#napowrimo2015bd
it's all I have,
not much, to you, but all
and with my heart torn asunder
I watch my life, my labour,
resting here, for you to plunder...
ravage the fields,
torch the meadows
**** the bees
and watch the clover
wither...
count not the cost
of your rapacious greed,
see only your hearts selfish need
to be the sum the total, the all.
not knowing, in your victory
you become...the pall,
that settles in the room
and stops the conversation,
like smog and a locust infestation.
this is my life, my family
and we do, what we do
to remain free of heartache
and negativity.
we need not your benediction,
or blessing of our grace.
so...you look to yours and
shut your face....
**********************************
napowrimo2015
prompt : write a parody or satirical
poem...utalizing a famous poem you know
*"It's all I have to bring today –
This, and my heart beside –
This, and my heart, and all the fields –
And all the meadows wide –
Be sure you count – should I forget
Some one the sum could tell –
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell"*
Emily Dickenson.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC
i open the door to the
crisp autumn air
the smell of eucalypt
and salt...
first frost has fallen,
a light fairy dusting
of sparkling crystals
shimmer beguilingly
on the green lawn.
dissected by trail of cat prints
leading to a mess
of blue and black feathers.
this was one early bird,
who should have stayed in bed?
and on the rocks,
near the koi pond,
framed by the early sun.
the black and white cat
from down the road,
washes it's face....
with long clawed paws.
inside the house,
my less ferocious two
settle for chicken biscuits
and the warmth
of recently vacated beds.
I sigh and mourn the loss
of yet another wren....
before cleaning the evidence away.
the black and white cat watches,
with golden, gleaming and wholly unrepent eyes.
before slinking off, behind the lilacs.
so now, peace is restored....
and the water burbles gently across the rocks.
while the frost melts away
and the sun gains strength
to face another...
glorious autumnal day.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 9:51 PM UTC
life is not forced...
.. .a distillation of sorrow
and yet
.....life was the greatest joy
it's own realm ...encased
but not breached....
the joy ...had it's own integrity
not touched by tragedy.
that joy, the measure
and source...spring.
....I remember sitting in rain
and blustering wind...
abiding.... and yoked... to life
this comic tradegy...within.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
these things I know to be true...
behind the clouds,
the sky is blue.
if the grass is greener over there;
on the other side of the fence...
then someone is wasting water
in this drought.
if everyone is keeping up with
the jones's .
why are they so unhappy?
two wrongs don't make a right,
but four lefts make a square.
the sun will come out tomorrow,
but so may the clouds...
life is full of schmucks,
but if you're in luck.
the schmuck you marry
may have some bucks.
there is, true love
there is, higher ground
there is forgivness.
you can find useful things
in the lost and found.
chocolate can be good for you.
you have to feed your soul.
and yes all that glitters
is definitely not gold.
there is no true way,
to grow old gracefully.
so make the best of it.
count each and every day
as a bonus....
for that is what it is!!!
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
Today,
I am leaf...
fallen to ground.
Both life and death...
at the base,
of winter's barren tree.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
hurry, hurry, hurry
hush hush hush
must be quick
must be quite
but we must rush
stay in the shadows
run through the dark
don't give the game away
as we flit through the dark
keep on going til the sun rise
quiet as mice, fast as hares
away from the fighting
away from despair
to a new life, with new cares
where it is not about belief
where all are treated fair...
carry the message,
deep within your heart
we are all human
we all are the same
no matter the religion
no matter the creed
freedom a desire
love a basic need.
hurry, hurry, hurry
hush, hush,hush.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
in,
inscribing memories
of better times,
i am,
overwriting
the grief of a life
unravelling.
the ink placed
so
carefully
on parchment paper,
dissolves into a
watercolour
of greys and dismal days.
words of love,
become mere twigs
and bird scratchings.
floating in the
fugue
of monumental despair.
i look hard
and long
to find some meaning.
but see only
these words
passionately written,
gleaming.
it's not fair,
it's not fair.
as my tears
drizzle
off
the page.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
musing on pondering,
cogitating on ruminating,
postulating on speculating,
considering multiple theories,
deeming the discrepancies deniable
positing the petty presumptions,
theorizing multiple condsiderations,
apraising the mediations,
digesting the deliberations,
allowing for freefall meditation,
envisioning the expectations,
presuming the pontifications,
anticipating the asumptions,
comprehending the conclusion,
accrediting the rationalizations,
concluding the comprehesion,
spinning synaptic wheels,
hypothesizing the conjecture,
recollecting of the reminiscence,
adumbrating the prognostigcation,
concocting of the subliminate,
masticating on the cereberal machinations,
of the ocillations, in the agitatation,
apparent,
in an insomniac's maniacal brain,
reckoning not,
on the simple summation,
of the night's wayward,
mental arbitratration,
there is... just too much time,
to think....
and far too little time to write....
