Then, in due course, when the broken person is
Destitute and on the streets, a fat politician can come
Along and condemn them for their lack of application
And poor life choices, and make sure they are blamed
For all the ills of society.
(c) 2ndwith, 02/04/17
Saturday 1 April 2017
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day one.
The prompt is to adopt the style of Kay Ryan, and write in a tight, rhymed and pointed fashion.
The bed
Is really not
The answer.
Play dead
And tie knots,
A dancer
On the stage
Of life, and stars
Reproach
With hissing rage.
A Grecian vase
Is both
Of beauty
And of grace.
Your eyes
Transmute it
Into space
And silence cries
A single note
Of pain
That lasts forever.
(c) 2ndwitch, 01/04/17
The bed
Is really not
The answer.
Play dead
And tie knots,
A dancer
On the stage
Of life, and stars
Reproach
With hissing rage.
A Grecian vase
Is both
Of beauty
And of grace.
Your eyes
Transmute it
Into space
And silence cries
A single note
Of pain
That lasts forever.
(c) 2ndwitch, 01/04/17
Transition.
I have been reading the NaPoWriMo blog and have noticed that it has a choice of names. I have never really thought about where it was based, but of course it is American.
I am not American.
So I note that the alternative name is 'GloPoWriMo' - Global Poetry Writing Month. Mmm, this makes some sense.
But only some, as why can it not be national to where I live in Scotland just as much as it is to America?
Good question, old woman, good question.
So I am undecided, but this year I shall participate in GLOPoWriMo . . . but I shall leave the past years as NaPoWriMo, and I shall consider at the end where next.
And so to my preliminary.
This year I am determined to bring into the open some of the darker side of my mind, to write about things that have long remained hidden.
You see, I should have done this yesterday but did not for a range of reasons, so today I have to 'do' two posts. The first is this, and it now has to include a haibun.
The form appeals to me.
And the title works up there and for the haibun.
Transition.
The day had been normal and life had continued apace. As ever, she was late leaving, but only to join friends for the evening before going to work. It wasn't raining.
Tyres on empty road
Dusk darkened to owl hours
Killer on wrong side.
(c) 2ndwitch, 01/04/17
I am not American.
So I note that the alternative name is 'GloPoWriMo' - Global Poetry Writing Month. Mmm, this makes some sense.
But only some, as why can it not be national to where I live in Scotland just as much as it is to America?
Good question, old woman, good question.
So I am undecided, but this year I shall participate in GLOPoWriMo . . . but I shall leave the past years as NaPoWriMo, and I shall consider at the end where next.
And so to my preliminary.
This year I am determined to bring into the open some of the darker side of my mind, to write about things that have long remained hidden.
You see, I should have done this yesterday but did not for a range of reasons, so today I have to 'do' two posts. The first is this, and it now has to include a haibun.
The form appeals to me.
And the title works up there and for the haibun.
Transition.
The day had been normal and life had continued apace. As ever, she was late leaving, but only to join friends for the evening before going to work. It wasn't raining.
Tyres on empty road
Dusk darkened to owl hours
Killer on wrong side.
(c) 2ndwitch, 01/04/17
Monday 6 March 2017
NaPoWriMo 2016 30
Today's prompt is a poem in translation, and today is also The End for this year's NaPoWriMo. I do not translate from the only other language I have understanding of, and the other suggestion does not appeal at all, however . . .
Shakespeare wrote plays, and also sonnets . . .
"Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Shakespeare wrote plays, and also sonnets . . .
"Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."
And in translation?
You're cool.Get your knickers off!(c) 2ndwitch, 30/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 29
Today's prompt is "I remember".
I remember the pattern on the curtains, the light from the street lamps
Piercing them via the uneven weave.
I remember the sound of the trains, passing in the night,
Carrying the mail.
I remember the puddle of oil in the garage, lurking on a tray
Beneath the old car.
I remember the smell of the workshop, old tools and papers,
Mingling in the half light.
I remember the pad of the dog's paws, helter skelter on
The garden path.
I remember the travel sickness of the back seat, and the extra strong
Mints that were the cure.
I remember the smell of egg sandwiches, and the complaints of the
Other children who had ham or cheese.
I remember how the outhouse door jammed, and the effort needed
To open or shut it.
I remember the corroded rust of the bars that supported the swing seat
And the creak as I rose to look over the garage roof.
I remember the hiding places, the dens, the lonely paths, the call of
The stock on the moss.
I remember the bird song, the wordless stories of a land far away,
And a life elsewhere.
(c) 2ndwitch, 29/04/16
I remember the pattern on the curtains, the light from the street lamps
Piercing them via the uneven weave.
I remember the sound of the trains, passing in the night,
Carrying the mail.
I remember the puddle of oil in the garage, lurking on a tray
Beneath the old car.
I remember the smell of the workshop, old tools and papers,
Mingling in the half light.
I remember the pad of the dog's paws, helter skelter on
The garden path.
I remember the travel sickness of the back seat, and the extra strong
Mints that were the cure.
I remember the smell of egg sandwiches, and the complaints of the
Other children who had ham or cheese.
I remember how the outhouse door jammed, and the effort needed
To open or shut it.
I remember the corroded rust of the bars that supported the swing seat
And the creak as I rose to look over the garage roof.
I remember the hiding places, the dens, the lonely paths, the call of
The stock on the moss.
I remember the bird song, the wordless stories of a land far away,
And a life elsewhere.
(c) 2ndwitch, 29/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 28
Today's prompt is to write a story backwards.
Sleep.
Eat.
Travel.
Talk.
Drink.
Eat.
Talk.
Write.
Drink.
Travel.
Eat.
Drink.
Sleep.
(c) 2ndwitch, 28/04/16
Sleep.
Eat.
Travel.
Talk.
Drink.
Eat.
Talk.
Write.
Drink.
Travel.
Eat.
Drink.
Sleep.
(c) 2ndwitch, 28/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 27
Today's prompt is to write a poem with very long lines.
The pastime of observing people as they proceed about their business without knowing that they are being observed is one that compels and fascinates.
People do odd things.
People pick their nose, scratch their crotch, fart, burp quietly or loudly, some sneeze without concern for the spit and snot and they are spraying over anyone nearby.
People can be unpleasant.
A woman can walk along the street and never once get her stiletto heel stuck in one of the cracks between the paving stones and keep her balance whilst swerving round the drunken man.
People can be harsh.
A man can walk from his train to his office and never once realise that the three different people sat, genderless on the cold ground, empty coffee cup importuning for change, are people as well.
People.
(c) 2ndwitch, 27/04/16
The pastime of observing people as they proceed about their business without knowing that they are being observed is one that compels and fascinates.
People do odd things.
People pick their nose, scratch their crotch, fart, burp quietly or loudly, some sneeze without concern for the spit and snot and they are spraying over anyone nearby.
People can be unpleasant.
A woman can walk along the street and never once get her stiletto heel stuck in one of the cracks between the paving stones and keep her balance whilst swerving round the drunken man.
People can be harsh.
A man can walk from his train to his office and never once realise that the three different people sat, genderless on the cold ground, empty coffee cup importuning for change, are people as well.
People.
(c) 2ndwitch, 27/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 26
Today's prompt is to write a call and answer poem.
We should abolish taxes.
No, we shouldn't.
We should make each person look to themselves.
No, we shouldn't.
We should end free healthcare.
No, we shouldn't.
We should cut welfare.
No, we shouldn't.
We should stop supporting the sick who cannot support themselves.
No, we shouldn't.
We should rid the world of the insidious left wing soft hearted liberal mealymouthed lazy sorts who won't work and don't contribute.
No, we shouldn't.
(c) 2ndwitch, 26/04/16
We should abolish taxes.
No, we shouldn't.
We should make each person look to themselves.
No, we shouldn't.
We should end free healthcare.
No, we shouldn't.
We should cut welfare.
No, we shouldn't.
We should stop supporting the sick who cannot support themselves.
No, we shouldn't.
We should rid the world of the insidious left wing soft hearted liberal mealymouthed lazy sorts who won't work and don't contribute.
No, we shouldn't.
(c) 2ndwitch, 26/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 25
Today's prompt is to start with a line from another poem.
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
And all shall listen to the words they did not say;
Shouts and screams will puncture the soft mist
Of the newly dawning day, and memory, fickle memory
Shall twist and turn its convoluted tales, torturing
The recollections into a shape that shall not
Offend the vicar.
(c) 2ndwitch, 25/04/16
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
And all shall listen to the words they did not say;
Shouts and screams will puncture the soft mist
Of the newly dawning day, and memory, fickle memory
Shall twist and turn its convoluted tales, torturing
The recollections into a shape that shall not
Offend the vicar.
(c) 2ndwitch, 25/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 24
Today's prompt is to write a mix and match poem.
The table cloth of the silvered loch presented the small boat buffet
And a motorbike zoomed past.
The sea eagles wheeled and veered, dividing the sky between them
As a sparrow pecked at picnic crumbs.
The late afternoon buzzing of pollen drunk bees undulated
As a tired toddler dropped her ice cream.
(c) 2ndwitch, 24/04/16
The table cloth of the silvered loch presented the small boat buffet
And a motorbike zoomed past.
The sea eagles wheeled and veered, dividing the sky between them
As a sparrow pecked at picnic crumbs.
The late afternoon buzzing of pollen drunk bees undulated
As a tired toddler dropped her ice cream.
(c) 2ndwitch, 24/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 23
Today's prompt is write some sort of sonnet.
Why does home made bread take so long to toast?
