Is it Poetry?

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Glum Fairy

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I’m feeling a bit guilty about this since I actually love our ‘silly fairy’ who is pictured here.  We’ve had her for years, she replaced glum fairy, who does still live in the box (well, you can’t throw fairies out can you?), but never gets to sit on the tree because of her holier than thou demeanor.   Merry Christmas!

I’ve never been fond of the fairy
that sits upon our tree
she looks so glum
with that branch up her bum
I think she’s judging me

She lives in a box in the attic
from new year through to yule
amongst the other dusty things
I suppose it does seem cruel

Her silver dress gets wrinkled
her wings they get all bent
and as for that shiny halo
I’ve no idea where it went

She glares at me from the tree top
as I slurp my wine
and scowls when I pinch the chocolates
that are hidden amongst the pine

She needs to lighten up a tad
start bringing some good cheer
‘cos if she carries on like this
she’ll stay in the box next year

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Always Red?

Syringe blood.jpeg

Can feelings show up in the blood?
The scarlet concealer of secrets
that courses through our veins
yet congeals so quickly in the air

When tested it reveals disease
and sickness of our mortal vessels
but are conditions of the soul
equally evident upon close inspection?

Do tiny ruby buds form
at a first kiss
then burst into blowsy roses
when passion grows into love?

Are verdant specks visible
when we crave what Is not ours
and do they transform to citrine
as we turn from the cause?

Will putrid organs assume a dark hue
as hatred burns in them
that precious liquid runs hot
and anger rules our hearts?

Can feelings show up in the blood?

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Fast Life

Writing 101, day 10. ‘Let the scene write itself’.

40 mph 2When I was forty we moved ‘up North’.  The year flashed by in a flurry of finding homes and schools, and settling in and seeking friends. A comfortable and smooth suburban road, my fortieth year was fleeting. But on reflection… Forty was slow.

In my fiftieth year I celebrated a half century of living.  Working full time, the decade hurtled along. Motherly fussing over A level angst, and woefully watching my girls turn to women overnight. And then they left.  My nest was empty. I studied and worried and filled that gaping gap with grief. My fiftieth decade passed so quickly on that bumpy B road.  But on reflection…. Fifty too was slow.

Now, it’s over sixty years since my birth. I grasp life, clinging to my youth with white knuckle fear of declining body and mind. Years roll by as fast as miles on a motorway.  Long stretches of similarity so often give way to curves and corners in my world. I expect the unexpected – a sudden ‘slow down’ or ‘obstruction in the road’. I’m flying along in the fast lane.

But what of seventy? Dare I look beyond? Do I inevitably set out, slow moving, on curling country lanes? A pedestrian? Or perhaps fork out for a Ferrari, put the pedal to the metal, and speed away?

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What do I do?

Writing 101, Day 9 – What do you do when your not writing?

You ask what do I do
when I’m not sitting side-by-side
with a sharpener
scrawling in my ridiculous
childlike script on
blank sheets of sepia paper
or staring at a screen
where fought for phrases
turn to text

You ask what do I do
when rhythm is erratic
and rhymes
don’t.
When alliteration alters
instead of enhancing
when allegory is elusive
metaphor meaningless
and similes absurd

You ask what do I do
when words don’t spill
and I have no story to tell
how I pass the time
in that hollow void
when secrets attempt escape
to compensate
for lack of imagination
and skill

You ask what do I do
I live.

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Doll

Writing 101 day 4 – Using a picture for inspirationphoto-1430747562296-5556d17a15a5 (2)

We used to rock and roll
Her dyed black, tied back hair swinging
as we jived through young life
Swerving around corners
eating up the straights
on silver machines
that throbbed and roared
as we sat carelessly astride

Together we played at grown-ups
We nestled and snuggled
our restless souls settled
our bikes rusted in the backyard
where herbs and flowers grew
encouraged by her tender hands

Then her belly swelled
I watched her move to the
dance of motherhood
her face, lit by a thousand smiles
glowed in soft focus
while babies suckled
then grew strong beside her

Bereft she cried in my arms
as we watched them go
Reflections of our younger selves
Caught in the moment
I saw her face, it’s soft valleys
and newly formed crevasses
denoting worry and wisdom

Those last few months when
floury fingers baked biscuits
and dusted memories on the mantel
When her tied back hair was grey
and her frowns replaced the smiles
adventures curtailed
she waited

And the call came

As I sit in this echoey place
Where the candles flicker
And memories are shadows
Where I carried her like a doll
Boxed
With her silver hair loose and free
I remember
We used to rock and roll