GloPoWriMo 2018 - day thirty

Today the prompt is to write a poem based on one of a given section of weird facts. Today is also the end of this year's challenge.

All swans are owned by the queen.

this is something i have always known, and being, from a young age
the sort of child who was passionate about animals and matters
green and ecological, i also always felt that if I were to accidentally
kill a swan i would need to report myself to the police for doing so,
but this view was ridiculed by all who heard me express it, and i was
made to feel stupid and inept and awkward because i had a sense
of principle about things, and of course as life as has progressed i have
learned the sad but true fact that people in general whilst normally being
relatively honest are also all too keen to 'get one over' on others or
to escape the consequences for their actions especially if those
actions were or are illegal or immoral, and this odd quirk of being
a normal human is a quirk that i do not share and because i do not
share it i have realised that i am not a normal human at all, but a
very abnormal one who does not work according to the standard issue
operating instructions, and that this weirdness in me is the reason for
so much about me and my life that for so long made no sense at all but
now is starting to and so it is not the fact of the ownership of swans
that is weird at all

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-nine

Today the prompt is to write a poem that responds or engages with one of a selection of Sylvia Plath poems.

Among the Narcissi

by Silvia Plath

Spry, wry, and gray as these March sticks, Percy bows, in his blue peajacket, among the narcissi. He is recuperating from something on the lung. The narcissi, too, are bowing to some big thing : It rattles their stars on the green hill where Percy Nurses the hardship of his stitches, and walks and walks. There is a dignity to this; there is a formality- The flowers vivid as bandages, and the man mending. They bow and stand : they suffer such attacks! And the octogenarian loves the little flocks. He is quite blue; the terrible wind tries his breathing. The narcissi look up like children, quickly and whitely.

The flocks of daffodils that dance and wave their yellowed heads

In mute and glowing admiration of the one walks between them

Are a static crowd, growing only beneath the grass-clad ground.

Their object of adoration is not so limited, and the sound

Of his voice is melodious and carries the words in flames

Of never-ending envy, his agile fingers with tune words weds.

And yet, those fingers plucking strings can scarcely contain

The silvered notes of glory, echoing the polished mirror round

And bursting into life as though lit by sunshine-fireworked beads.

And so those flocks, in music-time are wind-waving droopy heads

And swaying green-wand leaves in a tidal wave around them

Fixed in tribute, silent, soon to be returned to the earth-born ground.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-eight

Today the prompt is to write a poem in the style of a postcard.


I
 wish
  that
   you
    were
     not
      here.

And that you never had been.
Ever.
No sandcastle memories.
No dripping ice cream.

      I
     wish
    that
   you
  were
 not
here.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-seven

Today the prompt is to write a poem based on a tarot card of choice.  I chose the 5 of cups.



Long cloak, black,
So eloquent
And terse.
Black, the cloak
That covers
The sins.
Cloak,
Long
And black.
The wine
Drunk
And gone.
The wine
Waiting.
Long and dark
Cloaking the wine
And desire
And death.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-six

Today the prompt is to write a poem that embraces all five senses.


Stand still, my friend, and take this moment in your busy day
To contemplate on the which is happening in the shadows
And dark corners of our life.

Be silent, my friend, and take the time to listen to what they say,
Those who live in the darkest corners and the shadows
Of out affluent life.

Breathe deep, my friend, and not only the scent of the flowers gay
Will assail your nose, but also the stench of the shadows
Where poverty is daily life.

Your hand, my friend, could be held out to those who may
Not understand that you know not the cold of the shadows
That are their life.

Be brave, my friend, and realise that the sugar and fat are the way
That many feed themselves, for such is cheap, and in the shadows
Money is scarce to nurture life.

And when these things you have done, my friend, your prejudice lay
Aside, and learn that there is an inevitability in the shadows
Cast as they are by the shining sun of riches, privilege and wealth
That shine on your life; and then as Kipling might have saith
Take heed and mend the things you can
And stand up and be a human.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-five

Today the prompt is to write a poem that is a warning to myself.



Remember to check the ingredients!

Because when you don't, you suffer all sorts of unpleasant after-effects that seriously outweigh any pleasure you may have got from whatever you decided to eat.

Remember to look both ways!

Because if you don't you might meet a large bus and in the case of such a context you are basically bound to lose.

Remember to set your alarm!

