The Rump

fatback

I can cope with my belly

wobbling like jelly.

I can cope with

my thunderous thighs.

You see I’ve had both

much longer than most

actually… for most of my life.

 

But something that’s new

and just will not do

is a rump

that’s appeared behind.

Just above my rear

a mound has appeared

and this

I most definitely mind.

 

My shape has expanded

with no effort demanded,

unnoticed by my drowsy eyes.

But….one fateful morn

in the cold light of dawn

I saw a rump

that could feed a small tribe.

 

My back once was a line

punctuated by my

bottom at the bottom

of my spine.

But now it stops short

at the rump

I now port;

a short line

of mine

is NOT fine.

 

Yet here’s my conundrum

for the heap over my bum

I’ve never ever met

Will Power.

A diet of shakes

or small salad days

never lasts for more

than an hour.

 

So I guess I’ll resign

to this new shape of mine

buy elasticated waists

and stretch pants.

Take up a bit more seat

whilst I continue to eat

in between meals and

open mic rants.

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Annoyed Trout (Predictive Text)

Changes

 

“Predictive text you are so clever”

said no one in the world pepper.

You act when there is no seaweed

inserting “penis” instead of “please.”

When inadvertently, I press a key

where are you to rescue me?

If the settings were simple to use,

I would have turned you off Syracuse

but as I’m unable to figure it out,

here you stay to annoy my trout.

frustration

Open Mic Poetry Night … awaits

I haven’t blogged for ages and for a multitude of reasons, so rather than procrastinate until the cows come home, I’m just going to dive right in to what’s going on in my world, or more specifically my head, right now…

open mic2

 

it’s Open Mic Poetry Night in 16 days…happening on June 13th at 7pm at The Samuel Oldknow Pub in Marple, Cheshire as part of the Marple Book Festival 2018

 

– which is a great thing…. and my poetry group Stockport Write Out Loud are appearing there… which is a fantastic privilege….

but I cannot think of a single thing to write … to read out loud…

only 16 days to go….

where is my muse? Where did you go?????

writers block

 

 

I’m expecting a 3am wake up call with a full verse running through my head any night now….please!

 

 

 

Here’s a list of other events happening during the Book Fair Week… (I’m reading Portia The Pear at the library too – bring your little ones).

marple book fair 2018

 

Move on #Napowrimo #2

Move On

Life is too short and so

to save time,

to be efficient,

einstein

 

I wear an Einstein wardrobe;

white blouse,

black jeans,

boots,

yet

 

flamboyant colour

when a kaleidoscope of colour

flounces before me, I envy

the flamboyance,

briefly.

I indulge in the dream of being

free to reside in sparkling rainbows

simply dancing, with no destination

kicking away scrumpled up “to-do” lists

tossed aside with abandon.

 

einsteins wardrobe.jpg

 

The moment passes.

I console myself;

a books beauty is held on the inside.

I move on.

 

 

This poem was strangely influenced by  an article by Julie Marie Wade, Wednesday, March 18, 2015:  article

“Put a Dog in There: Poetry and the Power of Concrete Nouns”

used as a Napowrimo craft resource. In her essay she discusses the power of including nouns.

 

Medieval Marginalia

Napowrimo Challenge Day 24

I initially struggled with this prompt, but once I’d found an angle, it became much easier to write.

The Prompt: 

Write a poem of ekphrasis — that is, a poem inspired by a work of art…base your poem on a very particular kind of art – the marginalia of medieval manuscripts. Here you’ll find some characteristic images of rabbits hunting wolves, people sitting on nests of eggs, dogs studiously reading books, and birds wearing snail shells. What can I say? It must have gotten quite boring copying out manuscripts all day, so the monks made their own fun. Hopefully, the detritus of their daydreams will inspire you as well!

My Response:

 

Hollow

blog 21

A young boy, bent and twisted

over a dimly lit desk, peers at the page.

The candle flickers.

Stiff with cold, his bones ache

from long diligent hours, transcribing reverent texts.

His repetitive days pass in silent gloom.

His quill scratches hairy parchment with thin ink.

blog6

Original thoughts are not required,

Nor dreams or ambition.

Bound by his vow of celibacy,

he will never know the passion of young love.

Hunger and starvation pains his body, pains his soul.

Neglect and lack of sustenance drive him

to the point of defacing the page

blog5

with subversive medieval marginalia.

Supressed dreams, desires and anger merge

revealing his inner torment.

Offensive images of vulgarity spill out onto the page.

blog12

He longs to run away from the sordid squalor,

from the dark, cold and damp monastery.

To stretch his legs, straighten his back,

feel sun on his face as he runs into the arms

of one who smiles and cares.

blog7

The monastic life drives him away

rather than draws him nearer to God.

 Are the words he pens so hollow?