The three words for this weeks prompt are Early, Jingle and Quality. This is the poem they inspired.
Early Jingle Quality
She was up far too early.
Her flushed face child now back to sleep.
The new day was taunting her,
Reminding her that time moved forward,
There was no pause to recover.
Her eyes stung in protest.
The body ached and groaned,
Dry, rough hands rubbed her tired face.
Outside the milk bottles jingled on the float,
The street light flickered.
Packed lunches, school bags, washing,
All called to her.
Perfect eyelashes on rosy cheeks,
Skin unblemished yet by life.
Kept her still, listening to the breath.
Wednesday, 27 July 2011
Monday, 25 July 2011
Tornado
This month, my writers group's prompt was a picture of a small tornado. So this is my memory of a tornado relationship!
Tornado
You. You were my tornado.
Appearing suddenly, you sucked me in,
Pulling me into your centre,
Where in the quiet I thought I could see your heart, your soul.
In this artificial world I dallied, the centre of your eye.
Surrounded by you, blinded to the edge of destruction.
Your mouth brushed my neck as you whispered to me.
My ears, hearing only you, not the world around being torn apart.
I surrendered to you, tip-toeing within my confined space,
Distracted as thoughts spiralled.
But I wanted more, my fingers trail along your sides,
Feeling your power.
Then I'm flying, swept up
Amongst all the flotsam and jetsam of your life,
I'm not the only baggage you carry.
My eyes finally opened to the chaos around me.
But it's too late, this is survival,
My tangled heart, the price for dalliance.
Tornado
You. You were my tornado.
Appearing suddenly, you sucked me in,
Pulling me into your centre,
Where in the quiet I thought I could see your heart, your soul.
In this artificial world I dallied, the centre of your eye.
Surrounded by you, blinded to the edge of destruction.
Your mouth brushed my neck as you whispered to me.
My ears, hearing only you, not the world around being torn apart.
I surrendered to you, tip-toeing within my confined space,
Distracted as thoughts spiralled.
But I wanted more, my fingers trail along your sides,
Feeling your power.
Then I'm flying, swept up
Amongst all the flotsam and jetsam of your life,
I'm not the only baggage you carry.
My eyes finally opened to the chaos around me.
But it's too late, this is survival,
My tangled heart, the price for dalliance.
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
Dandelion Girl
This poem is dedicated to my middle child. Who looks at the world through different eyes and is my endless inspiration. I write under her nickname to show her that anything can be overcome if you put your mind to it.
Dandelion Girl
A halo of hair, caught in the sunlight.
Every fibre defiant to the end.
Whiskers, helping her to find her way.
To keep her safe.
An inspiration to me.
This is my dandelion girl.
Her gaze pauses, a moment of stillness,
In her otherwise flowing movement.
Green eyes flick to me.
The smile spreads outwards,
Engulfing me in fire and love.
This is my dandelion girl.
Then she is gone.
Sure footed, mind soaring.
The world vibrating a little round her.
A spinning planet, drawing others closer.
Her golden soul sparkles and glitters.
This is my dandelion girl.
Dandelion Girl
A halo of hair, caught in the sunlight.
Every fibre defiant to the end.
Whiskers, helping her to find her way.
To keep her safe.
An inspiration to me.
This is my dandelion girl.
Her gaze pauses, a moment of stillness,
In her otherwise flowing movement.
Green eyes flick to me.
The smile spreads outwards,
Engulfing me in fire and love.
This is my dandelion girl.
Then she is gone.
Sure footed, mind soaring.
The world vibrating a little round her.
A spinning planet, drawing others closer.
Her golden soul sparkles and glitters.
This is my dandelion girl.
Monday, 11 July 2011
The Goodbye
Cloud watching in the rain,
Somewhere near I hear my name.
It's just an echo from the past
Ripples spreading after stone was cast.
I nestle deep amongst the leaves,
Guarded by the nearby trees.
A quiet chance to say goodbye
Tears glistening, blurring in my eye.
Your name so close, is on my lips,
I caress them slowly with fingertips.
For you, my love, wished me strong,
But how can I be when you are gone?
Somewhere near I hear my name.
It's just an echo from the past
Ripples spreading after stone was cast.
I nestle deep amongst the leaves,
Guarded by the nearby trees.
A quiet chance to say goodbye
Tears glistening, blurring in my eye.
Your name so close, is on my lips,
I caress them slowly with fingertips.
For you, my love, wished me strong,
But how can I be when you are gone?
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
Wedding Petals
This month, my writers group had to write an autobiography of 'anything'. The idea being that everyday objects/ things have a story hidden in them. We then had to write a life story of one of those "things".
This is the poem it inspired:
Wedding Petals
The bud emerges shielded in green.
Slowly layers slip down her shoulders,
Until she stands proud in all her glory.
Ripples of elegant white,
Perfumed for her her grand entrance.