Because if you forget you can guarantee that you will oversleep and it will happen on a day when you not oversleeping is a matter of extreme importance.

Remember to check that you have packed everything!

Because you can be sure that the thing you have forgotten will be the thing you need most of all and that you can least do without.

Remember to smile!

Because the world is used to shite and you can be certain that your shite is of no interest to anyone else but that your one smile might be the thing that makes the day okay for someone else.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-four

Today the prompt is to write an elegy that also contains and element of hope.


Jimmy Saville

For many years the media lauded your fundraising efforts,
And the public saw a genial and rather odd man,
Loveable perhaps, laughable for sure, but always
Positive and ready to help.
Friend of the sick and halt, helper of the lame,
And lover of little children.
When you died, the world wept, or some of it did,
Other parts did not weep, and felt relief,
Gladness, that loosening feeling at the end of the ordeal.
It seems strange to offer your death as a moment of hope,
But it is, it was, and it remains so, as it was
The catalyst that allowed the revelation of an age
Of abuse, it allowed the silent ones a voice that
For the first time was being listened to.
From your life, which amidst the evil and corruption
Also offered good, a bizarre silver lining of money
To expiate incompletely the sins of the donor,
From your life has grown a generation of people who
Are less afraid to shout out "Me Too", and a newly
Empowered voice granted to women who for too long
Have been told to be quiet and smile.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-three

Today the prompt is to write a poem based on heard material.


it is an inherent part of being human that we listen
    and that when we listen we interpret
        what we hear according to our own understanding

so when we hear the call of whales
    or the song of the soaring curlew
        we attribute to it meaning

but what if there is no meaning and if the sounds we hear
    are nothing more than simply sounds
        and the sounds themselves are mocking us

although surely the mockery would be wrong as that
   would in turn attribute meaning
        to the meaningless beauty of sounds

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-two

Today the prompt is to take an impossible statement and write a poem where it happens.



"I've cleared that bed of last year's plants . . . "

The autumn leaves lie dejected on the damp earth,
Stirring only torpidly when the wind taunts them.
Stark branches, naked on the tree that gave them birth
Defy the wind's commanding voice, that does condemn
And sentence them to death and lifeless end.

Skeletal flowers, in the summer blue and pink, that danced
Are brown now, dull, their petals paper thin.
And bracken dead and crushed, their broken stance
The wind attacks, and punishes for unnamed sin
That autumn wove and twisted into winter's friend.

But then the rains of spring cast down their softing touch
And seep, deep into the ground, below the frost
Until they reach long-slumbered roots, and much
As the gentle word does find the child that's lost,
The growth that time had ended, starts again.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-one

Today the prompt is to write a poem based on the myth of Narcissus.

(I am treating this subject VERY laterally!)

There are many forms of beauty, as many as there
Are people who can see or hear or feel, and then
Some more beside.
But for me the epitome of beauty can be seen in
The hands of a skilled craftsman, in the grace and
Deft movements they employ.
And however the musician may consider himself
Above the ordinary mortal, his hands and the beauty
They create remain.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty

Today the prompt is write a poem that encapsulates rebellion.


With thanks to D.E.S.

A spring day, when the sun creeps over the rooftops
And illuminates the ground below, a promise of warmth
And a touch of gentle breeze, the oasis of pleasure
Before the summer that is yet to come.
A spring day, when the clamour of the office is
Almost unbearable, the clatter of typewriters clashing
With the constant chatter and gossip, and only the
Glimpse of foreign lands from the wharf to lighten
The stuff and stolid progress of the morning.
A spring day, and a sandwich to put in your pocket
When you escape at lunchtime, and a bench
In the garden in the square behind the office
Where peace and temporary tranquility reign.
A spring day, and the still pool of contemplation
Reflecting the plans for a new and growing year
In the garden on the roof that relieves the tedium
Of this soot-coated inner city life.
A spring day, and the shock of realising that
The man who has walked in through the garden gate
Is your boss, and the delightful amusement at his
Unconscious rebellion when he ignores the sign
And walks on the grass!!

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day nineteen

Today the prompt is to write a descriptive paragraph and then remove words to make it into a poem.