Why does the browning crumb appear so late?
Like meat, in cooler over, slow to roast
But the taste is so truly worth the wait?
The light and fluffy bread bought from a shop
Will toast to brown so fast you must take care
To watch it carefully, so you can stop
The toasting process ere it flaming flares.
Perhaps tis a denser bread, the firmer slice
When made at home with wholesome flour and oat?
Perhaps the moisture makes the heat think twice
And stops a charcoal toast to get your goat?
Whate'er reason, the truth it still remains
Home made bread takes time, toasted state to gain!
(c) 2ndwitch, 23/04/16
Why does home made bread take so long to toast?
Why does the browning crumb appear so late?
Like meat, in cooler over, slow to roast
But the taste is so truly worth the wait?
The light and fluffy bread bought from a shop
Will toast to brown so fast you must take care
To watch it carefully, so you can stop
The toasting process ere it flaming flares.
Perhaps tis a denser bread, the firmer slice
When made at home with wholesome flour and oat?
Perhaps the moisture makes the heat think twice
And stops a charcoal toast to get your goat?
Whate'er reason, the truth it still remains
Home made bread takes time, toasted state to gain!
(c) 2ndwitch, 23/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 22
Today's prompt is Earth Day.
We live on a planet,
It is in our care,
We have nowhere else to go.
We do not hear the whale scream,
We ignore the trees' tears,
And soon we may have nowhere to live.
(c) 2ndwitch, 22/04/16
We live on a planet,
It is in our care,
We have nowhere else to go.
We do not hear the whale scream,
We ignore the trees' tears,
And soon we may have nowhere to live.
(c) 2ndwitch, 22/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 21
Today's prompt is to write from the perspective of a minor character in a myth or fairy tale.
I am what I am.
I know this upsets some people.
But I am simply what I am.
It is getting harder and harder
To find food.
People are wary, they avoid me,
They make me an outcast,
So what am I supposed to do?
I only want someone now and then,
I can live on small mice and leaves
A lot of the time.
But now and then I want real meat.
So please don't blame me
For eating Granny,
Or for trying to get some
Nice young Red Riding Hood flesh.
I bet you like spring lamb, don't you?
(c) 2ndwitch, 21/04/16
I am what I am.
I know this upsets some people.
But I am simply what I am.
It is getting harder and harder
To find food.
People are wary, they avoid me,
They make me an outcast,
So what am I supposed to do?
I only want someone now and then,
I can live on small mice and leaves
A lot of the time.
But now and then I want real meat.
So please don't blame me
For eating Granny,
Or for trying to get some
Nice young Red Riding Hood flesh.
I bet you like spring lamb, don't you?
(c) 2ndwitch, 21/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 20
Today's prompt is to write a 'kenning' poem.
A gift of giving, future-bringing,
Set to work time and again each day.
A power-house of promise, song-singing,
Standing by to lubricate the day.
The simple act of use is so complete,
And the action helps to smooth our way.
This haven of comfort, always there
This steaming heart of lives' long way.
(c) 2ndwitch, 20/04/16
A gift of giving, future-bringing,
Set to work time and again each day.
A power-house of promise, song-singing,
Standing by to lubricate the day.
The simple act of use is so complete,
And the action helps to smooth our way.
This haven of comfort, always there
This steaming heart of lives' long way.
(c) 2ndwitch, 20/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 19
Today's prompt is a didactic poem, a poetic instruction manual.
Always have a mug of tea in the morning.
Always stop and stare.
Smell the coffee, and the rain on bare earth.
Watch the rainbow.
Watch the sun dance on the raindrops.
Listen to the song of the birds.
Hear the trees as they whisper, leaf to leaf,
And catch the mythical falling star.
Do these things if you want to stay sane.
(c)2ndwitch, 19/04/16
Always have a mug of tea in the morning.
Always stop and stare.
Smell the coffee, and the rain on bare earth.
Watch the rainbow.
Watch the sun dance on the raindrops.
Listen to the song of the birds.
Hear the trees as they whisper, leaf to leaf,
And catch the mythical falling star.
Do these things if you want to stay sane.
(c)2ndwitch, 19/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 18
Today's prompt is the sound of home.
Back there, where voices are warm and
I understand all that they say
I'm someone's love, someone says
Ta chuck, and reassures me that
It'll all come out in the wash.
(c) 2ndwitch, 18/04/16
Back there, where voices are warm and
I understand all that they say
I'm someone's love, someone says
Ta chuck, and reassures me that
It'll all come out in the wash.
(c) 2ndwitch, 18/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 17
Today the prompt is to use at least ten words from a specialised dictionary.
Unfortunately I do not have such a beast that I can think of, so, this is an alternative take.
I did not find
The plastic box that
I was looking for
But I did find
A different one
That was where
It should not be
Which means I
Signed the log
And made a note
About the
Throwdown
And checked
To see if a bug
Wanted to travel
And then when
I got home
I logged my log
And remembered
To add that I had
Taken nothing
And left nothing
But I had
Followed
The Arrow.
(c) 2ndwitch, 17/04/16
Unfortunately I do not have such a beast that I can think of, so, this is an alternative take.
I did not find
The plastic box that
I was looking for
But I did find
A different one
That was where
It should not be
Which means I
Signed the log
And made a note
About the
Throwdown
And checked
To see if a bug
Wanted to travel
And then when
I got home
I logged my log
And remembered
To add that I had
Taken nothing
And left nothing
But I had
Followed
The Arrow.
(c) 2ndwitch, 17/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 16
Today the prompt was to fill in 'almanac questions' and write about one or more answers.
Low white, or greying stone, squat
Upon the green grass, sheep dotted
And lonely, with a rising curlew's cry.
Slate, and chimneyed, roof, strong
Against the seaborne wind, and
Beaten painted wooden door, closed
Against the driving rain.
Deep windows old behind them
The secrets of long life, and a
History that does not hide
Many skeletons, or keep the treasure
Of memory in a locked kist.
(c) 2ndwitch, 16/04/16
Low white, or greying stone, squat
Upon the green grass, sheep dotted
And lonely, with a rising curlew's cry.
Slate, and chimneyed, roof, strong
Against the seaborne wind, and
Beaten painted wooden door, closed
Against the driving rain.
Deep windows old behind them
The secrets of long life, and a
History that does not hide
Many skeletons, or keep the treasure
Of memory in a locked kist.
(c) 2ndwitch, 16/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 15
Today the prompt is 'doubles'.
two feet
two hands
two eyes
two arms
two legs
two ears
two faces
(c) 2ndwitch, 15/04/16
two feet
two hands
two eyes
two arms
two legs
two ears
two faces
(c) 2ndwitch, 15/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 14
Today's prompt is to write a san san.
a b c a b d c d
Across the water the sunlight whirls
As though the music called to dance
And the watching clouds are weeping.
But then the music speeds and hurls
And the clouds give passing glance
To the broken light of one life below
For music still the dance is keeping
To strict time, we simply cannot know.
(c) 2ndwitch, 14/04/16
a b c a b d c d
Across the water the sunlight whirls
As though the music called to dance
And the watching clouds are weeping.
But then the music speeds and hurls
And the clouds give passing glance
To the broken light of one life below
For music still the dance is keeping
To strict time, we simply cannot know.
(c) 2ndwitch, 14/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 13
Today the prompt is a fortune cookie.
You will live a long life.
You will die tomorrow.
You will find true love.
You will remain single.
You will make much money.
You will die penniless.
And of course, you may
Also break your teeth trying
To eat the hard and
Tasteless biscuit that surrounds
The meaningless words
You will read.
(c) 2ndwitch, 13/04/16
You will live a long life.
You will die tomorrow.
You will find true love.
You will remain single.
You will make much money.
You will die penniless.
And of course, you may
Also break your teeth trying
To eat the hard and
Tasteless biscuit that surrounds
The meaningless words
You will read.
(c) 2ndwitch, 13/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 12
The prompt for this is to use an index. I have to confess that it means nothing to me, and the example given was singly uninspiring as well! Hey ho . . .
On page one you will find
An Introduction.
Page 3 will expound the
Purpose of this
Piece of writing.
Hopefully.
On page 47 there
Will begin a new
Chapter, wherein
The argument will be
Set out.
On page 90 the
Argument will continue
With an opposing
Perspective being
Considered.
On page 126 there
Will be a futile attempt
To arrive at a conclusion.
By page 154 you
Will have lost
All
The
Will
To
Live.
(c) 2ndwitch, 12/04/16
On page one you will find
An Introduction.
Page 3 will expound the
Purpose of this
Piece of writing.
Hopefully.
On page 47 there
Will begin a new
Chapter, wherein
The argument will be
Set out.
On page 90 the
Argument will continue
With an opposing
Perspective being
Considered.
On page 126 there
Will be a futile attempt
To arrive at a conclusion.
By page 154 you
Will have lost
All
The
Will
To
Live.
(c) 2ndwitch, 12/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 11
Today's prompt is a descriptive poem with a twist.
Tables, in rows, with a vase
Of plastic flowers on each.
Note the ring mark from
A wet cup, and the
Scratch that crosses the
Faded marks from the cloth
Used often to clean.
Streetlights illuminate the night.
(c) 2ndwitch, 11/04/16
Tables, in rows, with a vase
Of plastic flowers on each.
Note the ring mark from
A wet cup, and the
Scratch that crosses the
Faded marks from the cloth
Used often to clean.
Streetlights illuminate the night.
(c) 2ndwitch, 11/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 10
Today's prompt is to use book titles. Taking this literally . . .
