Posted in #NaPoWriMo2017, Writing

NaPoWriMo 2017 20/30

Today poem is to write in the style of a creation myth.
I decided to write about the creation of a poem.

In a land of truth and disillusionment,
a little black cursor blinked at me.
Sitting quietly in disgruntlement,
I wondered what this could be.
But once the light entered my mind,
my fingers flew across the page,
a thought tornado began to unwind,
a murder of words released from their cage.
My inner crow culled and carved every letter,
like an artist polishing their piece.
I contemplated what would make it better,
refining and shining my verbal motif.
Until finally a group of verses
composed themselves upon a crafted juncture.
Lo and behold a poem surfaces
ready to regale in their next adventure.

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Posted in #NaPoWriMo2017, Writing

NaPoWriMo 2017 19/20

Are you the child that threw stones?
Are you the tremor that shook?
Are you the wind that groans?
That knocked the bird from its nook.

She fell like rain from the sky,
like the leaves in late Autumn.
She waited for her time to die,
though why she could not fathom.

But happy smiles gave her wings,
conversation gave her hope.
She clung to the friendly strings,
through contact she learned to cope.

Sticks and stones will break her bones,
but friendly words will keep her home.

 

Dedicated to my housemate V. Thanks for the prompt and conversation about 13 Reasons Why which also served inspiration for today’s entry.

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Posted in #NaPoWriMo2017, Writing

NaPoWriMo 2017 18/30

Tonights entry is unedited free hand whilst listening to Sheng Cai play Chopin Nocturne Op.9 No.2

She drifts softly
along sweet green grass
memories of home
whispers in the trees.
The whistles of the wind,
the coos of the swans,
and the song of the breeze
fill the park.
The carousel keeps turning,
she keeps watching,
the children laugh,
their mothers gossiping.
Down by the river,
nestled in the grass
she hums pretty whispers,
enchanted by him.
He strides across the lake,
a dark figure
cutting her world,
like a blemish on a painting.
Her peacefulness is fading,
her realness is falling,
the door closes, her eyes
glisten like the ripples of the river
she takes him in her arms
as they turn about
spinning, disappearing
into a watercolour,
she whispers softly,
silently,
nothing. 

Posted in #NaPoWriMo2017, Writing

NaPoWriMo 2017 17/30 Letter

I write to you from beyond the ocean,
my situation advantageous.
I find myself with pen in hand,
my urge to tell infectious.
I called upon our dearest friend,
whilst walking about the Surrey downs.
We exchanged pleasant conversation
at the old tearooms in town.
A full account of happenings,
within the Commonwealth and country,
were passed over the jam and cream
in between. tales of the gentry.
I spoke of my play in London,
how Barrie had been resurrected.
I laughed at her dismay of my actions,
you know I am not one to be directed.
Our friend finds the country more to her taste,
she has acquired a shoebox bakery.
It’s a quaint shop behind the church,
but upon my word the drapery!
Now for the strictest confidence,
this is our tete-a-tete:
You-know-who has favoured a certain creature,
shortly to be announced in the gazette.
I asked questions in the usual manner,
but she was not willing to confess.
No matter, I had occasion to pass by the shop,
and found her admiring grandmama’s dress.
Now I bound your silence to this letter,
we must only speak in whispers.
I’ll forward you the refreshed pages,
when we can happily call her sister.

 

Posted in #NaPoWriMo2017, Writing

NaPoWriMo 2017 14/30 A Charlie Ghazal

“What a Charlie!” The jungle roars.
She hides from their inglorious roars.

But she also hunts for her Ohana,
she can hear the ancestral roars.

She fights the whispering Earth,
the embers grow into fiery roars.

She dances with bells and whistles,
stepping into the light, she roars.

The others will always call her barmy.
But she smiles her name is Charlie, and roars.

 

Note: Charlie, other than being my name, is also the British slang word for ‘fool’.

Posted in #NaPoWriMo2017, Writing

NaPoWriMo 2017 13/30

I can always rely on Mr. Moon
he is my constant, my complete focus.
Instrumental in my freeway thinking,
he brightens the deepest navy canvas.
The enigma of our reality:
Moronic questions wield moronic answers.
Making way for tiresome humanity,
especially those every day chancers.
Tonight I am in need of mental floss,
after the stupidest mystery was solved.
The world doesn’t need special characters
when five minutes ago is “oh so old”.
Bring me urban beats of hallelujah,
when they realise high heels really hurt, and
that Mario wears a Space Invader?
I think I’ll join a Mariachi band.
Always relying on my Mr. Moon
to help me navigate my state of play.
His patience paints a realm of reflection,
a quarantine from the longest day.

Posted in #NaPoWriMo2017, Writing

NaPoWriMo 2017 12/30

It’s a tumour in our wiring,
eating away at our consciousness,
corrupting the ones and zeros,
and deleting the Q & A.
The power will tremor,
and we’ll default to analogue.

I don’t like this game.

Automatic panic
induces a here and now, headache
for tomorrows war.
Social paralysis
stings ailing humanoids
there’s a sickness in the state
when the man can’t man-well
no one has a clue.

I don’t like this game.

Lost and alone,
the darkness is daring
twitching the screen.
Please don’t blink!
One day we will be defeated,
one day we will be deleted.

I don’t like this game.

 

A ‘Bop’ poem inspired by the computers turning themselves off in the office earlier today. 

Posted in #NaPoWriMo2017, Writing

NaPoWriMo 2017 11/30

“Curious”

I think sometimes possibly,
that you could be my blue sky.
My heart and brain swing their rackets
like it’s the final of the Open.
Searching for answers
for something that cannot be answered,
until it happens.
The breathe of happiness
remains uncertain.
I sometimes wonder,
when will you stop
hiding beneath the cloak of comedy?
I wish I knew where this was going.
I’m pretty sure the Cheshire does.
He is a frustratingly friendly feline,
that smells like pancakes and ice cream
and who is as elusive as his grin.
I think sometimes, maybe.
I think sometimes, curiously.

Posted in #NaPoWriMo2017, Writing

NaPoWriMo 2017 8/30 – Tea Cup

There’s a teacup under my bed.

I bought it on a damp high street,
when the days smiled
and our light repelled
oncoming clouds.

You said I was weird.

So when summer ribbons
were moth-eaten
and flowers faded away,
that little teacup stayed.

It watched from the basket,
when lovely red sandles
were discarded,
onto your thick head.

And the purple pen you gave me,
the ink had run
dead.

I love that little teacup,
that sleeps under my bed.