The track was stony, wet, with mud and puddles to negotiate as we walked along it. It did not climb or drop, but kept more or less level, apace with the Lussa running adjacent to its course. It wove in and out of the slender trees, here and there an older specimen stood watch over the peaceful scene. The air was clear, and soft to the touch, if you can so describe air, caressing the person breathing it in. In the distance there was the call of gulls, the sea can never be far away on an island like Mull, and closer to hand the birds darted through the leaves, showing themselves in glimpses to tantalise and perhaps to encourage us to walk on. After we had walked for perhaps 20 minutes or half an hour, the track made one last curve and we could see the cairn. It was roughly built, little more than a pile of stones, with a stone cross held firm at its centre. This, then, was the Pedlar's Pool, and this was the memorial to a man who died because he selflessly helped others.
When I walked away I knew the memory of his sacrifice would never leave me.


The track was stony, wet, with mud and puddles,
It did not climb or drop, but kept apace with the Lussa
running adjacent.
It wove in and out of the slender trees,
and here and there an older specimen stood watch.
The air was clear,  soft to the touch, caressing.
In the distance, the call of gulls, the sea never far away,
and closer to hand the birds darted through the leaves,
showing themselves in glimpses to tantalise
and entice us round one last curve.

It was roughly built, the cairn,
little more than a pile of stones,
with a stone cross held firm at its centre,
the memorial to a man who died
because he selflessly helped others.
This, the Pedlar's Pool.

The memory of that place is within me still.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day eighteen

Today the prompt is to intersperse with another poem, line by line, backwards.

Springtide, or the day the rains came.

'ebbing drop by drop of grief?'
    the tears like raindrops that weep over daffodils and tulips
'and how did I lose its succour'
    when the long remembered sun refuses to shed the steel grey cloud,
'the springtide more golden to me than to the birds'
    and the nighttime's silvered shroud.
'How did the springtide not last'
    beyond that early promise when the crocus bloomed?

'about my feet with a silken rubbing'
    grows the grass that fights the sodden ground
'and the unbreaking wave strikes'
    a blow for winter's clinging grasp,
'with its reefs and the wrack of grief'
    the last breath of the dying year, where
'The shore of trouble is hidden'
    and the memories of happier days fade.

'with flood tide and a thousand sails'
    the never-ending sea whispers its elusive song
'and the incomprehensible ocean fills'
    with the tears of grief that flood the spring when
'my thought comes on you when you were young'
    as always you will be, ever growing old and
'Again and again when I am broken'.
 
 
   

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day seventeen

Today the prompt is to write a poem about a 'family anecdote'.


Small things.

It is not uncommon, I find, to have people
Tell tales of things that happened to them
Years ago, or that happened to their aunt or
Perhaps their cousin, or their father even.
These tales are the constant thread that
Weaves through the tapestry of family
Gathering, whether at a funeral when all
Are reminiscing, or at a wedding or party.
It is far from uncommon for such tales
To be told in company, over coffee with friends,
Or a beer with colleagues at the end
Of a very long day.
For the person who has no such happy
Memories on which to draw, they are a mixed
Blessing; they entertain and amuse, but
They also remind the listener of their
Own inadequacies that stem from their
Abnormality or Difference.
An orphan, a child in care, a child who
Was ill for years, whose parent was in
And out and in and out of hospital perhaps?
A child who does not understand, who was
Bullied or ignored or abused.
The stories are small things, but they not only
Provide a thread in the tapestry of life, they
Can also be the knife that rips the tapestry
From top to bottom and leaves it
In irredeemable tatters.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day sixteen

Today the prompt is a poem about 'play'.


The guitarist

A deep-voiced thundering, making the ground shake
And echoing in the very depths of your being.
And making you wonder.

A wall of impenetrable complexity, electric and wired
Encompassing you and spinning you round and round.
And making you nervous.

A soft waterfall, a streamlet flowing and bubbling
Down through ferns and trees, soothing you.
And making you breathe.

A solitary curlew, calling plaintively and ceaselessly
In the grey-blue-white heavens, and soaring.
And making you cry.

All of these and more,
The guitarist.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day fifteen

Today the prompt is to write a poem where a villain meets misfortune and is proved human, or in this, case not human!



A misfortunate child.