Vegetarian Cookery, part 1
Vegetarian Cookery, part 2
Good Housekeeping.
But actually,
I usually cook
From memory
And knowledge!
(c) 2ndwitch, 10/04/16
Vegetarian Cookery, part 1
Vegetarian Cookery, part 2
Good Housekeeping.
But actually,
I usually cook
From memory
And knowledge!
(c) 2ndwitch, 10/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 09
Today I am supposed to write a poem that includes that line that I find it hard to say. In my case a word.
The idea
Was to write
A poem
That enabled
Or forced
Me to
Articulate
A comment
Or sentiment
That is
Difficult
For me.
But instead
I am writing
A poem
With a word
That I find
Very hard
To actually
Say,
Namely
Differentiation.
(c) 2ndwitch, 09/04/16
The idea
Was to write
A poem
That enabled
Or forced
Me to
Articulate
A comment
Or sentiment
That is
Difficult
For me.
But instead
I am writing
A poem
With a word
That I find
Very hard
To actually
Say,
Namely
Differentiation.
(c) 2ndwitch, 09/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 08
Today's prompt is to write about a flower.
A flower grows,
Sometimes in the ground
Or in a pot
Or in another
Similar type of
Place.
Flour,
On the other hand,
Is used for
Baking
And cooking.
In case you
Were wondering
About
The difference.
(c) 2ndwitch, 08/04/16
A flower grows,
Sometimes in the ground
Or in a pot
Or in another
Similar type of
Place.
Flour,
On the other hand,
Is used for
Baking
And cooking.
In case you
Were wondering
About
The difference.
(c) 2ndwitch, 08/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 07
Today's prompt is to write a Tritina.
the winter months bring rain from dark grey clouds
and drown the last remaining memories of summer
leaving deadened leaves and fetid flowers to decay
falling leaves of autumn on brittle branches decay
and reach in silent supplication to the clouds
but the wind that howls drowns out the song of summer
if only beach long days could conjure for us summer
and the sun could turn the tide, and make the snow decay
then hide the ice behind the spring-wrung clouds
for winter does decay the summer clouds
(c) 2ndwitch, 07/04/2016
the winter months bring rain from dark grey clouds
and drown the last remaining memories of summer
leaving deadened leaves and fetid flowers to decay
falling leaves of autumn on brittle branches decay
and reach in silent supplication to the clouds
but the wind that howls drowns out the song of summer
if only beach long days could conjure for us summer
and the sun could turn the tide, and make the snow decay
then hide the ice behind the spring-wrung clouds
for winter does decay the summer clouds
(c) 2ndwitch, 07/04/2016
NaPoWriMo 2016 06
Today's prompt is food.
I like food.
I eat food.
Not all food,
Of course,
But I like enough
Types of food
For my needs.
© 2ndwitch, 06/04/16
I like food.
I eat food.
Not all food,
Of course,
But I like enough
Types of food
For my needs.
© 2ndwitch, 06/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 05
Today the prompt is 'heirloom seeds', with interesting names . . . but I have actually chosen old roses. Because!
Jacques Cartier, William Lobb and
Baron Girod de L'Ain
All met to chat
Again and again and again.
They never invited me, though.
© 2ndwitch, 05/04/16
Jacques Cartier, William Lobb and
Baron Girod de L'Ain
All met to chat
Again and again and again.
They never invited me, though.
© 2ndwitch, 05/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 04
Today's prompt is to write about the worst month, or the cruellest.
All months have their reasons
To claim the crown of cruellest season;
But the cruellest month of all
Is
July.
And it always will be.
© 2ndwitch, 04/04/16
All months have their reasons
To claim the crown of cruellest season;
But the cruellest month of all
Is
July.
And it always will be.
© 2ndwitch, 04/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 03
Today the challenge is to write a letter to a celebrity, a fan letter. Mmmm . . .
There are those whose work I like
And those who give me pleasure.
There are those who use a mic,
And those who trip a measure.
Some use paints and pens,
Others play the fiddle,
Whilst some look through a lens
And some make life a riddle.
All of these and many more
Light life's darkest hours.
But none inspire a sense of awe
Of personkind, as flowers
Can, or hills, or lochs, or mighty trees,
No fanlike worship on bended knees.
So this is not a fan letter, after all.
Sorry.
© 2ndwitch, 03/04/16
There are those whose work I like
And those who give me pleasure.
There are those who use a mic,
And those who trip a measure.
Some use paints and pens,
Others play the fiddle,
Whilst some look through a lens
And some make life a riddle.
All of these and many more
Light life's darkest hours.
But none inspire a sense of awe
Of personkind, as flowers
Can, or hills, or lochs, or mighty trees,
No fanlike worship on bended knees.
So this is not a fan letter, after all.
Sorry.
© 2ndwitch, 03/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 02
A Family Portrait, or that is what the prompt says.
take it apart,
again,
rebuild.
destroy,
complain
again.
an empty space
where you
used to be.
arrogant
or confident?
sloth is
one of the
deadly sins,
I understand?
© 2ndwitch, 02/04/16
take it apart,
again,
rebuild.
destroy,
complain
again.
an empty space
where you
used to be.
arrogant
or confident?
sloth is
one of the
deadly sins,
I understand?
© 2ndwitch, 02/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2016 01
A lune, a poem with a 5 3 5 pattern, 3 lines with the listed number of syllables or words.
April, a month in spring
Started this day
And will end another day.
© 2ndwitch, 01/04/16
April, a month in spring
Started this day
And will end another day.
© 2ndwitch, 01/04/16
NaPoWriMo 2015 30
Today is the end.
So, in the end, we simply sat and drank tea.
No-one had thought to bring apples;
The sandwiches for lunch were forgotten;
The biscuits all got crumbed in their packet;
The coffee planned for mid-morning was cold;
The toast was burned black;
The fried eggs all had broken yokes;
The cat knocked the orange juice off the table;
The dog was sick on the sofa;
The day started badly and went downhill.
© 2ndwitch, 30/04/15
So, in the end, we simply sat and drank tea.
No-one had thought to bring apples;
The sandwiches for lunch were forgotten;
The biscuits all got crumbed in their packet;
The coffee planned for mid-morning was cold;
The toast was burned black;
The fried eggs all had broken yokes;
The cat knocked the orange juice off the table;
The dog was sick on the sofa;
The day started badly and went downhill.
© 2ndwitch, 30/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 29
Today we shall review.
A busy room, the seats slowly fill up, and there is
An air of expectancy. One almost expects to hear
The gentle disharmony of tuning strings, swelling
Slowly to a climactic A, and then dying away.
But no, there is just the undulating murmur of
Talk that ebbs and flows, a clink of glasses and
Scraping of chairs as people take their seats and
Settle into place.
First there is a support band, lauded by its
Introduction as entertaining and enjoyable, and
The audience sits back and waits. The support is
Good enough, but they do not capture the
Attention sufficiently to bring the room to a
Peak of silent appreciation, and soon enough
They are finished, and we await the main act.
The skirl of the pipes, the beat of a drum, the singing
Fiddle's tune, all underpinned by a solid and
Harmonious guitar.
Who knew? We all did. We have known this
Band for many years, and tonight they did not
Disappoint. They married the old with the new,
The young with the old, the tender with the bludgeon,
And their voices woven together in closest harmony
Threaded through the jigs, the reels and the marches.
All too soon the climax was reached, and the
End hove in sight. The sheer uplifting energy
Of music that is timeless, paired with a life-love
That is encapsulated in the faces, the voices and the hands
Of those who play. This is perfection. This is
What music is all about. Five stars, oh yes, five stars.
© 2ndwitch, 29/04/15
A busy room, the seats slowly fill up, and there is
An air of expectancy. One almost expects to hear
The gentle disharmony of tuning strings, swelling
Slowly to a climactic A, and then dying away.
But no, there is just the undulating murmur of
Talk that ebbs and flows, a clink of glasses and
Scraping of chairs as people take their seats and
Settle into place.
First there is a support band, lauded by its
Introduction as entertaining and enjoyable, and
The audience sits back and waits. The support is
Good enough, but they do not capture the
Attention sufficiently to bring the room to a
Peak of silent appreciation, and soon enough
They are finished, and we await the main act.
The skirl of the pipes, the beat of a drum, the singing
Fiddle's tune, all underpinned by a solid and
Harmonious guitar.
Who knew? We all did. We have known this
Band for many years, and tonight they did not
Disappoint. They married the old with the new,
The young with the old, the tender with the bludgeon,
And their voices woven together in closest harmony
Threaded through the jigs, the reels and the marches.
All too soon the climax was reached, and the
End hove in sight. The sheer uplifting energy
Of music that is timeless, paired with a life-love
That is encapsulated in the faces, the voices and the hands
Of those who play. This is perfection. This is
What music is all about. Five stars, oh yes, five stars.
© 2ndwitch, 29/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 28
Today we cross a bridge . . .
Blue sky-arch reaches out from island shore,
And softly lays its head upon the land.
Summer air, bee-buzzing, swoop-winging o'er,
And ev'ning heat guards all with sun-warm hand.
The ancient stones are guarding waters run,
And boats are swinging softly on the tide.
The trees hang low, all tired now, from the sun
And gulls are standing by the waterside.
The bridge that stands and holds the road to keep
The path from isle to mainland, strong and low,
Carries mem'ries footprint, old thoughts sunk deep
Into the pitted tar, o'er waters flow.
And ever still the wild Atlantic stream
Will pass this way, the harbinger of dreams.
