A Sonnet’s Future

Tomorrow is the not yet travelled road
an invisible step on the cliff edge
reaching with outstretched arms and a blind fold
hanging tight onto today’s window ledge.
Drowning in the fear of not knowing
but knowing the next step could mean drowning
either way it’s almost suffocating
knowing today could be the ending.
But tomorrow holds possibility
a place where dreams and desires could come true
a blank page of an unwritten story
an adventure awaits for me and you.
So take each moment as time keeps moving
the lesson of life to just keep writing.

Ode to an old photograph

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Nestled in between some ageing letters
the bright young face of a family tree
captured time is a historic treasure
another life for my great Welsh granny.
Why did you girls cross the River Severn
and pitch your tents on England’s mighty shore
starting a trend of nomadic children
far from the valleys we found our heaven
London, Surrey, and the Devonshire moor
exchanging tales on the pavilion.

You left the world before I could breathe
before you eldest son had a daughter
You are a fairytale I want to believe
studying every corner of your picture.
I have the copper hair that curls and twirls
I have the deep hazel eyes of wonder
I have the Welsh blood running through my veins
and with every dream of this little girl
your memory echoes like a roar of thunder
in your granddaughters hearts you shall remain.

Written for Writing 201

Drawer (things you find inside) > Ode > Apostrophe (talking to someone or an object)

The person I am talking to in this poem is my grandmother, Iris. She married my grandfather shortly after the war leaving Wales behind and travelling the world while my grandfather continued to serve in the army. She passed away a year before I was born leaving behind six granddaughters and two grandsons. Four of whom she never met or knew existed. I have an old photograph of her for as long as I can remember and have always admired it quiet curiosity.

Putting a finger on prose poetry

Fingers like tippy toes take the dancers pose. Moving majestically across the ‘Qwerty’ circuit my musical musings they interpret. Click-Clacking of cranial cogs my incessant thoughts start flowing. Materialising and showing, the inner voice line by line. The stems of this mortal tree tap the keys excessively to the musical beat inside of me. No question of refrain, as they dance and dance again and again.

An Elegy to inner darkness

Haunting melancholy avenue
a silhouette in foggy hue
weeps for what could have been
while she waited for the great ‘begin’.

Her can of love remained unopened
the voice inside remained unspoken
she never knew how to be
all she knew was how to breathe.

There was method in her madness
There was style in her apparatus
She could see what needs to be seen
She could see inside the in between.

Our very own Joey Potter
but smarter and oh so hotter
She was the brains behind the beak
a genius that didn’t speak.

Clearing the fog of self doubt
and sweeping the shadows out
are done with friends, hand in hand
for only they can understand.

That with every drop of laughter
and every silent whisper
will roll away the darkened clouds
and a life is left, standing proud.

Written for Writing 201

Fog — Elegy — Metaphor

Ox

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it was party
in the park
Bob Geldof. South Africa.
thrust into the world
found sun shining in
winter in the wintery dew that fell over
my snowy paddock, the morning
glory glistened and sparkled
I spent my childhood
riding the horns of ambition
wisdom weaving my destiny like
I had control over what happens
when I stood alone in my pad
fenced in yellow tulips, shelter my
friends slither between
but they know, if they
cross the fence – my
wrath is all
they will
see.

Another Acrostic: Why did you steal our bin?

why did you act unfavourably

have you the swagger to confess?

your duplicity baffles me

despicable street light antics

illicit ninja left us frantic

demons in urban corporate dress.

you cursed us; judging and doubting

oozing thoughts of unpleasantness

usurped after work, we searched, scouting

sucky little ugly goblins

talk about a suburban problem

exterminate from our address.

apprehensive anonymity

lingers like shadows of stress

out of the cracks of the city

unearth a convoluted game

really though, what you did was lame

back, put it back, this isn’t chess.

in the book, look for trustworthy

note, it’s called being neighbourly.

Working Together: A Trust Acrostic

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wielding words into chat

orienteering our campaign-o

reading, writing, questioning

kinetic-like sheep, I mean people

idiosyncrasies synchronised – it

needs a hall-eh-lujah

grounded and bounded till five

solid hexagon forever.

 

Writing 201: Day Three: Trust – Acrostic – Internal Rhyming

Trust, for me, is working together as one well oiled machine.