When I was a small child I was told that there was a monster
That lived behind the dustbins.
I was warned never to approach this monster, as it was evil and would
Do unspeakable things to me.
One day I moved the dustbins to look for the monster, so I could ask
It in what way it was evil.
Behind the bins was a gap in the wall, and a door, a very small door,
And of course I pushed it open, and there was a sudden shuffling noise
And the monster ran away and hid on the other side of the door.
Puzzled I continued through the door, and found I was in my own back garden,
Just below the apple tree.
The only monster I could see was a toad that cowered by a loose brick,
Unable to escape past the curious child.
The only villain was a toad!
And then I turned on my dad and shouted at him, told him he should
Not tell me lies, and I was sent to bed for being impertinent.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day fourteen

Today the prompt is to write a poem based on dream symbolism, using one or two given words - in this case seagull and hammer.


The Demon in the Teashop.

As the night rolled past the ticking hours
My mind was inspired to dream
And the dream was not of flowers
Or pretty plants and streams.
Instead along the wild seafront
I wandered, all alone,
When a tapping and ringing note
Was heard, source unknown.
I turned at once, to check this out
And what did I espy
But a seagull, without a doubt
Hammering, with mournful cry.
Dear seagull, what, I have to ask
Are you doing? Pray stop
And tell me the purpose of your task
Before I visit the adjacent teashop.
The seagull it glared, and opening its beak,
Thus dropping the hammer it held,
And answered me, in words clear to speak
That here was a tale it could tell.
Visit not, it said, the nearby cafe
And risk not their scones or cakes
For to enter would be to go astray
And to eat great risk to take.
I walked on past this ominous gull
And pushed open the teashop door,
Of tea and cake I would be full
Before walking on once more.
I sat me down, and ordered tea
And a scone to have as well,
And then a bloodstained banshee
Allowed her voice to swell.
Go forth you evil one, she said,
And leave this my dwelling place,
With tea you should only have but bread
And butter, you're a great disgrace.
So dear friend, if in your dreams,
A hammering seagull you encounter,
It may be best no to order tea
Unless with plain bread and butter!

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day thirteen

Today the prompt is to use a familiar phrase or saying that is 'upended'.

"Red sky at night shepherd's delight, red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning"

(My thanks to Ralph McTell for inspiring this, which is nearly plagiarised from one of his songs, albeit the cause is different!)


Red Sky

The farmer, with his dog at his heels as ever, walked from the yard
Up into the field by the trees. He looked across at the empty acres,
That only yesterday were thronged with sheep, with cattle inbye.
He walked on past the trees, and up to the hill gate at the top of
The field, and thence out onto the moors that for three generations
Had been in his family, farmed before him by his father, his grandfather
And his great-grandfather. The heathered tops and rocky outcrops
Stood resolute and timeless in the cool of the evening, the blue of
The cloud-whispered sky showing no warmth, no delightful promise
Of a fine day tomorrow. Her turned, and gazed back down on the buildings,
The house where he had been born, the barns and the byres.
Heading back uphill he climbed higher, until he came to the stream that
Tumbled down, gathering strength as it approached the yard, and that
In olden days had powered the waterwheel that now was a mere
Skeleton of wooden limbs, bladeless and  powerless, slowly rotting
Into obscurity. Pausing by the stream he stood still, silent, hands in
Pockets and face inscrutable in the now dimming last light of the day.
Beyond the farm buildings he could see the lower field, the trench within
It stark in the evening light, long shadows and grey craters juxtaposed with
The remaining grass that until only yesterday had been grazed by his cattle.
Even now, there was still smoke rising and spiralling from the funeral pyres,
The work of his lifetime and his father's and his grandfather's and his
Great-grandfather's, all smouldering in ruins, killed in a 'contiguous cull'.
With all the science and medicine and the things that vets could do, why
Could they not stop the foot and mouth by other means? Why did it need
To end the lives of so many, animals and men?
He pulled the letter from his pocket, the figures meaning nothing against
The memory of beasts he had tended from birth, and as he looked it one
Last time, he pressed the button on the detonation controller, and watched,
One more workless shepherd, as a red sky brought him no delight at all.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twelve

Today the prompt is to write a haibun.



Redundant reservoir.

Many years ago I visited this valley with my grandfather, and it was a sea of construction,
fascinating to childish eyes, and the top of the valley was flooded already. There was a small
dam to hold back the early water from the moorland river, and the main valley was flattened
by bulldozers and diggers, farmhouses and cottages, barns and byres all demolished and left
as piles of debris and stone.

When I visited this valley with my grandfather there were some trees, they were young and
marched along the hillside in ranks, pine-treed soldiers fighting an imaginary war with the
native heather and bracken. Over time the trees grew and many have now been harvested,
not by men with horses as years ago, but by forwarders and chainsaws and heavy plant
running on petrol and diesel.