© 2ndwitch, 28/04/15
Inspired by visiting The Bridge Over the Atlantic last summer.
Blue sky-arch reaches out from island shore,
And softly lays its head upon the land.
Summer air, bee-buzzing, swoop-winging o'er,
And ev'ning heat guards all with sun-warm hand.
The ancient stones are guarding waters run,
And boats are swinging softly on the tide.
The trees hang low, all tired now, from the sun
And gulls are standing by the waterside.
The bridge that stands and holds the road to keep
The path from isle to mainland, strong and low,
Carries mem'ries footprint, old thoughts sunk deep
Into the pitted tar, o'er waters flow.
And ever still the wild Atlantic stream
Will pass this way, the harbinger of dreams.
© 2ndwitch, 28/04/15
Inspired by visiting The Bridge Over the Atlantic last summer.
NaPoWriMo 2015 27
Today the hay(na)ku sonnet is served.
Single
Cream lacks
Strength for whipping.
Double
Cream is
Thick and slow.
Whipping
Cream flows
But also stiffens.
Milk
Is simply
Not like cream.
And, really, though,
It doesn't matter.
© 2ndwitch, 27/04/15
Single
Cream lacks
Strength for whipping.
Double
Cream is
Thick and slow.
Whipping
Cream flows
But also stiffens.
Milk
Is simply
Not like cream.
And, really, though,
It doesn't matter.
© 2ndwitch, 27/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 26
Today I am not being me.
Cool, what fun, let's go,
Come on, come on, come on,
There's water to splash in and
A ball to chase, and
A child to run with, and
Sand to bounce on, and
Stones to pick up and drop, and
A wee biscuit to steal, and
More water to splash in, and
That ball to chase again, and
Seaweed to try and eat, and
Another child to run with, and
A man to shout my name, and
A friend to bounce and jump with, and
Another stone to pick up, and
Some mud to tread in, and
Then it's time to go.
Yawn.
Can we do it again tomorrow?
And in the meantime, the finds
Included two large spanners, which
Were not in the works, and one
Welly that did not have a pair,
And a lot of thin green gloves,
And loads of nuts and bolts.
And the obligatory used condom.
© 2ndwitch, 26/04/15
Cool, what fun, let's go,
Come on, come on, come on,
There's water to splash in and
A ball to chase, and
A child to run with, and
Sand to bounce on, and
Stones to pick up and drop, and
A wee biscuit to steal, and
More water to splash in, and
That ball to chase again, and
Seaweed to try and eat, and
Another child to run with, and
A man to shout my name, and
A friend to bounce and jump with, and
Another stone to pick up, and
Some mud to tread in, and
Then it's time to go.
Yawn.
Can we do it again tomorrow?
And in the meantime, the finds
Included two large spanners, which
Were not in the works, and one
Welly that did not have a pair,
And a lot of thin green gloves,
And loads of nuts and bolts.
And the obligatory used condom.
© 2ndwitch, 26/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 25
Today we address the personless clerihew.
An odd thing to do,
It's admittedly insane,
But will not cause pain,
The reading of books
Is much simpler than it looks
If you avoid the absurd
And just read word after word.
The writing of stories
And preservation of glories
Can be done once or twice
More often's just not that nice.
© 2ndwitch, 25/04/15
An odd thing to do,
It's admittedly insane,
But will not cause pain,
The reading of books
Is much simpler than it looks
If you avoid the absurd
And just read word after word.
The writing of stories
And preservation of glories
Can be done once or twice
More often's just not that nice.
© 2ndwitch, 25/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 24
Today we are stopping in snow . . .
Whose world this is I think I know
They live upon it not in it though
They do not see me stopping here
To watch it die, fade beneath the snow.
An interstellar traveller must think it queer
To treat so harshly our planet green and dear
Between the sun, and the depths of space
This darkest evening of the year.
He'd look with shock, give his head a shake
And ask if there is some mistake,
The only sound the downward sweep
Of barren wind and frozen flake.
This world was lovely, dark and deep
We have broken promises to keep
And a lifetime to go before I sleep
And a lifetime to go before I sleep.
© 2ndwitch, 24/04015
Based upon the famous poem by Robert Frost 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening'.
Whose world this is I think I know
They live upon it not in it though
They do not see me stopping here
To watch it die, fade beneath the snow.
An interstellar traveller must think it queer
To treat so harshly our planet green and dear
Between the sun, and the depths of space
This darkest evening of the year.
He'd look with shock, give his head a shake
And ask if there is some mistake,
The only sound the downward sweep
Of barren wind and frozen flake.
This world was lovely, dark and deep
We have broken promises to keep
And a lifetime to go before I sleep
And a lifetime to go before I sleep.
© 2ndwitch, 24/04015
Based upon the famous poem by Robert Frost 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening'.
NaPoWriMo 2015 23
Today we are free.
But not truly so, as it is not possible to consider anyone
Bound into the human condition to have achieved any
Real iteration of freedom, in the not-being-bound-by-
Whatever-chains-that-you-perceive fashion. And
For each of us those chains are our own making, and
Of our own acceptance. We walk this earth, each step
Making another infinitesimal imprint on the land, and
We drag the chains that have held our minds, that bind
Our hands, that gag our lips, and we haul them with us
On every step of our mortal journey. No prayer can
Relieve us of their weight, no sacrifice can bury them
In a deep grave, and no amount of tears will ever
Dissolve them, our immortal and eternal chains.
So we can but embrace the temporary illusion
Of freedom, as when floating, in water, or perhaps
Free-falling through space and time. We can turn our
Faces to the sun, and welcome its fair glance, we can turn
Our eyes to the world that surrounds us, seek out the
New growth, the fresh leaves, the budding flower, and
We can but take solace from such small glimpses
Of the true heaven. We can look for angels' wings
In the soaring bird-flight of the seagull, in the circling
Majesty of the waiting buzzard, or in the darting
Flash of the bluetit. We can look for the shine of
Angels' eyes in the sparkle of the chattering stream,
As it hurries on its way over rock and stone, down
Waterfall and through ferny glen. And in these things,
In these things, perhaps we can find freedom.
© 2nwitch, 23/04/15
But not truly so, as it is not possible to consider anyone
Bound into the human condition to have achieved any
Real iteration of freedom, in the not-being-bound-by-
Whatever-chains-that-you-perceive fashion. And
For each of us those chains are our own making, and
Of our own acceptance. We walk this earth, each step
Making another infinitesimal imprint on the land, and
We drag the chains that have held our minds, that bind
Our hands, that gag our lips, and we haul them with us
On every step of our mortal journey. No prayer can
Relieve us of their weight, no sacrifice can bury them
In a deep grave, and no amount of tears will ever
Dissolve them, our immortal and eternal chains.
So we can but embrace the temporary illusion
Of freedom, as when floating, in water, or perhaps
Free-falling through space and time. We can turn our
Faces to the sun, and welcome its fair glance, we can turn
Our eyes to the world that surrounds us, seek out the
New growth, the fresh leaves, the budding flower, and
We can but take solace from such small glimpses
Of the true heaven. We can look for angels' wings
In the soaring bird-flight of the seagull, in the circling
Majesty of the waiting buzzard, or in the darting
Flash of the bluetit. We can look for the shine of
Angels' eyes in the sparkle of the chattering stream,
As it hurries on its way over rock and stone, down
Waterfall and through ferny glen. And in these things,
In these things, perhaps we can find freedom.
© 2nwitch, 23/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 22
Today we are pastoral.
Come away, shepherd, come away, and dance
And sing with me. Join your voice
With mine in hymns of praise, for
This land that feeds us.
Praise with me the modified corn
That grows for miles on the dust-filled
Prairie, and join your voice in
Happy refrain in recognition of
The acres planted with cloned carrots,
All the same, and repellent to carrot
Fly; then in our verse of honour, consider
The humble potato, no chance of blight,
Bred to be smashed into submission
And reformed as a 'french fry' in
Burgalds grease-ridden plastic cafe;
And in our next refrain, remember there
The pens of pigs, on mud and ancient
Straw, unable to turn, but feeding all
The time to fatten for the bacon
That we will eat in the morning.
And then think, dear shepherd, think
Of the lambs that used to sport and play
On fields of green, that now frolic in
Barns and on barren land. And dine with me,
Oh shepherd fair, on lamb chops from
New Zealand, freshly imported from half
Way round this world. And lastly remember
The chickens that cannot stretch their wings,
That live in cages as long as they continue
To lay their eggs.
Come away, dear shepherd, come away,
And weep with me, for the poison we
Have buried deep in this fertile land,
And for the pollution we have created
In the name of progress and an easy life.
© 2ndwitch, 22/04/15
Come away, shepherd, come away, and dance
And sing with me. Join your voice
With mine in hymns of praise, for
This land that feeds us.
Praise with me the modified corn
That grows for miles on the dust-filled
Prairie, and join your voice in
Happy refrain in recognition of
The acres planted with cloned carrots,
All the same, and repellent to carrot
Fly; then in our verse of honour, consider
The humble potato, no chance of blight,
Bred to be smashed into submission
And reformed as a 'french fry' in
Burgalds grease-ridden plastic cafe;
And in our next refrain, remember there
The pens of pigs, on mud and ancient
Straw, unable to turn, but feeding all
The time to fatten for the bacon
That we will eat in the morning.
And then think, dear shepherd, think
Of the lambs that used to sport and play
On fields of green, that now frolic in
Barns and on barren land. And dine with me,
Oh shepherd fair, on lamb chops from
New Zealand, freshly imported from half
Way round this world. And lastly remember
The chickens that cannot stretch their wings,
That live in cages as long as they continue
To lay their eggs.
