Flight

Napowrimo day 22 – Write a poem about flight or flying.

Flight

 

We carried our clothes in Tesco carrier bags and took off on foot

staying with friends “just for a few days”

sleeping in box rooms on camp beds or the couch.

I was always embarrassed letting anyone see my faded nightdress

as I walked to the bathroom to clean my teeth.

I missed home, Grandma, the corner shop, my books, my own bed

I never understood why we were always leaving.

 

Image by Felicianose-art-hobbyist

Not Sorry!

I absolutely loved writing tonight’s poem, I do like a rant and felt thoroughly cleansed after this one. In response to Napowrimo Day 19, write a “not sorry” poem – here it is.

Not Sorry

 

Social distancing from an introspective perspective,

could be considered social rebalancing.

I now appreciate my immediate family more than ever,

when I’m sick they care for me

when I’m hungry they feed me.

when I’m low their hugs lift me.

This is my inner circle, my sanctuary.

So, Mr Fluff from Zero Town, from this day forward

I won’t be putting your needs above mine and my family’s.

Your emails to request X by deadline Y will be deleted.

You are an outsider from the outer circle and let’s be honest

whenever I have satisfied your requests at the expense of time

with my family, you have been grateful for nanoseconds

forgotten it soon after and only remembered me again when

you want something more.

I’m not sorry.

To those in my mid-circle; I love you

But I won’t be making myself ill running around to please both you

and my family. If you love me you’ll understand and not be peeved

if I don’t reply to your posts, comments, invitations, messages, emails

immediately or within your accepted and expected time scale.

I love you but I’m not sorry.

To society at large; if my make-up is not perfect, my “roots” visible

My weight off your chart, my diet lacking,

If I’m not quick enough, not enough – so what?

You are not in any circle of mine, just landscape, background noise.

I’m not sorry.

 

 

Art by Agnes Cecile

Don’t Make Me Go Back

Almost back on track with Napowrimo, Day 17 – a sequence poem

 

 

Don’t Make Me Go Back

 

I

 

A smooth soft wrist, warm to the touch

with a healthy pulse, smiles back at me

it hasn’t seen a watch in 3 weeks.

 

II

 

I’m late!

For what?

Nothing

 

III

 

A 6am alarm triggers rocketing blood pressure

Lobotomised drivers with hollowed faces and deadened eyes

commute on the 9-5 M60

a cacophony of sirens and horns their weird theme tune.

A 6pm return of my fractured shadow

 

Pigeon Paranoia

Catching up to Napowrimo Day 15 writing both a positive and negative

Pigeon Paranoia

 

Shadowy pigeons perch along the apex of the roof

fat balled bodies silhouetted by the sun.

Their dark forms threaten.

 

Why sit in a line so still? What do you intend?

What scheme do you conjure? Is it to peck out my eyes

in a frantic feathered mob attack?

 

Or do you simply wait for the store to close,

the car park to empty,

to scavenge fallen crumbs?

The Lie

Napowrimo Day 8 – Write of a lie

 

The Lie

 

An empty Bell’s Whiskey bottle wedged behind the stacked cereal bowls.

Drained Smirnoff Vodka bottles tinkle together behind the sack of dog food.

Crushed White Lightening Cider bottles lean on shelves in the garden shed.

Merlot Wine bottles are disguised amongst the bleach and disinfectant.

 

But you didn’t put them there.

 

Could it have been me and I have amnesia?

Perhaps our 6 year old can reach tall shelves and unlock rusty padlocks?

No. It must be the dog: he’s sleeping it off in his basket.

Was it a twisted tooth fairy who leaves his empties around our home?

 

Which is it to be if it wasn’t you?

A Lesson In Victory

#Napowrimo Day 7 – Victory

A Lesson In Victory

 

The Defeat:

“You’ll never make it at Art College.

Others are more talented than you.

Choose something more academic”

Dreams massacred, self-belief brutalised

 

The Wasteland:

30 years passed without paint touching canvas,

Without pastels blending, charcoal shading,

pencils sketching, or clay fired.

A hollow career followed; haunting a soulless

corporate 9-5 graveyard where the dreamless roam.

 

The Victory:

An opportunity presented was seized – carpe diem.

My paintings hang on Art Gallery walls

not Picasso, not Monet, but they hang among artists.

 

The Tragedy:

With education, training (dare I say encouragement?)

would I have trodden a path of art, culture,

of colour, imagination and expression?

 

The Gift (to others):

The truth – if you love it, do it.

Never let a sun set without trying.