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
goodnight .... old girl,
goodnight, to you,
you quiet house,
you blessed home.
are you glad to see
another day done?
within yourself,
your hidden recessed places
are you sighing in relief
as we settle safe in our beds.
your present loves,
all accounted for,
sleeping within your teak
and nail embrace.
or do you prefer,
the drumming of our feet,
the hum of activity,
of when we are awake,
and bustling and bumping,
about your frame?
or is it best when we leave you,
silent and alone to contemplate,
in the sun and wind on a work day? my lord, the secrets you must keep, the lifes, that you have held close behind these old walls.
you must groan and cry,
with the weight of some memories, yet, others cause you to smile and sigh in near-miss relief.
you have stood strong and sturdy,
for almost one hundred years,
in one form or another,
your girth has expanded,
with the growth of family,
from farmers cottage, to three bed,
with study
and nannexe out the back.
you have been
all but knocked down,
rebuilt, reworked and restored,
to former glory.
you have withstood,
the element's rage
and time's insipid attempts,
to shift you, from your place
upon the cliffshead.
you have, and do,
do well, to hold us
all within.
and now,
just before i sleep,
i want to thank you old girl,
for the way, you keep us all safe.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 8:27 AM UTC
banana driven
to drive one bananas
backseat driver
lodged on one's back
insipid thief
taking bite sized pieces
of one's soul
leaving you feeling less
than whole..
confused about one's role
grinding, prancing,
either way can't stop dancing
riddle-raddled fiddle-faddled
muddle minded ....
listening,
to it's whispering....
takes a terrible toll.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
the old pine table,
was scrubbed daily
with a mixture of bleach and salt,
and then sluiced
with clean ice cold well water.
it had a felted softness to it,
a wonderful tactile memory
i am still unable to explain.
sat out upon the balcony,
overlooking the beaches
and whale island.
caught both the days sun
and a short substantial breeze.
it was an oval behemoth of a thing, would easily sit twelve adults,
at a christmas feast.
but now just one or two,
excepting when we arrived,
on vacation, then a half dozen neat.
and on most mornings,
big broadsheet papers.
spread out, anchored down,
by oranges and bannanas,
sea shells and driftwood,
teapots and coffee cups,
whatever was to hand,
scattered haphazardly about.
the rule was if you took a bit of fruit, or whatever,
you had to supply a new anchor.
so as the morning wore on,
fruit became books and toy trucks, teddy bears and cricket *****
all presided over by granda,
as he worked his way
around the news,
spread before him,
like the hands of a clock.
changing seats, irregularly,
with a sigh and a plop.
muttering to himself,
or calling out to gran,
news of suggested import,
or the "specials"of the day.
that old pine table held,
the world spread out,
for intelligent disection.
i still can feel, it's surface,
like rolling, polished pearls.
.....no still not explaining it,
at all well.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
black mussels de-bearded, shine
water, yeast-beer, hops
combine enticingly with
ginger, chilli, lime
and much garlic.
simmer, then....
gorge!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 4:55 AM UTC
zeitgeist
yuppiedoms
xanthic
whatsits
vibrate
unabashedly
toothsome
salutations
requiring
qualifications
pernickety
officialdom
nagging
malestroms
leaving
kindness
jaundiced
imoliated
horrendous
gargoyles
feign
empathy
disastrous
calamity
boodles
atonement
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
imagine if you will
a piece of handmade paper
heavy but fine grained
and upon the piece
of ivory coloured paper
delicate hues of green,
and blue,
placed in an abstract way
using water colour paints
the paper having been wet
no longer lays flat on the table
but undulates, with small hills
and valleys
and upon that piece of paper
artfully decorated
imagine some words, written
in a round and beautiful cursive
formed by an old fountain pen
the ink used, a deep purple
that has been softened by years
the words, are those of young love,
yet to be tested by time
yet to be tested by seperation
yet to be tested by loss
the paper is old now, set with
four creases from where it had
been folded and left within a book
of wordsworth...
on the front fold, the following
To Mary with much love Jack. 1915
and upon that piece of paper
handmade, delicately decorated
inscribed with love and hope,
the beginnings of a family rested.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
if poetry were more like money
would it be greater
if there was no desperation
to experience or see
would poetry not be
just like blancmange or porridge
sustaining but oh so bland
if there where no joy
no love, anger, jealousy
bland, bland, bland.
poetry is a currency
or the open heart and mind
so lets us spend, and write
the spice of life....
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 5:20 AM UTC
cold air sifts through
the window, to climb
my unprotected spine
last night's storm
still drips erractically
from gutters and leaves
I turn to you seeking
warmth and passion
only to find empty sheets
and a lingering scent
of sandalwood.
rising to dance
on a cold wooden floor
I seek you out...
finding you, pyjamified
in the garden, checking
your babies.....
for storm damage.
I put the kettle on
and await your report...
Autumn has arrived.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
Winter listens, listens.
Meanings, breathe imperial
Tis difference.
When like –
When the it –
When it listens.....
