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
Saturday 29 April 2017
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
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