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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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'.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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'!)

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On viewing a family portrait.

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

NaPoWriMo 2014 25

Yesterday.

Tomorrow I will look, and where there was grey there will be gold.

Because tomorrow the sun will shine
Because tomorrow the leaves will grow
Because tomorrow the rain will fall
Because tomorrow the clouds will drift
Because tomorrow a child will laugh
Because tomorrow a teardrop will be cried
Because tomorrow someone will smile
Because tomorrow an eagle will soar.

Somewhere.

© 2ndwitch, 25/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 24

Blackmail.

The grey-stone-standing of the castle walls
Shines dull in late afternoon sunshine,
Rain-washed and wind-blown, each block
Sculpted and shaped by storm-stress.
Beneath the towers the green-grey
Heather marches cheek by jowl with
Grass and reeds, the echo of the revers
Reverberates and chills the blood until
It is one with the grey-stone-standing walls.

© 2ndwitch, 24/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 23

The Swing

The swing was hung beneath the tree,
And waited, quietly, to be sat upon;
The child, when swinging, flying free
Could touch the sky, the stars where life began.
Oh gaudy swing, the pendulum always with me,
You are the daily rhythm with the sun
And moon, set the leaves to dance in glee;
Just rope and wood, but soaring curving fun.

© 2ndwitch, 23/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 22

Life

This life, one life, one world
So short, but all there is.
And in it there is always beauty.

© 2ndwitch, 22/04/14

(My thanks to Steve Tilston, whose song "Sometimes in This Life" was the inspiration for this poem, see www.stevetilston.com)

NaPoWriMo 2014 21

the road

and the road goes on and on
rolling in front of me, and
behind, it fades into a
grey oblivion;
life, the journey, rumbles
as the tyres rumble on
the tarmac, and the engine
growls a bass to the tenor of the travel;
and the road goes on and on.

© 2ndwitch, 21/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 20

None so blind . . .


You spend far too much time on that computer thing,
Why don't you sell it as you are so short of money?
If you did not have it you could do other things,
Like get a job and stop pretending to be disabled
When there's nothing wrong with you that some exercise
And making an effort and getting on with things would not
Cure.
You spend far too much time on that phone, you should
Use a proper phone and ring people, all those people you
Send silly messages to are not actually friends, just
Like all those people you say you talk to on your
Computer don't care at all about you, and it is not normal
To not have proper friends.
Proper friends are people you actually know, real people
You meet and talk to, properly. Not silly names that
You only see on a computer screen, when you sit, head
Down and taking no notice of real life.
Why can't you just sell all those silly gadgets, get some money
For them, and use a pen and paper like any normal person does?
Computers are a waste of time and money, and you're just being
A drama queen saying you cannot write normally, of course you
Would manage without that silly computer, everyone normal does.
So, don't expect sympathy off me, there's nothing wrong with you,
Doctors just say fibromyalgia to keep you quiet, it's not a
Proper illness, like cancer. Just stop complaining, and do the things
That you need to do, and go and get a job and stop scrounging
Off taxpayers like me, I don't pay taxes to keep lazy people like you.

Oh, and I need you to take me to an appointment at that hospital,
And then two at the other one, and then you need to take me to
The vets, and get the shopping on this list whilst I'm in there,
And then take me to the other supermarket, and sort out the
Bushes in the garden, and put the vacuum over because
I am so tired I just cannot do anything.

© 2ndwitch, 20/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 19

Unequal bittersweet.

The salty taste of olives sit on the tongue, and tease the tastebuds
Into submission, whilst the sweet of the fruit is almost tart in comparison.
Why are so many tastes, so much of a contrast? Why do we crave
What is not there? Why, on your pancake with cheese and bacon
Do you want syrup as well? Why the tonic with the gin?
And is the complement of flavour simply a metaphor for life?
Do we seek the bitter and the sweet? Do we look for the opposite of what
We have now, and hope for in the future?
Should we be content with the bird in our hand or look
To catch the gaudy one in the bush instead? Do we throw away
That which is ours, in order to pursue what may never be?
Do we look for the bitter and the sweet in unequal measure?

© 2ndwitch 19/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 18

The coaly Tyne.

The lights danced and shimmered, reflected in the restless sea,
As we walked through the dusk along the shore.
The lights at the mouth of the river flashed a warning to the ships
That sailed in and out of port with the rolling tide.
And there, in that short time, the life of the river
Pulsed and sighed, and whispered to the walkers that strolled
Upon her banks of spice and coal, and lands far away.
There were echoes of Iceland, and Norway, and Holland,
Memories of journeys to America, to Australia, and cargoes from
England and France and Spain. Pleasure seekers pass up and down
Along the river's length, gazing at the banks that over the years
Have known dirt and labour and death, sadness, hope and
Regeneration. The life of the city lies in that artery,
Its life blood flows ever along the coaly Tyne.