Come away, dear shepherd, come away,
And weep with me, for the poison we
Have buried deep in this fertile land,
And for the pollution we have created
In the name of progress and an easy life.
© 2ndwitch, 22/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 21
Today we are stealing the words of others.
But out of context.
And oddly.
In a weird way.
analogies
as such
makes them open
and
evaluation
be analysed.
bad
with
arguing
organic
societies.
features common
be described
technique similar to
questions
if we look
some
is the tendency of
what exists
seem to
it is nevertheless
analyst
function
rather than negative
body,
no
from the analogy in
a second point.
© 2ndwitch, 21/04/14
But out of context.
And oddly.
In a weird way.
analogies
as such
makes them open
and
evaluation
be analysed.
bad
with
arguing
organic
societies.
features common
be described
technique similar to
questions
if we look
some
is the tendency of
what exists
seem to
it is nevertheless
analyst
function
rather than negative
body,
no
from the analogy in
a second point.
© 2ndwitch, 21/04/14
NaPoWriMo 2015 20
Today we know things.
monday is the first day of
the week when we begin
thinking is the precursor to
action man was a popular
toy dogs look like stuffed
animals that are allowed to
graze on your knee from falling
off your bike to grab a cold
drink is one of the evils that
our grandparents were often not
approving loans is the job of bank
staff rooms can be very untidy
places to visit when on
holiday insurance is sold by
many airlines use a range of
airports charge far too much for
coffee
© 2ndwitch, 20/04/15
monday is the first day of
the week when we begin
thinking is the precursor to
action man was a popular
toy dogs look like stuffed
animals that are allowed to
graze on your knee from falling
off your bike to grab a cold
drink is one of the evils that
our grandparents were often not
approving loans is the job of bank
staff rooms can be very untidy
places to visit when on
holiday insurance is sold by
many airlines use a range of
airports charge far too much for
coffee
© 2ndwitch, 20/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 19
Today we are 22 and 2.
You said I was the one you could love
You kept me chained and free as a wing-clipp'd dove.
© 2ndwitch, 19/04/15
You said I was the one you could love
You kept me chained and free as a wing-clipp'd dove.
© 2ndwitch, 19/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 18
Today we are in a hurry.
telephone bell
disturbed sleep
hurried clothing
snatched coffee
fumbled keys
stuttering engine
steamed windscreen
ignored speed limit
jumped red light
screaming brakes
one more, just one more
© 2ndwitch, 18/04/15
telephone bell
disturbed sleep
hurried clothing
snatched coffee
fumbled keys
stuttering engine
steamed windscreen
ignored speed limit
jumped red light
screaming brakes
one more, just one more
© 2ndwitch, 18/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 17
Today we plagiarise social media.
Sat here doing nothing, says Claire,
I've done that most of this week, replies Mary.
Caller in nolan extended the metaphor, interjected Steven,
I sincerely hope the staff in particular, adds Claire,
No 8 is my favourite and douchy is my new adjective, states Karen.
Busy week ahead, comments Annec,
This was on the 15th, fumes Liz,
Just heard that owner, continues David.
This sounds like your kind of book, simpers Sarah,
A huge mass of artefacts, suggests Vivienne.
Anyone remember this? asks Jenny,
Enjoy this beautiful day, concludes Trina.
© 2ndwitch, 17/04/15
(And only 12 words are 'my own'!)
Sat here doing nothing, says Claire,
I've done that most of this week, replies Mary.
Caller in nolan extended the metaphor, interjected Steven,
I sincerely hope the staff in particular, adds Claire,
No 8 is my favourite and douchy is my new adjective, states Karen.
Busy week ahead, comments Annec,
This was on the 15th, fumes Liz,
Just heard that owner, continues David.
This sounds like your kind of book, simpers Sarah,
A huge mass of artefacts, suggests Vivienne.
Anyone remember this? asks Jenny,
Enjoy this beautiful day, concludes Trina.
© 2ndwitch, 17/04/15
(And only 12 words are 'my own'!)
NaPoWriMo 2015 16
Today we shall toy with a terzanelle.
I can rise above such things
Alone, the battle rages
And my captive heart sings
Words of passion, fire-burned pages,
Thoughts of the way it should be
Alone, the battle rages,
Verval blows, eye-spears through me,
And I am left lying bleeding.
Thoughts of the way it should be,
No life where all is needing
And empty bellies fuel endless tears,
And I am left lying bleeding
The accumulated weight of many years,
Polluted light in desolate dawn
And empty bellies fuel endless tears.
Fear-birth of desire to be again unborn,
I can rise above such things,
Polluted light in desolate dawn,
And my captive heart sings.
© 2ndwitch, 16/04/15
(Special thanks go to Ray Hearne, whose song 'Pudding Burner' inspired this poem, in a direct and roundabout way. http://www.rayhearne.co.uk/index.html)
I can rise above such things
Alone, the battle rages
And my captive heart sings
Words of passion, fire-burned pages,
Thoughts of the way it should be
Alone, the battle rages,
Verval blows, eye-spears through me,
And I am left lying bleeding.
Thoughts of the way it should be,
No life where all is needing
And empty bellies fuel endless tears,
And I am left lying bleeding
The accumulated weight of many years,
Polluted light in desolate dawn
And empty bellies fuel endless tears.
Fear-birth of desire to be again unborn,
I can rise above such things,
Polluted light in desolate dawn,
And my captive heart sings.
© 2ndwitch, 16/04/15
(Special thanks go to Ray Hearne, whose song 'Pudding Burner' inspired this poem, in a direct and roundabout way. http://www.rayhearne.co.uk/index.html)
NaPoWriMo 2015 15
Today we shall talk to ourselves.
There is an eternal dilemma, one that no-one can ever
Solve in a definitive manner, one that can merely be
Resolved for the individual at the time and place of
Consideration. Is this poem an extension of the poet,
Or is it an entity that stands alone and assumes an
Independent existence as soon as the words have
Been released into the wild?
For me the dilemma is simple, and also it is beyond solving.
The poem is new born and takes flight as soon
As I have committed it to the resting place that
I want it to have, on a blog or webpage, in a book
Or just in the depths and recesses of my mind.
Sometimes the poem is part of me, and says what I,
The poet, am thinking and feeling, but other times
It says other things, and is not my own personal mirror.
And the point of this rambling exposition of inane
Existentialism is that today the poem is expected
To interrogate itself.
This is possible in several ways, but it will happen one way
Or another if the poem is seen as part of the poet, or
It will happen a different way or a different another if
The poem is regarded as having a discrete existence once it has
Been launched from the confines of my mind.
I will let the reader decide which.
© 2ndwitch, 15/04/15
There is an eternal dilemma, one that no-one can ever
Solve in a definitive manner, one that can merely be
Resolved for the individual at the time and place of
Consideration. Is this poem an extension of the poet,
Or is it an entity that stands alone and assumes an
Independent existence as soon as the words have
Been released into the wild?
For me the dilemma is simple, and also it is beyond solving.
The poem is new born and takes flight as soon
As I have committed it to the resting place that
I want it to have, on a blog or webpage, in a book
Or just in the depths and recesses of my mind.
Sometimes the poem is part of me, and says what I,
The poet, am thinking and feeling, but other times
It says other things, and is not my own personal mirror.
And the point of this rambling exposition of inane
Existentialism is that today the poem is expected
To interrogate itself.
This is possible in several ways, but it will happen one way
Or another if the poem is seen as part of the poet, or
It will happen a different way or a different another if
The poem is regarded as having a discrete existence once it has
Been launched from the confines of my mind.
I will let the reader decide which.
© 2ndwitch, 15/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 14
Today we are in conversation.
What's the weather like today? Raining, raining, all
It ever does is bloody rain, rain, rain.
Have you put the kettle on? Yes, I filled
It first, and all I ever seem to do is put the
Kettle on, again, again and again.
Do we need to go shopping? Yes, don't
We always, always the same, the bloody same.
What shall we have for our dinner? I don't really
Care, whatever you care to name, to name.
Do you want a cup of tea? Of course I do,
I always do, is that not plain, not plain?
Would you like to dance naked before the
Flaring and dancing flame?
Would you like to ride with me, and run your
Hands through the horse's flowing mane?
Would you sing with me, add harmony
And take the melody or refrain?
Come, take my hand, leave this humdrum world
Behind, and let us reach for the moon, and the stars
And sing to the sun as it warms our journey,
And let us be lovers once again, once again.
© 2ndwitch 14/04/15
What's the weather like today? Raining, raining, all
It ever does is bloody rain, rain, rain.
Have you put the kettle on? Yes, I filled
It first, and all I ever seem to do is put the
Kettle on, again, again and again.
Do we need to go shopping? Yes, don't
We always, always the same, the bloody same.
What shall we have for our dinner? I don't really
Care, whatever you care to name, to name.
Do you want a cup of tea? Of course I do,
I always do, is that not plain, not plain?
Would you like to dance naked before the
Flaring and dancing flame?
Would you like to ride with me, and run your
Hands through the horse's flowing mane?
Would you sing with me, add harmony
And take the melody or refrain?
Come, take my hand, leave this humdrum world
Behind, and let us reach for the moon, and the stars
And sing to the sun as it warms our journey,
And let us be lovers once again, once again.
© 2ndwitch 14/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 13
Today we are instructed to conund.
