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.
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.
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.
these small playful characters
are veteran travellers
sounds in every shape
linguistic landscapes
my alphabetic actors
making paper every day
some will go and some will stay
delivered by Sir Snail
a mountain of mail
home after their holiday
they flew by air; sailed by boat
carried by a mountain goat
thrown from bag to bag
“snail mail is a drag”
said the effable e-note’
those small playful characters
conquer cyber barriers
uniting in words
tweeting like the birds
my alphabetic actors.
Written for Writing 201: Poetry. Day 2 – Journey, Limerick, Alliteration.
Inspired by: It was my turn to log the returned mail in the office today. I started to wonder the journey the envelopes had been on… and that’s how interesting logging returned mail is.
Hope you enjoy xxx
The whistle blows loudly and there you are
kicking and screaming to an endless field
a great adventure for you to embark,
a dangerous game with no weapon to wield.
You can’t go back, there is no rehearsing
experience the moments as they come
another soul just beating and breathing
when you are afraid just hold onto mum.
When you begin your plot is unwritten
it is you who makes you who you are, and
searching the rubble like a lost kitten
will push your head further into the sand.
Head for the stars like the tips of a flame
roar over mountains, bounce over the waves
there is no book to this eternal game
today happened and tomorrow came.
If I were a time or day
I’d be an unproductive Sunday
sleepy with pre-storm glow
wondering where it all goes
deadlines roar thunderous grumbles
flashing my messenger
its quarter to three
all I want is the answer
pretending to write letters
feeling the delete buttons
editing my mind
haunted by the fear
its raining outside
and I am screaming
on the inside
goaded by universal truths
weighing down my confidence
anchoring my thoughts
dreaming of the tomorrows
procrastination’s pal
is hoping for a time out
I am an unproductive Sunday
Inspired by a rather unproductive Sunday. I made a pact with myself to spend Sunday afternoons editing my NaNoWriMo novel, today I failed, as I drowned in plot and blank pages.
venomous words are hard to clean
darkness taints a perfect blue sky
the photograph smudged and ruined
as the strong stench of yesterday
pulls on the chains of resentment
as her world crashes with a thud
her soul melts in the acid rain.
she made daisy chains in the park
on a pleasant suburban day
dreaming of all her tomorrows
while tomorrow lingers in the dark
wondering, how did she get here?
Hi de ho! Old friend, old neighbour
the dividing fence was her home
the promise of stability
with endless woods for her to roam
but the trap of good impressions
lit the snowball of red anger
corrupting her soul, she wants out
she wants sunshine in her picture
she wants the suburban postcard
the venomous words cannot beat her
the venomous words will not defeat her
she will scribble her daisy chains
on her suburban photograph
Inspired by the nursery rhyme ‘sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me’
What will your legacy be?
Someone fetch me a cup of tea
Vacant eyes in a photograph
a smile with potential to laugh
the voice quiet and unheard
the writer speaks not a word
hidden behind hazel eyes
an ocean of silent cries
make your mark on the page
own your part on the stage
you’re the lead in your story
reach for your inner glory
stretch it to the sky like a tree
what will your legacy be?
Can you smell that picture?
It smells old and betrayed
burns when you look closer
The sun weighing over
the bones that climb the hill
lost girl at the crossroads
broken – social schism
rains bittersweet regret
there’s no escape button
just left, right and forward
until the end game – death.
Charlie Ann Alford 
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