Almost back on track with Napowrimo, Day 17 – a sequence poem
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
Still catching up on Napowrimo, this is the response to Day 14 “celebrate a place, thing or idea” This poem evolved midway into a poetic prose…or possibly drifted into a stream of consciousness.
An acre of tarmac; white lines map territorial rights
measured in inches of space filled
with the low growl of engines.
Security guards count single adult entries held 2 metres apart
in a snaking queue, but there’s no hurry
only patience and impatience marks time.
Waiting in the car, my daughter takes care of the shopping
It’s a new boundary for her to tear down.
We both win.
From this new vantage point, the clatter of metal
slamming together in the trolley park
seems musical.
Early evening light dapples through popular trees
edging the car park; a precious necklace of beauty
never previously noticed
As families load car boots with groceries, domestic chatter
is as serene as birdsong in this new oasis of peace
in the surburban landscape.
Cheesy 70s hits blare from an open car window
the driver’s paunch strains buttons on his acidic striped shirt.
He sings along, parking, reversing, correcting, reversing
aligning, reversing in time with the beat.
Sunglasses perch on bleached blonde hair, a dainty lady struggles
to manoeuvre an overladen trolley towards her Audi convertible.
She pauses to consider how her bulk bought goods will fit
into the postage stamp boot. After 3 bags fill the space, she loads the interior
propping up wine with frozen peas and cartons of lemon sorbet.
Her sultry daughter remains seated throughout, scowling at a world
which doesn’t sufficiently entertain, glowering at the domestic inconvenience,
wondering why no-one has responded to her latest Instagram selfie.
I am of hard cobblestones
that broke developing bones
of damp bricks and dense drizzle skies.
I am of the baggy grey sock
that slumps down the leg
and is constantly hitched up.
I am of skipping ropes tied
to flaky paint lampposts
of hot buttered toast suppers.
I am of backyard washing lines,
coal holes and metal bin lids.
I’m of children home by lamplight
and Grimm Fairytales.
Of job centres and blue collar jobs
and paydays prayed for weekly.
Now, I’m of tidy semi,
tarmac roads, motorway hell
of clinical 9-5 desk job
office politics, niceties, pleasantries.
I’m conditioning brilliant white socks,
limiting lightly buttered whole meal toast.
I’m central heating and condenser dryer.
I’m of assessed, measured, compared,
evaluated, tracked and monitored kids
and censored fairytales.
It’s Day 11 of Napowrimo and the prompt is to tell of where you are from and where are you now. Please excuse the poor punctuation… this is written on the hoof as always.
I enjoyed writing this one, the concept amuses me.
Napowrimo Challenge Day 26
The Prompt:
Have you ever heard someone wonder what future archaeologists, whether human or from alien civilization, will make of us? Today, I’d like to challenge you to answer that question in poetic form, exploring a particular object or place from the point of view of some far-off, future scientist?
My Response:
Tinned People
Little tins of people drive by;
some are big, some are small, some long.
At all times of the night and day,
little tins are moving along.
Some are packed and chattery.
Others contain a single one.
Where are you going tinned people?
Tell me, where did you all come from?
From left to right, a constant stream
of shiny black and silver cars.
What do you know? What have you seen?
Do you think there is life on Mars?
My questions fall on deaf tinned ears,
as the tins keep moving on.
Not a “hello” or “cheerio”
From a single, solitary one.
Nicola Hulme Author 