It can be any colour, it can be black and white;
It can be thick, or it can be thin;
Within it can be greater than it is without;
You can own one, or many, or perhaps none;
It can contain more than it appears;
It can take you on a long, long journey;
Sleep can be the outcome;
Wakeful hours can be profitably employed;
It can be true, or it can tell lies;
It can be soft, or it can be hard;
You may love it, you may hate, or you may not care;
One many own it, or many;
It is the most peaceful weapon you can own.
© 2ndwitch, 13/04/15
It can be any colour, it can be black and white;
It can be thick, or it can be thin;
Within it can be greater than it is without;
You can own one, or many, or perhaps none;
It can contain more than it appears;
It can take you on a long, long journey;
Sleep can be the outcome;
Wakeful hours can be profitably employed;
It can be true, or it can tell lies;
It can be soft, or it can be hard;
You may love it, you may hate, or you may not care;
One many own it, or many;
It is the most peaceful weapon you can own.
© 2ndwitch, 13/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 12
Today we are describing in prose and ending up with a poem. Or not . . .
There was a moment, just a single moment,
When I knew.
There was no doubt, no hesitation, no uncertainty,
I simply knew.
The beat of the heart of the land pulsed
Through the pier, and the smell of the island
Wove a web of fascination around me in
The dark of the middle of the night.
We had sailed in, through fog on rolling seas,
And docked at midnight.
We traveled to the hostel by taxi, seeing just
A blur of lights and shadows, houses and
Industrial units, boats in the harbour, and cars
Driving back and forth along the road.
Next morning we walked to the wall, and looked out
Across the water. We saw the dull shine
Of reflected steel-grey clouds on slowly
Rolling seas, and watched them caress
The hill top, bathing the town in a cool
And softling light.
Each step we walked was on a thousand years,
And on another thousand, and another.
On this land stands man since time began.
In that one moment I fell in love, and
Although since I have learnt an evil
Side, and seen the corrupted underbelly
Of that same land, I love it still.
My heart lies there.
© 2ndwitch, 12/04/15
There was a moment, just a single moment,
When I knew.
There was no doubt, no hesitation, no uncertainty,
I simply knew.
The beat of the heart of the land pulsed
Through the pier, and the smell of the island
Wove a web of fascination around me in
The dark of the middle of the night.
We had sailed in, through fog on rolling seas,
And docked at midnight.
We traveled to the hostel by taxi, seeing just
A blur of lights and shadows, houses and
Industrial units, boats in the harbour, and cars
Driving back and forth along the road.
Next morning we walked to the wall, and looked out
Across the water. We saw the dull shine
Of reflected steel-grey clouds on slowly
Rolling seas, and watched them caress
The hill top, bathing the town in a cool
And softling light.
Each step we walked was on a thousand years,
And on another thousand, and another.
On this land stands man since time began.
In that one moment I fell in love, and
Although since I have learnt an evil
Side, and seen the corrupted underbelly
Of that same land, I love it still.
My heart lies there.
© 2ndwitch, 12/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 11
Today we are inspired by writing from ancient times.
Worship, worship, you heathens, bend knees and pray,
The god that rules his altar's offering demands
Your blood, the soul, your word in poetic form,
Fail him not, writer.
Your words, the lines, the poem governs all, and
Still you try to call the pace knowing not how
Feeble your attempt to take control will be,
You will fail, writer.
The strictest rules, iron bars a law you may
Not break, however much your poem wishes
To be free from the constraints of formal verse,
It will fail, writer.
Perhaps the rules from older times are no more
Appropriate for the day that now we write,
Perhaps free verse stretches better round our thoughts,
And does not fail, writer.
© 2ndwitch, 11/04/15
Worship, worship, you heathens, bend knees and pray,
The god that rules his altar's offering demands
Your blood, the soul, your word in poetic form,
Fail him not, writer.
Your words, the lines, the poem governs all, and
Still you try to call the pace knowing not how
Feeble your attempt to take control will be,
You will fail, writer.
The strictest rules, iron bars a law you may
Not break, however much your poem wishes
To be free from the constraints of formal verse,
It will fail, writer.
Perhaps the rules from older times are no more
Appropriate for the day that now we write,
Perhaps free verse stretches better round our thoughts,
And does not fail, writer.
© 2ndwitch, 11/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 10
Today we are considering the alphabet.
The alphabet is a collection of twenty six
Letters, that can, if you so wish, be
Arranged in a list, in order, one after another,
In order, or that can be placed in a specific
Grouping, that allows meaning to be made,
Sentences to be constructed and, in due course,
Ultimately they can become a piece of fiction or
Factual writing, or even, possibly, in some cases, a
Poem. Of course it is also true that letters can be
Combined to make codes or lists, they can be used instead
Of numbers to delineate a list of items.
Warily, the neophyte poet can learn to combine the
Different letters and words into forms that allow a
Xylophone of poetic music, that sits in lines and stanzas,
Rhyming when it fancies, and being blank when
Blankness appeals. Carefully and slowly, treading the
Knife-edge of credibility, the aspiring writer of fiction, the
Novelist who has a head full of characters that are
Jostling and fighting to gain a life in the pages and
Vying for the starring role. The journalist who
Makes his report on the warring factions that argue
Quickly realises that his position is precarious,
Edging ever closer to death and despair,
Holding on with his fingernails to the
Zebra-striped reality, where black and white are
Yelling that colour is outmoded. Letters rule.
© 2ndwitch, 10/04/15
The alphabet is a collection of twenty six
Letters, that can, if you so wish, be
Arranged in a list, in order, one after another,
In order, or that can be placed in a specific
Grouping, that allows meaning to be made,
Sentences to be constructed and, in due course,
Ultimately they can become a piece of fiction or
Factual writing, or even, possibly, in some cases, a
Poem. Of course it is also true that letters can be
Combined to make codes or lists, they can be used instead
Of numbers to delineate a list of items.
Warily, the neophyte poet can learn to combine the
Different letters and words into forms that allow a
Xylophone of poetic music, that sits in lines and stanzas,
Rhyming when it fancies, and being blank when
Blankness appeals. Carefully and slowly, treading the
Knife-edge of credibility, the aspiring writer of fiction, the
Novelist who has a head full of characters that are
Jostling and fighting to gain a life in the pages and
Vying for the starring role. The journalist who
Makes his report on the warring factions that argue
Quickly realises that his position is precarious,
Edging ever closer to death and despair,
Holding on with his fingernails to the
Zebra-striped reality, where black and white are
Yelling that colour is outmoded. Letters rule.
© 2ndwitch, 10/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 09
Today I am supposed to write visual poetry.
Immediately upon reading the instructions my mind went on strike.
It said no, and no chance, and won't do. And I am afraid
That on this occasion I cannot see a way of creating
The required poem from the prompt and also publishing it
In the accustomed fashion here along with the other
Poems from days one to eight, and before the remaining
However many poems until the end of the month.
I ask you, dear reader, to imagine that you are closing
Your eyes, whilst reading my words, as I do realise
That closing them for real and reading my words
Are to an almost absolute degree mutually exclusive,
And picture the frustrated poet sat, peering blearily at
The screen of the laptop, and trying to work out
How to make the words she wants to use move around
And join hands to pain a picture.
And having done that small feat of imagination, you
Can sit back and laugh, because whilst I may not have
Created a visual poem in the way intended, I have
Used words to create a visual image as a result
Of reading my poem!
© 2ndwitch, 09/04/15
Immediately upon reading the instructions my mind went on strike.
It said no, and no chance, and won't do. And I am afraid
That on this occasion I cannot see a way of creating
The required poem from the prompt and also publishing it
In the accustomed fashion here along with the other
Poems from days one to eight, and before the remaining
However many poems until the end of the month.
I ask you, dear reader, to imagine that you are closing
Your eyes, whilst reading my words, as I do realise
That closing them for real and reading my words
Are to an almost absolute degree mutually exclusive,
And picture the frustrated poet sat, peering blearily at
The screen of the laptop, and trying to work out
How to make the words she wants to use move around
And join hands to pain a picture.
And having done that small feat of imagination, you
Can sit back and laugh, because whilst I may not have
Created a visual poem in the way intended, I have
Used words to create a visual image as a result
Of reading my poem!
© 2ndwitch, 09/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 08
Today we have to write a palinode.
To be truly and authentically palinodic requires a degree of
Forethought, of planning, and of logic or coherence in the
Writing of poetry. This is perhaps an issue, as I am none of
The above, at any time, for any reason, and most certainly
I fail to achieve such heights when I am writing poetry.
For the palinode is a retraction and justification, and in
Order to retract and justify the retraction I would need to have
Asserted a condition or statement with force and authority in
The first place. I am a ranting and pedantic fool, opinionated
And outspoken, and thus I make many such assertions of
Condition or statement, but not necessarily in my poetic
Effusions. I may ramble from the gate to the road, and
In doing so pass by the bramble bank, and visit the kettle
To make a needed cup of tea, but I do not consciously
Seek out the didactic idiom, when in poetic mode.
However, and wherefore, and whatever, and suchlike other
Words that indicate a turn and change of mood, the
Observant reader, if there is one, may have noticed that the
Opening of this very poem contains just such an assertion
As would be needed, and that, in the course of reaching this
Stage in the single stanza I have actually indicated why my
Opening statement is not true, and the conclusion to this
Exercise has to be that I have changed my mind, and that
I no longer believe that I need to be organised and logical
In order to write a poem that can be considered a palinode.
