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.

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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.

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.

 

 

The Silent Protest; Procrastination

The Silent Protest; Procrastination

 

Apparently low self-esteem is the cause

that darn inner chimp’s at it again.

I don’t feel worthy or up to the task

when it’s overwhelming, too much of an ask

so I distract my feeble brain.

 

tidy

I choose to re-arrange, to sort, to file,

to categorise, to wash, dry and fold

to put off the job I’m loathe to do

(you may even find me cleaning the loo!)

whilst the larger task stays on hold

 

I beat myself up, notice I’m hiding away

from a deadline that’s looming larger each day

my brain is prioritising short term wins

an alphabetised spice rack and emptied bins

as I wash the pots and put away.

 

The answer: to forgive myself, releasing pent up emotion

the specialists say the result will be

facing the future optimistically

being the best I can possibly be

propulsion into forward motion

 

Another tactic is a sideways manoeuvre

sneaking up when my cranium’s not looking:

To ponder and pontificate on the what would be

Ask myself quite casually

“What would my next move actually be

if I were to start this project, of course hypothetically

because I’m not actually going to do it, silly”

 

Psychologists at a University in Ohio

formed a Procrastination Research Group

They delved and discovered this theory, this truth

Of taking oneself out of the no-go loop

Of getting on and doing what is needed to do.

 

Did they quickly arrive at this conclusion?

or did it take them a while?

I wonder how tidy their shelves are,

if their papers are chronologically filed?

(I’d like to see if their rest room gleams)

I ask with a sceptical wry smile.

 

Day 17 of Napowrimo- I completely missed out Day 16 (I love my kids more than poetry. Sorry! ) and now I have gone off piste with this one…. but it’s apt. Procrastination, my favourite past time.

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.

My Mum Is A Loolah

My Mum Is A Loolah

 

My mum is a Loolah

There is no doubt about that.

She’s on another planet

as daft as a bat.

 

A sandwich short of a picnic

mad as a box of frogs.

She’s away with the fairies,

completely lost the plot.

 

Definitely off her rocker,

she’s as mad as cheese.

These are terms of endearment, as

apple tree

apples

don’t

fall

far

from

the

tree

 

I’ve skipped Napowrimo Day 9, although I wrote the poem…it was far too cobbled to publish even by my wonkly, clunky standards… so I’ve op[ted to skip a day and catch up[ with Day 10. Even here I’m taking liberties. The prompt called for local dialect, of which I have plenty of material, but I opted to use phrases to mean crazy to describe my mother!

If anyone unhinged happens to read this please don’t take offence, I’m not referring to anyone but my mother and don’t mean any disrespect to people with mental illness. My mother’s diagnosis is my own!

The Topline

It’s tough out there.

Really? Once More?

As it was the last year

and the year before

and before and before and before?

 

It’s guaranteed we’ll smash our targets

we’ll exceed every goal

the bar charts show

every year in growth.

The percentages are permanently  flashing

We gave the competition a thrashing

although….

 

One thing intrigues, regarding your peaks

of the increases you frequently speak;

surely they emerge from troughs?

but they’re  not spoken of?

 

We lead from the front,

we’re leading the charge

we’re grounding our clarity

we’re driving hard

we lean in and rise up

a positive outlook

in the right direction

gaining more and more traction

we come to the table

we’re ready and able

in a tough landscape

a snapshot in time…

will always see us

deliver the topline.

For goodness sake man!

Give it a rest!

It’s tough in here too,

let’s just do our best.

The Window

The Window

 

I stood on a chair and watched from the window.

Hours went by.

You came home happy and drunk.

I looked out into a sea of parents

wiped my make-up off

and walked home alone.

On the eve of my Wedding

you spent the night at your boyfriend’s.

My bridesmaid helped me into my dress the next day.

When my daughter was born you went shopping

for something suitable to wear for photographs.

I held her close with a full heart.

Now you view my work on gallery walls,

return home and watch from your window.

 

child at window

It’s Napowrimo Day 4 the challenge today was to write a sad poem using simple words. I love this style, plain and direct and leaves the reader to elicit the emotional impact.

 

A Kiss

kiss

A Kiss

 

I placed a gentle kiss on his forehead

to wake him as I always did

stroking his skin, whispering

“It’s time for school.”

 

Always he awoke with smiling eyes

looking into mine.

It never failed, even as a Cadet

until now.

 

He does not stir.

He lies beneath

the earth divided by brutal borders.

Doomed to die before he could live.

 

Tell me why?

Why nurse him, nurture him,

cherish him?

Why give him life at all?

 

Today’s Napowrimo challenge was to write a poem that ended on a question. My question asks what is the point of war? When will it stop?

army boots - A kiss

Napowrimo 2019 – The Instruction Manual

The Instruction Manual

 

instruction manual

I look at it.

It stares back with dead shark eyes.

It’s banality taunting me,

“Open me up,” it hisses.

I remain motionless

resisting the challenge.

Every fibre of my being rejects

its mind numbing contents.

 

I haven’t opened the cover

but already anticipate three pages

of introduction in eight different languages,

a double page spread of what to do

before beginning,

a page of itemised contents,

before pages of disclaimers

should anything go wrong.

 

Precious hours of life lost

in confusion and stuffy tedium

are too dear too volunteer.

The manual remains in its plastic wallet.

I place it in a drawer,

plug in the appliance and turn on.

 

Written in response to Napowrimo’s daily prompt – Day 1.

I am rusty. I need practice. I need the discipline of writing daily, freely and without self-editing, which is the killer of creativity. I apologise this once, on day one, for clunky rhyme, metre and any other crime the poetic police may charge me with. From here on, for the month of April, I will publish unashamedly because you have been warned, yet choose to continue reading 🙂

Better still, join me; pick up a pencil, write a few lines, let you mind be free to wander. Go with it, don’t resist, enjoy.