 

 

**Image Jonathan Mannion On Capturing ‘Victory & Strength’ For Gucci Mane’s New LP Cover

Near Rhyme Hell Whilst Corona’d

Napowrimo Day 6 using prompts from Christina Thatcher.com

Write a poem about a project, collection or activity. Distracted by my symptoms of Corona Virus I have used artistic license in that my “activity” is making sense of my day!

 

Near Rhyme Hell Whilst Corona’d

 

A symptom of corona virus is confusion

I was outwitted by a simple lock mechanism

So please forgive me the occasional delusion

I’m personally finding, within it, amusement

I shall isolate in my castle of seclusion

So not to spread to you my infectious pollution

I hope to soon see a swift and final conclusion

Full recovery, not the end of my inclusion!

 

*Featured Image by Parvez Taj

**Opening the patio doors outwitted me; I couldn’t fathom the key turn and lever arm mechanism, which alerted me to something being wrong (other than the cough and lack of energy). I hadn’t realised this was a symptom until consulting NHS 111 online. If you find yourself in this position please bear it in mind. You dont need to have a fever to have Corona Virus.

Wake Up!

It’s very rare you’ll hear anything remotely political from me, I prefer to listen, observe and cast my vote quietly, with little fuss. However, these are peculiar times. In response to Boris’ “no show” at a press conference yesterday, I felt compelled to write the following, in the hope that it resonates:

Wake Up!

 

Wake up dozing Englishmen

from armchair’d dusty slumber!

Though cricket bats have been oiled and stored,

the orchards are swollen, the flowers in final bloom,

do not rest!

Heed this call to action – trouble is afoot.

A national threat stands before drowsy eyes;

the price of tea will rise!

Wake up and speak out now

before European gates clang shut.

 

 

My Poor Abused Friend – Poetry

In youth, you were hypnotic, inviting reciting,

invocation with intonation,

around a campfire charms and incantations

uniting the village, outlet of emotion,

stories told of heroic devotion

conquering enemies, stealing love’s kiss

of purest love, of Heaven’s bliss.

but academia tied a knot ‘round your neck

restricting your voice, removing choice

cutting, shaping, controlling, conforming,

boxing your soul into stanzas and form

with counted metre they drove the stake home

Elitists emerged declaring “this is the way”

confining performance to plays and stage

in plush theatres for the rich who paid

the poor

left out in the cold.

Heralded as art your heart lay dormant

amongst dust and cobwebs still conformant

but a spirited few saw through, sought out

your cindered Beauty; “Truth will out”.

and so your time has come, it’s now.

the yoke that choked is smashed and broken

words are alive and passionately spoken

your energy taken up by a youth, who

taste and chew the new true you,

the devout, who speak out, shout out, call out,

slam down, throw down,

giving the low down,

honouring

your crown,

standing on streets, stamping feet to your beat

whilst denouncing cheats who held you

captive.

You are once more free to be

unleashed beauty

with depth of sea , height of sky

asking why

of you and me, bearing souls,

uncovering truth

appealing to old whilst captivating youth

not held to a page or strapped to a stage

accessible to all, who hear your call

hearts open wide allow you inside,

bring darkness to light,

revealing scars and bites,

what lies beneath, wounds and grief

making sense of confusion, turmoil and pain

and through you

we discover

we are all the same.

Poetry Unleashed

Day 28 of NApowrimo – 28 poems written and the end is nigh…today’s prompt was to write a poem about poetry “try your hand at a meta-poem of your own”. Here is my rant about archaic rules… I may even publish a second because I’m completely fired up, but for now here is

Poetry Unleashed

Who applied mathematics to literature?

Who dared degrade lines to a vile number count?

Who callously ripped out the soul to insert regularity?

Iambic Pentameter you are a satanic curse infecting creativity.

You leave me cold, my blood stilled.

You bind my hands and feet with rigidity.

Your condescending eye watches over my choice of phrase.

Know that you are not welcome in my world of dreams,

my moments of emotional outpouring.

My self-analysis has no need of your stuffy laws.

When I lower my defences to release pent up anger,

remorse, heartache or hurt, revealing scars

never before uncovered,

when I flood the page with deep sentiment,

boundless praise of nature’s beauty,

when I proclaim my love of the one I adore

or worship my children, professing eternal gratitude

for being so blessed,

do I need your calculated condemnation?

Do I need your bony finger pointing out inconsistent

decrepit

syllable counts or misplaced emphasis?

No! Close the door on your way out!

You are old and decrepit, redundant and impotent.

You shall not haunt my page. Be gone.

Lie down in your cold grave and let the living write poetry.