© 2ndwitch, 08/04/15
To be truly and authentically palinodic requires a degree of
Forethought, of planning, and of logic or coherence in the
Writing of poetry. This is perhaps an issue, as I am none of
The above, at any time, for any reason, and most certainly
I fail to achieve such heights when I am writing poetry.
For the palinode is a retraction and justification, and in
Order to retract and justify the retraction I would need to have
Asserted a condition or statement with force and authority in
The first place. I am a ranting and pedantic fool, opinionated
And outspoken, and thus I make many such assertions of
Condition or statement, but not necessarily in my poetic
Effusions. I may ramble from the gate to the road, and
In doing so pass by the bramble bank, and visit the kettle
To make a needed cup of tea, but I do not consciously
Seek out the didactic idiom, when in poetic mode.
However, and wherefore, and whatever, and suchlike other
Words that indicate a turn and change of mood, the
Observant reader, if there is one, may have noticed that the
Opening of this very poem contains just such an assertion
As would be needed, and that, in the course of reaching this
Stage in the single stanza I have actually indicated why my
Opening statement is not true, and the conclusion to this
Exercise has to be that I have changed my mind, and that
I no longer believe that I need to be organised and logical
In order to write a poem that can be considered a palinode.
© 2ndwitch, 08/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 07
And today we shall talk about money.
There are many things that I was told, as a young and
Impressionable child, never to discuss. One of these
Was politics, another was religion, and the third was
Money.
Now, over my half century on this spinning orb, I have
Had many, many discussions about politics, some heated,
Some sad, some pointless. I have had many, many conversations
About religion, its good points and its bad, its relationship
To any form of god, and its purpose. And, surprise, surprise,
I have also debated money, and pontificated thereupon,
Most often and frequently. There is a certain attraction to money,
It appeals to the deeper side of our baser natures, the lustre
Of gold calls temptingly, a siren call to selfishness and greed,
The figures on the bottom of the page can bring us a smile,
And can promise us the treats we think we deserve.
And the loose change that weighs down our pockets, or
That stops the purse from closing, that change can be annoying
And needs be put in a jar or a bag and left to dwell upon
Its own iniquities. For leave it as long as you want, it will not
Multiply or alter, but it will stay the same, the dross, the shrapnel,
The dregs of a long day, some shining, some dull, all
Jostled together in a jar. And that, perhaps, to you and I,
Is what the loose change is. But whilst the gold and the numbers are
The lifeblood of the city, the raison d'être of so many who
Work in banks and business, the small change is the lifeblood
Of the man who sits on the street and shivers. The woman who cowers in
A doorway by the station and holds her hands out in forlorn
Hope for the very loose change that you or I discard.
What world is this, where some have so much they can
Discard the change, and forget about it, and others are
Begging on the streets for a spare ten pence?
What world is this indeed? And answer comes, it is
A world in desperate need of change.
© 2ndwitch, 07/04/15
There are many things that I was told, as a young and
Impressionable child, never to discuss. One of these
Was politics, another was religion, and the third was
Money.
Now, over my half century on this spinning orb, I have
Had many, many discussions about politics, some heated,
Some sad, some pointless. I have had many, many conversations
About religion, its good points and its bad, its relationship
To any form of god, and its purpose. And, surprise, surprise,
I have also debated money, and pontificated thereupon,
Most often and frequently. There is a certain attraction to money,
It appeals to the deeper side of our baser natures, the lustre
Of gold calls temptingly, a siren call to selfishness and greed,
The figures on the bottom of the page can bring us a smile,
And can promise us the treats we think we deserve.
And the loose change that weighs down our pockets, or
That stops the purse from closing, that change can be annoying
And needs be put in a jar or a bag and left to dwell upon
Its own iniquities. For leave it as long as you want, it will not
Multiply or alter, but it will stay the same, the dross, the shrapnel,
The dregs of a long day, some shining, some dull, all
Jostled together in a jar. And that, perhaps, to you and I,
Is what the loose change is. But whilst the gold and the numbers are
The lifeblood of the city, the raison d'être of so many who
Work in banks and business, the small change is the lifeblood
Of the man who sits on the street and shivers. The woman who cowers in
A doorway by the station and holds her hands out in forlorn
Hope for the very loose change that you or I discard.
What world is this, where some have so much they can
Discard the change, and forget about it, and others are
Begging on the streets for a spare ten pence?
What world is this indeed? And answer comes, it is
A world in desperate need of change.
© 2ndwitch, 07/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 06
Today we are considering mornings.
And not just any morning, but the suggestion that has
Been made is that we consider the phenomenon that
Is Monday morning. The day of days that is
Meant to be the evil hour, the start of the week, and thus
The start of work, and that is the end of the weekend.
But perhaps it is not always such an evil thought, for
Perhaps some people love their work?
Perhaps some people do not work a simple working week?
Perhaps some people do not work?
Perhaps sometimes it is a Bank Holiday?
Oh yes, a Bank Holiday. Today is a Bank Holiday.
And this morning was quiet, tea was drunk, and
I had my annual bath. Well, perhaps it happens more
Than once a year, but it was my annual Easter Monday bath
Even though I may never have had a bath on
Easter Monday before, I cannot remember.
And this afternoon was spent in the garden.
A garden is a gift, and the feel of soil between my fingers
Reminds me that whatever cares are fretting away the
Sleeping hours, there are things that are timeless and beyond
Such worries. The garden gives space to birds, and bees, and even
Today a butterfly. I found a strawberry plant, and put
It into a pot, as it was not meant to be where it was, and
I planted the rhubarb that moved here with me.
The traffic on the road celebrated the Bank Holiday in
Traditional style, by turning itself into jam, and inching
Slowly, slowly down the road and back towards Tuesday and
A day that is not a Bank Holiday. And that
Was the end of the morning, for by then it was not morning
Any longer, and the newness and the oldness of the morning
Had run its course, and spun itself to sleep again,
Giving way to the blowsy afternoon, and then to somnolent
Evening. And as the sun sets, it promises that tomorrow,
Whilst not a Bank Holiday, will have a morning once again.
© 2ndwitch, 06/04/15
And not just any morning, but the suggestion that has
Been made is that we consider the phenomenon that
Is Monday morning. The day of days that is
Meant to be the evil hour, the start of the week, and thus
The start of work, and that is the end of the weekend.
But perhaps it is not always such an evil thought, for
Perhaps some people love their work?
Perhaps some people do not work a simple working week?
Perhaps some people do not work?
Perhaps sometimes it is a Bank Holiday?
Oh yes, a Bank Holiday. Today is a Bank Holiday.
And this morning was quiet, tea was drunk, and
I had my annual bath. Well, perhaps it happens more
Than once a year, but it was my annual Easter Monday bath
Even though I may never have had a bath on
Easter Monday before, I cannot remember.
And this afternoon was spent in the garden.
A garden is a gift, and the feel of soil between my fingers
Reminds me that whatever cares are fretting away the
Sleeping hours, there are things that are timeless and beyond
Such worries. The garden gives space to birds, and bees, and even
Today a butterfly. I found a strawberry plant, and put
It into a pot, as it was not meant to be where it was, and
I planted the rhubarb that moved here with me.
The traffic on the road celebrated the Bank Holiday in
Traditional style, by turning itself into jam, and inching
Slowly, slowly down the road and back towards Tuesday and
A day that is not a Bank Holiday. And that
Was the end of the morning, for by then it was not morning
Any longer, and the newness and the oldness of the morning
Had run its course, and spun itself to sleep again,
Giving way to the blowsy afternoon, and then to somnolent
Evening. And as the sun sets, it promises that tomorrow,
Whilst not a Bank Holiday, will have a morning once again.
© 2ndwitch, 06/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 05
Today we are plagiarising in the name of art.
There is no Frigate, says Emily Dickinson, that is
In any way like a Book, which is not really
Especially surprising, given that books, as a rule,
Do not float. Nor can books drive or fly
To take us Lands away, although they can
Without any doubt charge the imagination and
Send our thoughts journeying to unseen places
And allow us to live but not live in unknown time.
Emily also suggests that horses cannot match the
Ability of poetry to demonstrate dressage, or I
Think that is perhaps what she must mean when she says
Nor any Coursers like a
Page Of prancing Poetry, although I have to confess
That whilst I do think that poetry is amazing in
What it can do, it does not actually grow legs
And prance in any way, shape or form, unless of
Course, again, it is the imagination that is meant, and
Then that can out prance any horse I've ever seen
As the power of language is greater than force of
Arm or foot, and with language on our tongues then
This Traverse may the poorest take
Anywhere they want to go, at any time, and for as
Long as they may possibly desire, allowing for the
Usual exigencies and cares of every day,
Without oppress of Toll, although why it may
Be felt essential by Miss Dickinson that any such traveller
Should plan their imaginary excursions via
A toll bridge or tunnel, regardless of convenience, but
How frugal, which oddly implies that some cost could be
Involved, and surely imaginary is the Chariot
That bears the Human Soul?
© 2ndwitch, 05/04/15
(Based around the poem 'There is no Frigate like a Book' by Emily Dickinson.)
NaPoWriMo 2015 04
And today there is something that we will not talk about.
Although this thing is common, and a very popular subject for
Poems and songs, and for novels, and although in one way or
Another it is used every day by people of all possible sorts,
We will not use this word, no, we will not use this word.
The mother gazing at her newborn may shed a happy tear
And the child whose night is haunted by the lurking monster
May call for this, for someone big and strong to come and sit near
Until the terror fades, and teddy banishes the underbed lurker.