© 2ndwitch, 18/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 17

To the singer.

I listen to the velvet night that is your voice
And think that I may drown;
I fall, turning and twisting lazily through the
Blue-green waters that ebb and eddy
With each note, each harmony and with each
Chord that you stroke and coax, and
The taste of molten chocolate floods my ears,
And envelopes me in a feather-soft cocoon.
Oh that you knew the gift you give
Each time you sing and play, oh that you
Could feel the comfort and the pleasure that
A few minutes can bring, so unexpectedly.
So why, why take this gift, hard-won and
Precious that it is, this gift that is given to you
To share, and to embrace, why take this gift
And smash it on an altar built of shifting sands?

© 2ndwitch, 17/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 16

You lied.

The moon is made of cheese, or so they say,
And Santa rides the night skies in his sleigh.
Your teddies cannot talk, or so they say,
And bluebells ever chime the sun-lit day.
Money answers all, or so they say,
And your credit card can always smooth the way.
Art is just indulgence, so they say,
And love a myth, a gaudy popinjay.
There is no peace in talking, so they say,
Peace only comes from firing guns. They say.

© 2ndwitch, 16/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 15

All is in threes.

I stood and watched the sun newly greet the day
And felt the sea-breeze blowing through my hair
I knew the time had come to sail away.

The seagulls danced their quadrille on the waves
And dolphins soared and dived in counter-point
Whilst grief and sadness cried a watery grave.

The cloud-borne sky, with tears, my head anoints
And white horses gallop with me as I ride
To the land where the sky, the sea and sand are joined.

This day that time forgot is where I bide.

© 2ndwitch, 15/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 14

There is no lasting.

One word, one line, is that really all your song?
Have you played those chords before, do they belong?
Is the harmony you dream of right, or is it wrong?
Do the lyrics call your heart, do you belong?
Do your hands, agile as they move, feel lithe and strong?
Do the notes fight back, or chime harmoniously along?
Do the words you dreamt march well, the melody among?
And does the heartfelt cry of heartbreak play along?
The singer sings the song, the listener hears it once, then gone.

© 2ndwitch, 14/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 13

Thoughts.

At daylight gate I stood, and watched as the
Grey darkened to black, and my head filled with
Memories, with thoughts of the time now gone,
And older, those years from long ago.
The I turned and walked away from the
Place where the sun setting had painted the
Grass-tree-portrait in gold and silver, where the
Gilding moon would soon-times rise and cast her
Dove-wongs over the spirits, and the night's
High noon would embrace the nightmares and
Turn back the white-horse of the night.

© 2ndwitch, 13/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 12

In darkness, forced . . .

Longing is a plant, often forced, and it can be bitter,
So bitter, it is commonly sweetened with sugar.
Longing is grown everywhere, sometimes it dies back
And is not visible, but at other times it thrives
And grows vigorously. Early longing is tender
And is usually harvested by candlelight.
Longing, if damaged by coldness and the frost
Of disapproval and rejection, can cause illness.
The colour of longing varies from bright red,
To pale and listless faded green.

© 2ndwitch, 12/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 11

After Byron . . .

Across the hearthrug you sit, gazing at me,
No words, you just look and look, and the
Firelight dances and flickers, illuminating
The wine that sits in our glasses.
Deepest ruby, now amber, it shimmers
And glows. And still you have nothing to say.

© 2ndwitch, 11/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 10

Good enough?



Walk this road with me, just for a while

I think it's the best I can get

Hold my hand, and guide my stumbling feet

I think it's the best I can get

Listen to my words, try to hear behind the smile

I think it's the best I can get

Stay with me to the crossroads, a place we can meet

I think it's the best I can get


Or just walk off, and leave me crying
I will carry on, and carry on trying

Again

© 2ndwitch, 10/04/14

(My thanks to Ivan Drever for the lyric that was a prompt for this poem. His website is linked to on another entry on this blog.)

NaPoWriMo 2014 09

On Independence.

Whatever they say, they cannot take away
The "Things that we have carried here", those
Things will be with whether the rain falls or
The sun shines. And so, because, and due to that
Being the case "Why must I plead" for the
Chance to be free? "Please sir" may I use my vote?
For whatever happens, in friendship and honour we can
Remain friends on "Both sides the Tweed", the ship
We seek to sail in may well be "Windward Away"
But the fight is far from over, and perhaps, perchance
To dream, we will be happy, though
For some it may only be "Still in dreams".