A hand reaches, deft in touch,
Separating her with a single stroke.
She didn't feel it coming.
Her sisters are nestled beside her,
As daylight is slowly smothered.
Heat and dark.
Moisture leaches from her being,
Until only a fragrant ghost remains.
Then more hands, tearing her asunder,
Placing the delicate remains in a box.
A sweaty hand, swoops her fragments,
Releasing her for one last flurry.
Her curtain call of waxy grace.
This is the poem it inspired:
Wedding Petals
The bud emerges shielded in green.
Slowly layers slip down her shoulders,
Until she stands proud in all her glory.
Ripples of elegant white,
Perfumed for her her grand entrance.
A hand reaches, deft in touch,
Separating her with a single stroke.
She didn't feel it coming.
Her sisters are nestled beside her,
As daylight is slowly smothered.
Heat and dark.
Moisture leaches from her being,
Until only a fragrant ghost remains.
Then more hands, tearing her asunder,
Placing the delicate remains in a box.
A sweaty hand, swoops her fragments,
Releasing her for one last flurry.
Her curtain call of waxy grace.
Friday, 1 July 2011
Normal Service Will Resume Shortly
An emotional week, then a phone call from one of my oldest and best friends. I have so many words at the end of my finger tips and yet I don't think I managed a single one when that storm hit. Suddenly the world felt a little larger. Instead of being able to hold her, I was holding my phone, one finger in the ear surrounded by screaming children.
I'm sorry my darling.
We spoke the next day and this time it was her, finding all the right words for me. Showing me in the mirror what I could be, that there really is no excuse for not putting myself forward for things; take chances. To stop looking for support and validation in what I do from those around me. She is so strong, so much stronger then she thinks and such an inspiration to me.
I'm sorry my darling.
We spoke the next day and this time it was her, finding all the right words for me. Showing me in the mirror what I could be, that there really is no excuse for not putting myself forward for things; take chances. To stop looking for support and validation in what I do from those around me. She is so strong, so much stronger then she thinks and such an inspiration to me.
Saturday, 18 June 2011
Stone Promises
This month our writers group had to write something inspired by a picture of a net and pearls on a pebbled beach. So if the picture is of a beach, then I should write about the North Yorkshire moors, right? It's funny how your mind can take a tiny element from a prompt and go off in a totally different direction.
Above me is August blue, broken by the odd bleached, white patch, sedately sailing by. Beyond the blue, out of sight, is midnight, littered with stars and planets. And beyond that? The heather scratches my skin, digging in, protesting at my crushing weight. Their scent a reminder of half forgotten memories as the wind laps over me. A lone curlew's pewit cry echoes across the moor. This is where we came, your hand wrapped round mine. Now my hands are alone in my pockets, rubbing the smooth pebbles, each a promise given to me.
A trail of salt water creeps, cold against the skin. The clouds continue past, made up of rivers, sea, lakes and tears. Tiny molecules which when combined could easily drown me. Do memories live on in the water? I shake my head as I would an etch o scketch, to wipe the stupid thought away. I wish I could rid my mind of all unwelcome thoughts that easily.
A rogue branch takes its chance to harpoon me.
In my heather tomb, I try to empty my mind of bilge, listening to my shallow breath and waves of surging blood. Piercing the quiet a shrill whistle scares the curlew into flight taking it's laments with it. I rise, looking to my left and right as people emerge from the thick heather, a stretched-out line, young and old squinting against the glare and all facing the same rolling moorland. A nod passes down the line, unsmiling as it flies along, then we set off, slowly, methodically in our measured steps. A line of waving white, plastic flags, creating a sharp crack. Beating. The grouse in front of us fly up in fear, the smarter ones doubling back with cries of alarm. Over a rise, hidden from view, we can hear the lead shot. Hunters camouflaged behind the moss-covered, craggy stone butts, their barrels resting on the shaggy, grass tops.
Rolling a stone in my fingers, a worry bead of smoothness against my dry, rough skin. This was a promise to watch me grow old. It drops from my hand, soundless as stone returns to earth. Another pebble, hard against my fingers. A promise to love me forever, now released from my grip. The trail of pebbles disappear in my wake until only sand remains.
I concentrate on putting one foot in front of another, trying not to twist my ankle. Our line pinches in as we reach the butts, and I stumble in a hidden fire ditch. Shooters are handing over their guns to be cleaned, dogs are being called to heel and we are being herded to the land rovers. I'm watched - covertly - but watched, so I keep my eyes down, my face neutral, automatically reaching for my pebbles, grains slipping through my fingers.
Piling into the back of the transport home, we sit, exhausted two rows facing each other, bouncing on old springs along the dirt track, the tyres kicking up dust as we fly along. The twins laugh and joke, youth on their side while we sit in silence, smiling at their silliness. This is their backyard, their playground and today they are getting paid for it. Catching the eye of the eldest beater, his weathered face turns, the smile reaching through the heavy lines to his eyes. I smile back, my muscles rusty and sore.
