Shenanigans

You wouldn’t believe it but it’s true!

I’ll tell you, but don’t tell a soul

Mr Black and Miss Pike, as brazen as you like

They were seen late entering her home

 

I’ll tell you, but don’t tell a soul

Mrs Parker at 43 told me

They were seen late entering her home

They came out looking dishevelled and guilty!

 

Mrs Parker at no 43 told me

She heard it from Hugh at 22

They came out looking dishevelled and guilty!

but you must keep it between me and you

 

She heard it from Hugh at 22

Said it’s been going on a month, maybe two!

but you must keep it between me and you

You wouldn’t believe it but it’s true!

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Bumfuzzled

I awoke bumfuzzled from a terrible dream.

My bed clothes cattywampus through

my incessant tossing and turning.

Of course re-telling it now, the dream would seem

pure taradiddle, but I tell it to steady my nerves:

A young man hollered gardyloo from a window above

before throwing a bucket of slops into the street.

A lady oblivious to the warning was drenched as a result.

In a state of ill-willie she yelled billingsgate at the man.

They faced off and from there it escalated to the point

that a snickersnee threatened.

I tried to flee from the scene, running widdershins.

I had severe collywobbles from sheer terror.

Luckily, the pair disappeared (as they tend to do in dreams)

but now I came upon a  smashed clock tower

with its gubbins hanging out!

A friendly clockmaker fixed it and we were conjubilant

to hear it chime on the hour with precision.

This coincided with my alarm clock ringing, rousing me from slumber.

Needless to say, I was not well-rested.

clock gubbins

Day 24 and the Napowrimo prompt asks: Locate a dictionary, thesaurus, or encyclopedia, open it at random, and consider the two pages in front of you to be your inspirational playground for the day. Maybe a strange word will catch your eye, or perhaps the mishmash of information will provide you with the germ of a poem.

Without dictionary or encyclopedia to hand I googled “word of the day” and fell upon Merrium-Webster’s funny-sounding words. I quite enjoyed this.

 

 

46

I’m 46 for goodness sake!

Where did those years go?

I was 20 only yesterday

full of vigour and gusto.

I’m closer to the grave

than the cradle which is mad

I haven’t even started yet

wasted youth is pitifully sad.

I should have sailed around the world

raising Hell everyday

been a rock star filling stadiums

instead of shuffling life away.

But had I been that rock chic

I’d never have met my man

or held my babies in my arms

and heard them call me Mam.

But Bloody Hell, I’m not ready!

for wrinkles and support tights

I’ll not go gently into bingo halls

and fade into goodnight.

So crack open the Southern Comfort

add a splash of coke

there’s still life left in this old girl

before I finally croak.

Drink up and let’s be merry

raise a glass or two

to living our lives fully

before we bid adieu.

Razored Nail

 

Razored Nail

 

You will not see her approach,

hear footsteps fall or gravel crunch.

The moonlight shadow makes no sound

as she picks you out for lunch.

 

But you may smell the foul stench,

feel slimy spittle against your skin.

Pungent odour fills your nose

your stomach writhes and knots within.

 

You will not see a blade glint

but feel the gouge of razored nail

as she disembowels your organs

and drags out your entrails.

witch

 

Pray she passes you by, my dear

pull the covers over head.

Lock your windows, bolt the door,

hope she isn’t in your bed.

Lyrical beauty, decomposing poets and butterflies

The New Mills Poetry Trail Open Mic Event – The Butterfly House at The Torrs, New Mills, by Nicola Hulme

As the setting sun filled the evening sky with a spectacular orange glow, I drove through the Derbyshire lanes to a small town nestled against the dramatic backdrop of the Peak District. I was on my way to celebrate the New Mills Poetry Trail with an evening of open mic poetry.

The residents of New Mills extended a warm welcome to the “outsiders” from Stockport’s Write Out Loud group; they even extended their arms to a poet from who hailed from the far reaches of Glossop, such a friendly bunch.

book butterfly

Held in the beautifully ornate Butterfly House at the Torrs Hotel, poets spilled out into neighbouring rooms such was the amazing turn out. It was heart-warming to see so many people of varying ages and backgrounds coming together to share in their passion, to hear and be heard. Remarkably, for such a large gathering, the atmosphere still remained intimate, reminiscent of stories told around the fireplace.
Published poets, new poets, experienced performers and those, like I, who still shake inwardly when approaching the mic, came together in a shared appreciation of the spoken word. Topics conveyed ranged from the pastoral pleasures of a slow canal walk, the heartaches of unrequited love, through to the surprise of eight family members surviving their first holiday together without anyone’s demise! For our delight we were told how Wordsworth’s decomposing body made fine fertiliser for the daffodils and allotment gardeners cried out for insect genocide, namely the extinction of the Cabbage White. The strength of Manchester was praised in a salute to the bees and conversations overheard at Costa were mulled over between drinks.

It was interesting to observe how we write as introverts, cocooned individually honing our craft, yet, on nights such as these, when we share our lines a new beauty emerges. Like a butterfly spreading its wings for the first time verbalising our humanity, vulnerabilities, passions and fears we create something new and more captivating together. We create a place of trust, empathy and support where smiles, nods and applause say “Yes, we understand, we have experienced the same and can relate to you.”

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IPhones, technology and social media may play a huge part in our daily life but it’s reassuring to know the poetry scene is very much alive and well, uniting communities. On this night the people of New Mills and the surrounding areas turned their backs on box set binging and X-Factor warbling, preferring to spend time with friends in a lyrical wonderland.

I’d like to say thank you to Randy Horton and his team of volunteers for organising the Poetry Trail and the open mic evening. Thanks also to the shopkeepers who supported the event by allowing poems to be displayed in their windows and of course to the people of New Mills for coming together and making it a night to remember. I hope we can do it all again next year.

Review is about New Mills Festival Poetry Trail Round Robin on 26 Sep 2018 (event)

Visit @writeoutloud for details of your local poetry groups.

2.32AM

 

232bathroom

 

2.32 !!!

Awake!! Need the loo!!!

Blast that last cup of tea!

 

 

232tea

 

 

Creep back to bedroom.

Feel my way through the gloom.

Slide into bed silently.

 

232sleep

 

 

Turn hot pillow over;

cools my neck and my shoulder.

Slip into sleep happily.

Soft Slumber

Napowrimo Day 16

The Prompt: 

Write a nocturne. In music, a nocturne is a composition meant to be played at night, usually for piano, and with a tender and melancholy sort of sound. Your nocturne should aim to translate this sensibility into poetic form!

My Response:

Soft Slumber

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Night lead me by the hand

as we climb a twinkling staircase of stars.

Darkness cover me. Tuck me in.

Place a goodnight kiss on my forehead.

Shadows close my heavy eyes.

Guide me into sleep.

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Dreams waltz with me

across an endless sky of velvet black.

Stillness soothe my mind.

Sing me a lullaby of moonlit melody.

Softness sway my soul.

Rock me gently with your sympathetic lilt.

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Peacefulness rise and fall

with every breath, as I slip deeper

into restful slumber.