© 2ndwitch, 09/04/14

(My thanks to Martyn Joseph, Richard Thompson, Martyn Joseph again, Dick Gaughan, Archie Fisher and Ralph McTell, who had the good sense to be the next six tracks on shuffle on my iPod, and were the prompt for this NaPoWriMo poem!)

NaPoWriMo 2014 08

My response to Warning, by Jenny Joseph.

Now I am old, do I still wear purple?
Do I leave the gaudy hats at home?
Shall I cease to buy the Tia Maria, the cds?
Shall I leave my sandals to rot, eat margarine
And keep walking however tired I am?
Shall I no longer laugh, and joke, shall I
No longer share the smiles that are all
I have ever had to offer to anyone?
I have never much wanted to pick flowers, I do
Not now. I only spit at magpies.

I wear old -t-shirts, and grow more fat
I eat olives not sausages, and pastrami,
And only mushrooms for a week;
I hoard books, books I can no longer read.

So, for so long, it seems, I have been wrong
And I should have been setting a good example
To my children, who are rebels just like I
Have always been. You may come to dinner if you want,
We will have coffee, and get drunk.

So I think I will not change.
The people who know me would be shocked and surprised
If I suddenly stopped wearing purple.

© 2ndwitch, 08/04/14



Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple. 

Jenny Joseph

NaPoWriMo 2014 07

Melodie.

When all around me is dark and dreary,
When hope has left and optimism gone,
When the long, long day is tired, is weary,
Then I turn to music, I turn to song.
The haunting lilt of the fiddle's lament,
The strident march of highland pipes and drums,
The guitar's murmur, melodic intent,
Are balm to soothe and calm when trouble comes.
A deep voiced bass, a softer baritone,
An alto's lilt, a tenor's soaring call,
A melody, a harmony, seeds sown
In the garden, where dew-dropp'd music falls.
   So, when the evening fades from grey to black,
   'Tis then that music gives me all I lack.

© 2ndwitch, 07/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 06

The speck that hides the plank.

We trudge on, from day to day, life grey-ochre-brown,
Heads bowed, hands clenched and tired eyes looking only down;
Taking in our stride the mud and puddles, the broken promises
And the shouting and the crying over each newly occurring crisis.
But in the end it is the small things that can break us,
The little errors, the casually unthought word in hiatus,
And the niggles, the trivia, that no-one seems to care for,
Those are the things that start each and every unplanned war.

Perhaps we should sweat the small stuff?

© 2ndwitch, 06/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 05

My poor bloody country.

I walk upon a land built from history
And wonder as the curlew's call repeats,
The clouds that wrap the hill unto itself
Can drift and swirl, scything rain that has
Its ice shard daggers piercing my skin, deep to
The centre of my soul. And I know no-one
Can hear my cry of pain, for no-one listens.
This land I love, peopled with the giants of history,
Is from all sides beset, the poor disgrace that repeats
Again and again is interwoven into the very ground itself,
And the people are raised on lies and corruption that has
No end, no siren call of hope, no cry of stop, to
Shatter and disintegrate. Is there no-one
Who will stand and lead, no-one who listens?

© 2ndwitch, 05/04/14

This is based on an idea called 'the golden shovel' (see http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/244278), and I have used Steve Turner's poem -

History Lesson.

History repeats itself.
Has to.
No-one listens.

I took the title from a song that I cannot find online to link to, so I don't know its provenance, but it is on an album called 'The Lewis Blue' by Duncan Chisholm and Ivan Drever, and the track is called 'The Battle of Falkirk'.

NaPoWriMo 2014 04

In memoriam.

The news was just a short line at the side of the screen;
It said, simply, that she was dead.
Dead. A so-final word, that thuds into the chest
Like a close-shot crossbow bolt.
Dead, with echoing ghostly images, finality and
So much of endings; there is no return from death.
Pictures, photos, articles, many extolling her virtues
Have posted. Many more will be published.
Nothing that has been said or can be said
Will detract from a death that was too soon.
Always too soon. It is the few who lead in maturity,
And it is them we can least afford to lose.
Rest in peace Bob, rest in peace Tony, rest in peace Margo.
I will regret your passing, and I will not forget.

© 2ndwitch, 04/04/14

NaPoWriMo 2014 03

Words from a song I heard.

The rhythm beats a tattoo of heartbeats
On the glass wall that hides my soul;
The road that winds and wanders leads only
Into the unknown; there are no charts.
There is no place to go, no harbour
For the boat that tosses lazily on the ocean swell,
There is no sanctuary, the past is no longer
And the future shaded in greys and blues.
You take the blues: I can leave whenever I choose.

© 2ndwitch, 03/04/14