When I visit this valley now it is without my grandfather. When I visited with him he could
not have known that one day I would live just across the hill form this valley, and that I would
drive here several times a week and walk along the tracks and beside the lake. I have seen old trees
taken and sold, and new ones planted to take their place. I have seen new paths laid to replace
the old ones that meandered by the lake.

Today, when summer
Is hidden from view by pillow-soft
Clouds, I recall.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day eleven

Today the prompt is to write a poem that addresses the future subject.



Strange Dawn.

Across sand dusted with silver and gold
Your feet left no prints and the sea
Had no need to wash the strand clean.

Through evening velvet, blue and rich grey,
You drifted, singing, and laughing
At the echoes of another life.

In the deepest night, star-dimmed and
Moon-muted, your voice called faintly,
A call from beyond on a poor phone line.

When the morning dawned, there were colours
In bands and woven plaits across the sky.
But that was a future without you.

That future is black and the colour
Is false and mocks the grieving watchers.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day ten

Today the prompt is to write a poem where two or more things are happening simultaneously.



Unwilling presence.

The lights flickered in the tiniest of breezes, and
Illuminated the singer; the plans in my head were
Fighting to make sense, and surreptitiously I opened
A document on my mobile phone; the guitar sounded
Softly and the song was heralded by the delicate fingers
Forming and picking the chord and the melody, a musical
Signpost to point the way to the voice, the rolling accent
And warm tones describing; and I made notes about
The next weekend, and cursed the blue fairy lights.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day nine

The prompt today is to bring together something very big and something small.


One book.

There is a photograph of a wall that one can view on the internet.
It is a wall with an irregular and inappropriate 'lump' in it.
The wall has been built of bricks, strong and red, but with one small
And thin book laid on the ground as part of the foundations.
That one small thing has changed the whole of the wall.
When walking, in sturdy and substantial boots, the ingress of
A small stone is sufficient to render the walker into a state of
Great discomfort and pain; the stone, so tiny, can cause not only
Pain but blistering and can ultimately prevent the walker
From completing their journey.
The world is a dangerous place, there are many politicians
And bankers and businessmen who seek to control all that
Everyone does in order to maintain their inflated bank balances.
But all of these superior people can be challenged, and even one
Voice crying 'foul' could be enough to trigger the revolution . . .

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day eight

Today the prompt is a poem where something mystical occurs.


The Pedlar's Pool.

I walked out one day, to the Pedlar's Pool.
I only knew of it because I had heard the
Story in a song.
The day was a long one, and this was to be
The main part of it for me.
So I set off and walked to the Pedlar's Pool.

The Lussa runs beside the path,
A river that carries memories and
The present day in harmony as it makes
Its way down to the sea.

The air was silent, the sounds of the day
Faded into the background of the trees
And chattering river, and there subsided.

There is a cairn at the Pedlar's Pool.
It is rough, with an iron cross,
But is says as much as many a marble
Edifice, erected to some noble.
The cairn commemorates the selfless
Sacrifice of one man.

The Pedlar's Pool.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day seven

Today the prompt is list the various things, identities, that I am, and to choose one strong or powerful one, and one weak or vulnerable one, and allow them to converse.


To be seen . . .

There is strength in being woman, for the power of the womb and the
Gift that is granted through bearing the child are beyond compare
And no mere man can understand these things.
But then you are weak, you cannot lift, you cannot hit,
You cannot fight back, you are useless and need a man to
Do for you those things you lack the muscle to achieve.
But there is more determination in the tears that are shed in private,
And more life gained from the deepest feelings that love allows
A woman to feel for her child, than is ever known to man.
But you are weak, you cry with emotion, you cannot control
The tears when there is a death, you rush to comfort those in pain
When they need instead support and a firm hand.
A woman can take refuge in her humanity, she knows the truth that
Defines being human, and allows softness and beauty to smooth
The harshness of the cruelty of being man.
But you control me, your weakness swallows my power and hardness
And takes it into the warmth of the centre of you, and in doing so
You redefine the pain and suffering that is the essence of being human.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day six.

Today the prompt is to use line breaks in a way that stretches my comfort zone.



Triptych.