Track turns to tarmac as we descend into the village. The other vehicles are already there, the guns being unloaded into the store room, ready to be locked away until tomorrow. With a creak of brakes we stop, the back door is opened and we start to climb out. I wait my turn snuggled in his jacket, taking comfort in the familiar smell of wax and aftershave. A hand is extended to help me down, tanned, firm. I don't need to follow the line of the shirt up to the neck to know whose it is. I drop carefully to the floor, hands by my side. His voice is low, near my ear. "Want to help me feed the pheasants?" I stare deep into the forget-me-not blue eyes, not giving me any clues, so familiar yet so foreign. His hair has grown longer, a slight curl against the tanned neck.
"Sure, why not."
"Meet here at five?"
"OK."
He disappears into the throng.
Walking down the steep path to my house, I smile. This time it's easier and without the pebbles in my pockets, I feel lighter. Slipping my boots off in the porch, I carefully hang the wax coat on it's usual peg then move into the kitchen calling out as I go -
"Dad I'm home!"
Then I remember.
Stone Promises
Above me is August blue, broken by the odd bleached, white patch, sedately sailing by. Beyond the blue, out of sight, is midnight, littered with stars and planets. And beyond that? The heather scratches my skin, digging in, protesting at my crushing weight. Their scent a reminder of half forgotten memories as the wind laps over me. A lone curlew's pewit cry echoes across the moor. This is where we came, your hand wrapped round mine. Now my hands are alone in my pockets, rubbing the smooth pebbles, each a promise given to me.
A trail of salt water creeps, cold against the skin. The clouds continue past, made up of rivers, sea, lakes and tears. Tiny molecules which when combined could easily drown me. Do memories live on in the water? I shake my head as I would an etch o scketch, to wipe the stupid thought away. I wish I could rid my mind of all unwelcome thoughts that easily.
A rogue branch takes its chance to harpoon me.
In my heather tomb, I try to empty my mind of bilge, listening to my shallow breath and waves of surging blood. Piercing the quiet a shrill whistle scares the curlew into flight taking it's laments with it. I rise, looking to my left and right as people emerge from the thick heather, a stretched-out line, young and old squinting against the glare and all facing the same rolling moorland. A nod passes down the line, unsmiling as it flies along, then we set off, slowly, methodically in our measured steps. A line of waving white, plastic flags, creating a sharp crack. Beating. The grouse in front of us fly up in fear, the smarter ones doubling back with cries of alarm. Over a rise, hidden from view, we can hear the lead shot. Hunters camouflaged behind the moss-covered, craggy stone butts, their barrels resting on the shaggy, grass tops.
Rolling a stone in my fingers, a worry bead of smoothness against my dry, rough skin. This was a promise to watch me grow old. It drops from my hand, soundless as stone returns to earth. Another pebble, hard against my fingers. A promise to love me forever, now released from my grip. The trail of pebbles disappear in my wake until only sand remains.
I concentrate on putting one foot in front of another, trying not to twist my ankle. Our line pinches in as we reach the butts, and I stumble in a hidden fire ditch. Shooters are handing over their guns to be cleaned, dogs are being called to heel and we are being herded to the land rovers. I'm watched - covertly - but watched, so I keep my eyes down, my face neutral, automatically reaching for my pebbles, grains slipping through my fingers.
Piling into the back of the transport home, we sit, exhausted two rows facing each other, bouncing on old springs along the dirt track, the tyres kicking up dust as we fly along. The twins laugh and joke, youth on their side while we sit in silence, smiling at their silliness. This is their backyard, their playground and today they are getting paid for it. Catching the eye of the eldest beater, his weathered face turns, the smile reaching through the heavy lines to his eyes. I smile back, my muscles rusty and sore.
Track turns to tarmac as we descend into the village. The other vehicles are already there, the guns being unloaded into the store room, ready to be locked away until tomorrow. With a creak of brakes we stop, the back door is opened and we start to climb out. I wait my turn snuggled in his jacket, taking comfort in the familiar smell of wax and aftershave. A hand is extended to help me down, tanned, firm. I don't need to follow the line of the shirt up to the neck to know whose it is. I drop carefully to the floor, hands by my side. His voice is low, near my ear. "Want to help me feed the pheasants?" I stare deep into the forget-me-not blue eyes, not giving me any clues, so familiar yet so foreign. His hair has grown longer, a slight curl against the tanned neck.
"Sure, why not."
"Meet here at five?"
"OK."
He disappears into the throng.
Walking down the steep path to my house, I smile. This time it's easier and without the pebbles in my pockets, I feel lighter. Slipping my boots off in the porch, I carefully hang the wax coat on it's usual peg then move into the kitchen calling out as I go -
"Dad I'm home!"
Then I remember.
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