The shy and diffident young man might think of this when,
Gazing at the person of his dreams, with tongue-tied stammer, then,
Finally dare to ask them out. The dark-haired, dark-eyed woman
Might long to be embraced with this, to be held within its hand.
The kitten knows its warm caress, the puppy frolics in its care,
The sleeping cat on the windowsill seeks sun's warmth there
And knows the touch of this thing; the tired, old dog walks where
He knows the ground, and in that knowing this thing is shared.
But still, today, we will not use this word, this word that beats
Within each living heart, this word that is to human life as breath,
This word that inspires the composer's pen, the strings beneath
The guitarist's hands, this word that is to us as life and death.
© 2ndwitch, 04/04/15
Although this thing is common, and a very popular subject for
Poems and songs, and for novels, and although in one way or
Another it is used every day by people of all possible sorts,
We will not use this word, no, we will not use this word.
The mother gazing at her newborn may shed a happy tear
And the child whose night is haunted by the lurking monster
May call for this, for someone big and strong to come and sit near
Until the terror fades, and teddy banishes the underbed lurker.
The shy and diffident young man might think of this when,
Gazing at the person of his dreams, with tongue-tied stammer, then,
Finally dare to ask them out. The dark-haired, dark-eyed woman
Might long to be embraced with this, to be held within its hand.
The kitten knows its warm caress, the puppy frolics in its care,
The sleeping cat on the windowsill seeks sun's warmth there
And knows the touch of this thing; the tired, old dog walks where
He knows the ground, and in that knowing this thing is shared.
But still, today, we will not use this word, this word that beats
Within each living heart, this word that is to human life as breath,
This word that inspires the composer's pen, the strings beneath
The guitarist's hands, this word that is to us as life and death.
© 2ndwitch, 04/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 03
Today I am fourteen.
Perhaps, maybe, in my head, I have always been fourteen,
Or then again, perhaps not, perhaps I have been thirteen,
Or even twelve or eleven, but a younger age than
Fourteen is, and I have always wanted to be fourteen.
For some reason fourteen is an age of magic, when life
Is laid out, a never-ending buffet of chance and choice,
Experience and information, waiting patiently
To catch the watching eye, and to be grasped tight in sweating
Hands, gripped by clammy palms and held up to the fading light,
Examined and kept, or rejected, as fancy decides,
One more box ticked on that long, long list of things you have to
Do, to complete, to learn or reject, or plant in fertile
Ground, wait and watch through rainy days to see new life appear.
This is all of the tale of fourteen, the age or the words.
© 2ndwitch, 03/14/15
Perhaps, maybe, in my head, I have always been fourteen,
Or then again, perhaps not, perhaps I have been thirteen,
Or even twelve or eleven, but a younger age than
Fourteen is, and I have always wanted to be fourteen.
For some reason fourteen is an age of magic, when life
Is laid out, a never-ending buffet of chance and choice,
Experience and information, waiting patiently
To catch the watching eye, and to be grasped tight in sweating
Hands, gripped by clammy palms and held up to the fading light,
Examined and kept, or rejected, as fancy decides,
One more box ticked on that long, long list of things you have to
Do, to complete, to learn or reject, or plant in fertile
Ground, wait and watch through rainy days to see new life appear.
This is all of the tale of fourteen, the age or the words.
© 2ndwitch, 03/14/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 02
And today there may be stars.
Yesterday words became non-words, and
This was correct, and exactly as it should be.
But the non-words were bored, and they
Strained and stretched the limits of the
Constraining page, until, at some point
In the early morning dove-grey pre-dawn
Hours that time passes softly by, one
Broke free, and soared up into the heavens.
And there sits that word, begging the others
To leap and fly, and fasten their orbit
Together.
Together, together.
Yes, together.
From the surface of this earth that we so disdain,
From the soil that sits beneath our defiling feet,
From the barren rocks and wasteland of
Industrial spoil, from there we can lift
Our gaze to the heavens.
And there we see the stars.
And as we, inconsequent beings on a minor planet,
Circling a dull and slowly dying small star, look
To these tiny points of light, we cannot see the
Scale, we cannot tell the vast distances that
The light we can see travels, and in our arrogance
We give them names.
© 2ndwitch, 02/04/15
Yesterday words became non-words, and
This was correct, and exactly as it should be.
But the non-words were bored, and they
Strained and stretched the limits of the
Constraining page, until, at some point
In the early morning dove-grey pre-dawn
Hours that time passes softly by, one
Broke free, and soared up into the heavens.
And there sits that word, begging the others
To leap and fly, and fasten their orbit
Together.
Together, together.
Yes, together.
From the surface of this earth that we so disdain,
From the soil that sits beneath our defiling feet,
From the barren rocks and wasteland of
Industrial spoil, from there we can lift
Our gaze to the heavens.
And there we see the stars.
And as we, inconsequent beings on a minor planet,
Circling a dull and slowly dying small star, look
To these tiny points of light, we cannot see the
Scale, we cannot tell the vast distances that
The light we can see travels, and in our arrogance
We give them names.
© 2ndwitch, 02/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2015 01
Today there will be no words.
This poem will proceed to explain the intricacy
Of the web of images that are combined
To create a poem that does not
Actually tell anyone anything at all.
The words that populate the lines that
Combine to make up an uneven and illogical
Stanza will not be words, but rather collections
Of letters that accidentally combine to appear
To make sense.
Why is this happening?
Why indeed. There is no sense.
There is nonsense, and consequently
It is apposite of the random poet
To capture that inexactitude and
Lay it bare in all its vulnerability
To the seeking eye.
So today there will be no words.
Thank you.
© 2ndwitch, 01/04/15
This poem will proceed to explain the intricacy
Of the web of images that are combined
To create a poem that does not
Actually tell anyone anything at all.
The words that populate the lines that
Combine to make up an uneven and illogical
Stanza will not be words, but rather collections
Of letters that accidentally combine to appear
To make sense.
Why is this happening?
Why indeed. There is no sense.
There is nonsense, and consequently
It is apposite of the random poet
To capture that inexactitude and
Lay it bare in all its vulnerability
To the seeking eye.
So today there will be no words.
Thank you.
© 2ndwitch, 01/04/15
NaPoWriMo 2014 30
No fond farewell, this.
The first time was in the dark, a subdued scramble
And civilised wrestling in a moonlit tent,
And soon it became more practised, and with time, more proficient.
Over the years there were added interests, diversions, laughter,
Even pain from time to time; children of course, and back to
Fumbled encounters in the dark, snatched now and then.
Next came suspicion, odd smells, the wrong perfume,
Unexpected meetings, random phone calls when
The caller just hung up. And slowly but surely,
It died. It became a chore, no pleasure, a duty
To be fulfilled every now and then, for a quiet life.
People moved on, new discoveries, new joy, new pain
And new friendships, built on sand perhaps, then once again
The death of hope, the ending of that joy
That drove passion.
And more moving on,
New interest, new explorations, shared laughter, but
Even so, all too soon, endings begin to replace beginnings,
And then, the decline, the termination of what
Was begun so very long ago.
No fond farewell, rather a bitter and encroaching
Grief, that overpowers and cuts, knife-like, across
Hope and plans.
I do not want to say goodbye. I do not wish you farewell.
It is too soon.
Too soon.
© 2ndwitch, 30/04/14
NaPoWriMo 2014 29
Snapshot.
The feather-finger-touch of nail on skin,
Running lightly down his spine; exquisite;
Shivering; and slowly breathing deepens; lips,
Forceful, but soft as butterfly wings, caressing
Lips; silky smooth skin on skin; heat; depth;
And the slow throb, the piston-rhythm builds;
And in that moment . . .
In that moment.
© 2ndwitch, 29/04/14
NaPoWriMo 2014 28
My compliments to Richard Bach.
The slow-soaring-skybound seagull, sun-kissed and sleek,
Turn-twists, a tortuous-terpsichorean-temptress,
Drifting - divingly in descent, dipping, daring down-downwards,
And slipping, softly, soundlessy, into the sea.
We can learn much from the seagull.
© 2ndwitch, 28/04/14
NaPoWriMo 2014 27
When long-days shorten, and green-greys to red-brown
And fades; when the ageing year slows and howls
As the clouds cast gloom and cry ice-tears for all that
Has been lost; when the heat of the sun is distant in
Memory, and the golden light no longer glows; when the
Gaudy of the winter dark is rainbow-splashed in dormant
And turgid pools; when the life-blood no longer flows red,
But browns and drips, oil-washed iridescent swirls whilst
The flower petals fade and fall; then, and only then,
I can cast aside the burden that is life and love, only then
I can allow the grief to halt me, to call me in, and only then
I can mourn the passing time, and finally bid goodbye.
© 2ndwitch, 27/04/14
(I should explain that the inspiration was not a portrait of my family, but an old picture I came across online, of the family of a minor 'celebrity', which is why I cannot reproduce it as the photo for this poem. I have therefore chosen another portrait, which says something to me but that will make no sense to anyone else!)
NaPoWriMo 2014 26
In time's tortuous seas.
Upon the crest of the waves the white horses dance,
Whilst the seagulls congregate upon the sand,
And wait upon the shore for the creeping tide to turn.
Sea drift dips and bobs, buzzing bees can grab their chance
Whilst sentinel-strong the lighthouse makes its stand,
Its feet set square in a bed of grass and fern.
But on another day, the cargoed-ship will sail
And head to sea, en route from land to land,
With coal and cars and butter from the churn,
All the ebb and flow of daily life's travail.
And boats will burn.
© 2ndwitch, 26/04/14
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