Three people stand there, all
          in the same place but
                 actually all in different places
Entirely.
                 The brain is a country that is
Closed to all
       But those who live in it, and
       Even then it is mysterious, and
       Maps get lost.
One woman, confused in
Her mind, with
       One man who loves and
       Tries to guide her, and
                There is the photographer, a
                Selfie-taker caught in
                A mirror, and trapped
                As an insect in amber.
                                        The frame serves
                                 To divide the
                          Three of them at
                   The same time as
              It keeps them all
        Together, despite
    The tide of
Dementia.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day five.

Today the prompt is take a poem not in English and imagine the translation describes a photograph.

"Calbharaigh

Chan eil mo shùil air Calbharaigh
no air Betlehem an àigh
ach air cùil ghrod an Glaschu
far bheil an lobhadh fàis,
agus air seòmar an Dùn Èideann,
seòmar bochdainn 's cràidh,
far a bheil an naoidhean creuchdach
ri aonagraich gu bhàs."

(Somhairle MacGill-Eain)

The photo is of the cairn at Hallaig in Raasey.

(I know a little of Gaelic, mostly from studying the poetry of Sorley MacLean, but only a very little.)

Calvary.

There is a modern Calvary, where man
Is sacrificed, not just from Bethlehem, but all
Men are depleted.
They move from their native earth, from the
Isles and the shoreline, from the trees
And the heather and the warmth
Of evening fire, to the rain-washed
Bare and naked streets of the big city,
To Glasgow and beyond, to serve not the
Goddess of the land, but the needs of
Money and capitalism.
This, then, is a modern Calvary.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day four

Today the prompt is concrete terms to describe the abstract concept.

A Strange Dawn.

The sky is clear and the palest blue, a vibrant pastel of intensity,
Streaked with clouds and baby pink stripes as the dusk hour
Approaches and the day draws to a close.
This is the turning day, the ending day, the day of new beginnings
And saying goodbyes to the year that has made its
Presence so painfully felt, etched onto the soul
Like engraving on cut glass.
The night will fall like a velvet curtain to
Blanket the light from distant stars, and to deaden
The sounds of revelry from those who do not and
Cannot ever understand.
Tomorrow there will be a strange dawn, a new dawn,
A grey dawn, soft and unrelenting, pigeon-feathered
And dappled with silken threads.
Tomorrow is a step into the unknown future, a
Future that you are not part of, a year that you
Have never known, never breathed a single breath in,
Never shared a heartbeat with the rhythm of time.

My thanks to the McCalmans whose song 'Strange Dawn' was the inspiration for this poem about grief.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day three

Today the prompt is a poem that is a list of made-up names for something.

A Library of Ludicrosity.

A Guide to Watermelons, and The Cultivation of Dandelions,
Stand side by side with Mechanical Raisin Selection.
Move down a shelf, and there stands
A Woman's View of Wrenches and Egg-beaters (condensed).
Along the way is Sixteen Pencils, which leans on
The Dogs I Always Wanted to Walk.
For the bedside table there is Guitars I Have Known
And The Beachcombers Coffee Handbook.
And the ultimate in toilet reading is provided
By the unforgettable Paperclips from Scapa Flow.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day two

Today the prompt is to play with voice.

Caffeine.

If I, as a poet, write a poem about me,
A poem that includes I many times, and
That consequently makes the lines create
A statement of opinion or observation,
Then you, as the reader, are very likely
To assume that I am writing the poem as
Myself, and that I mean the things that
Are contained within the carefully crafted
And thought out lines of the stanza in question.
And what would you think if I pointed out
That the I in my poem is not the I in my life,
And that the I who speaks through the words
That I write is not me, but is me the poetic voice?
Would you understand that I can both hate
Instant coffee and at the same time I can
Need that cup of instant coffee to start my day?

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day one

Today the prompt is to write about a secret shame or pleasure.


Lock up.

For some the allure of stockings is the thing,
For some silk and leather, for others string.
For some the crack of whip is what they wish
And for others being beaten with wet fish!
There are those who gaze with greedy eyes
On the leggy blonde, and those who disguise
Their illicit love in books and illustrations;
And imagine the feel of a whore's ministrations.
But for you the leather, silk and lace has no appeal,
The sultry voice, the softest touch, the gentle scent
Raises no thought of lustful self indulgent pleasure;
Instead you dream of strength, your thoughts steal
Towards the gym bound women, in clothing meant
For ease of movement, for wrestling at leisure.