When you go

I’ll go to the shore to scream
at the belligerent sea
and the hostile white horses will gallop and rear,
starting at that curious sound.

Or I’ll climb a grey mountain
and wail from the top of that mighty rock
which will tremble and threaten,
and cause distant crowds to run in fear.

Maybe I’ll crawl into the blackest cave
and the echoes of my howls
will wake the foul creatures there
and send them out to scare the innocents.

But most likely I’ll sob
soundless puddles into my pillow,
sending no ripples into the world,
alone and vexing no one.

Writing 201, Poetry – Day 8 ‘drawer’

Today the prompt is ‘Drawer’ and the poem should be in the form of an Ode (in praise of something or someone) using the poetry form Apostrophe (no, not one of them, but it’s a term that means a poem that speaks to an individual).

Right ho then.

Well, I’m a day late. I spent a long time yesterday morning working on some verses ’til my mind was drowning in mediocre metaphors and sinful similies.  The resulting ‘poem’ turned out to be utterly awful and actually quite a bit ‘off piste’ too. So it’s been abandoned (stuck in a drawer) I’ll go back to it another day and when I eventually finish it it will delight you with its wonderful wordsmithery and melodic meter. In the meantime, well….

I can only apologise….

An Ode to my Knickers

You’re not big bloomers or tiny thongs
Just Marks and Spencer cotton ones
You give my bum a soft embrace
Without the need of frills or lace
You smooth my contours, hide my flaws
What would I do without you drawers?

My muffin top would surely flop
above my trendy trouser top
There’d be a draft about my aft
I’m sure my rear would get quite chaffed
But with the help of your elastic
Oh dear drawers, I feel fantastic!

The Book

Golden filigree font idly patterns the skin
that embraces the pages
as softly as a mother

Translucent, moon coloured, pages
littered with emotion.
And mystery.

Pliable, soft to the touch pages.
Turning silently, seducing
quiet contemplation

And oh, the end!  The end!
That final page,
that final turn,
triumphantly heralding
the sadness of a friendship finished.


Some Day

Whenever a papery butterfly
alights on a sweet scented bloom,
a rainbow arcs over the desert,
and there’s a smile on the face of the moon.

When the tiger bee sips from the chalice
of a perfectly formed daffodil,
spring instantly turns into summer,
and the sea becomes perfectly still.

When the gentle dove glides over rivers
that mirror his wings like a twin,
the rattle of guns promptly ceases,
and real peace will surely begin.