I used the different prompts today and they all came back to the same love story *throws hands up*
when Shakespeare was concerned
you were limbs and words, flying
high, you were the verse
it filled you curl by curl
standing by your universe
blinded and surprised
only I have long since cursed
the memory of your smile
when Shakespeare was concerned
you were hands and words, flying
bye.
little pink monster
with turquoise ears and big teeth
novelty coin purse
guarding one coin
my one pound for the cupboard
by the swimming pool
be well, pink friend
maybe some day soon
we’ll go swimming again
I’m taking a day. I wrote a good twenty-odd mini-poems in last two days – I am all prompted out and tired. So it’s just me, blanket and books. And haiku.
find what comforts you
book is better than blanket
both for best results
the notes of the saxophone
glisten
glissando making its way
up and up and I
listen
let out a sigh
forget I’m not alone
mesmerised by
the melody, the tone and
the saxophone player
without breaking her stride
winks at me.
This poem should probably be edited down, but I had so much fun with this freewrite, I’m posting the whole thing!
1.
I wonder what birds make of us
We don’t sing for joy greeting the sun
rarely offer seductive solo dances to chosen mates
(not in public anyway)
what are they thinking, tweeting happily in the sky
like butter wouldn’t melt in their beaks
How do you process the world when
with a flick of a feathered wrist
you can reduce a threat to
a ground-bound fleck of dust
Maybe birds think that crawling on the ground is good enough for us
they’ll deign to visit but never fully stay.
No wonder we were jealous.
They must have been perplexed about planes.
2.
Birds used to be dinosaurs
except they survived
I don’t know the science
I sometimes imagine pigeons
wearing lizard skin
Cats are also jealous
they can’t lick their fur into wings
possess the gift of flight
by eating their enemies.
3.
Wish I could melt into sunshine
and reassemble. Eat it
like a passion fruit mousse.
Wish I could fly, wings noisy and sure
be my own current
steer through the air with a feathered tail.
Free to visit but not to stay.
Prompt by Apples and Snakes.
Lublin. I was born
Did all I could, had to leave
If you don’t fit, go.
London. I was born
Into new language, only
Cut off my big toe.
First I read Captain Awkward’s essay on middle class worldview in Way of the Artist (at her paid Patreon), then there was a Twitter chat and a prompt. The common denominator there was… horses.
I think it was the horse that gave it away
the gardens could’ve passed for public space
the fireplace – pah, just a fireplace
think it was my horse that gave me away.
scarcity mindset will get in your way
– work hard and you shall have a horse one day!
I’m working class now, cos acting don’t pay
must have been mum’s horse that gave me away
otherwise I’d likely have been in the clear
I deleted the picture with the chandelier
and head held proudly, I entered the fray
– but the horse picture, it gave me away.
if you are anxious before family meetings
and interacting carefully, like strangers
is your best-case scenario
if you can’t trust your people
to remember things as you remember
if things are never light, only gaslight
never relaxed, only tear-bright
this poem is for you
if you’re no son, daughter or sweet child of mine
if you learnt to set boundaries by being so far
that you want the distance to make it hurt less
that you hope you can cope and say yes, you’re fine
this poem is for you.
if estranged is best, if family crest
says never return, if burning those bridges
was the one road to safety and to your own nest
if holidays are harder, if you never started
to heal and your parent died, if it’s too real
this time of year, talking of rebirth
when your heart is ashes where family should be
this poem is a hug. this poem would like
to be the mum and dad you never had
this poem reminds you gently,
when it’s said and done
you’re not the only one.
it scared the water. down to blood
its body heavy; frozen pond
the trees are trembling in the wind.
.
it hurt the water. silver fish
that glide soundlessly just beneath
they kept on moving, racing through
.
and all above was frozen still
and frantic movement down below
.
survival hinges on the warmth
.
it froze the water down to blood
.
can’t stop until the thaw.
Today the prompt from @GardensBritish on Twitter made me remember Emily of New Moon, from Lucy Maud Montgomery’s books. And so, the poem:
the starlight is a swimming pool
that’s all that ever matters
I bathe in mist of light
like witches of old
it’s cold and unpleasant
and in their eyes I shatter
the everyday illusion cast from ordinary moulds.
I may be naked in stars’ gaze and shiver and deny
but I am dressed in fabrics preconceived by others’ minds
and of the body, in it, still
skin prickling and unsure
I’ve never felt more like myself
in starlight swimming pool.
Good Enough Diary 