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 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

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

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