Tis it, the difference
Winter like scar, comes,
He the Landscape
– An –
We, the breath,
-NO-
When Hurt,
goes, –
We imperial none
We hold - are seal,
are afflicted lights
-The Distance -
...of the us...
– None listens –
Where it holds hurt,
it comes as,
Cathedraled Despair
Any listens – '
Tis –
the goes, '
tis of the us - goes,
Distance On light,
But comes, gives us –
Death -
of certain slanted despair,
None listens - goes,
We find the Distance Of it –
That a Hurt,
Any meaning –
Heavenly Meanings,
Teach us Hurt,
The like of-
tuned,
affliction,
shadows,
imperial despair.
look-teach-look-find-listen-look,
Send imperial light,
Shadows of light
Any Heft- Any Slant -
Of their affliction,
scar-differential.
Sent like winter
– An –
heaven
None on hold,
goes,
There is it – There is it -
Shaft of hefted light
Sent slanted - sealed compassion
falls from internal, elanic height.
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
words fall
like hapless fledglings
tossed from a cliff edged nest
with much screeching, squawking,
countless feathers lost
and then an awful thump
or hopeful, glorious flight
first love is tachycardiac love
all adrenaline, sweating palms
and stutter-stumbling sqeakings,
ungainly gropings,
when not with you, mopings
unrealistic hopings
for happy ever after endings,
breakings, bendings,
awkward mendings,
repeated leavings,
repented lovings.
heartfelt givings,
of broken hearted rendings.
lendings,
of time stolen from life
tearing, teasing,
tantalising teamings
crying, begging,
pleading strife
and then,
the metaphorical knife
cutting, slashing,
wordblow bashing,
screaming, reaming,
end to loves life.
til eventually, words fall,
like old birds leavings
to settle, unremarked upon
at the base of the tree of life.
first love's loss, is slow dying.
arrhythmia to flatline
in a multitude of laboured breaths
and long lingering sighs.
a loss of warmth,
from breast and thighs
and water copious,
falling from red rimed eyes.
sobbing, murmuring,
don't know whys?
from lips turned
toward,
bleakset skies.
as one settles firmly,
into black dog muck
no longer able to give a f▼ck.
tucked in tight to sadness,
lost all sight of former gladness,
caught up and shackled tight,
to the badness
around and around,
the carousel goes.
then,
at last,
the blessed silence,
as you die
one of many of....
life's little deaths
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
Easter Saturday morn, turned out to be wet and forlorn
no matter the weather we're cosy n' warm, together
Two sleeping felines intertwined twitching
tails n' noses
One Nan, with knee rug, knitting bag full
of wool n'lollies
One Mama baking up treats, whilst,
singing bad operettas.
Then there's me and my Da,
creating a blanket castle
A mighty fort of fabric n' cushions, chairs n' tables
No other place I'd rather be this soggy, rainy day.
I am a forteener.... and a forteener I will stay.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
when the world was flat
and we were few,
we looked at stars
and made them gods
to help explain the difficult truths,
to give us some measure of understanding to those concepts
to large to be held within our hands.
to find beauty in desperate times
to watch over us...
now the world is round
and we are many
most can no longer see the stars
we look to the internet to explain truth
and concepts seem to be shrinking,
to the size of a tablet screen.
times are becoming more desperate
and we watch each other...
yet the stars are there still.
behind the smog,
beyond the city lights
they hold their sentinels gaze
their beauty is undiminished.
they,for the most part are
still enigmatic, a mystery,
to be unfolded.
and we,
for all our advancement
and trappings
are still looking up....
seeking but not truly finding.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
what it is not...
forgiving or kind,
patient with time.
gentleness to the weary soul.
whilst it does allow smiles,
they are mostly,
of the wry
or pitying kind.
again,
whilst it gives,
much time for contemplation, rumination and wistful
and regretful dreaming
but in doing so
it often, so often, takes,
more than it gives.
it is not a gentle kitten.
more of a savage jungle beast,
ravaging not just you,
but your village too...
it does not respect,
station or situation...
yet sometimes,
it gives you an almighty fright.
taking hold and shaking
your ragdoll life.
only to let you go...
scarred,
but not defeated.
at other times...
it stalks you
through the years.
it is not necessarily
a death sentence,
but often so.
what it is,
is a puzzle to unravel
what it is,
is, in need of the best
minds in order to
bring about solutions
what it is,
is, small and large donations
required to change
the future of us all
what it is
is... cancer....
and given time
it can be cured.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 3:45 PM UTC
I guess...
it is too late,
to become a gymnast.
too late to get up
before the sparrows rise,
take myself to the gym
and hurl my slim, svelte, sleek
gymnast's body about on apparatus
too late to tape my ankles and feet.
too late to slip into shiny unitards.
too late to covet trophies and medals.
I know...
it is too late....
my knees tell me so...
every morning!
I guess...
it is too late,
to become an astronaut,
to encapsulte myself
in a small rocket.
shoot myself into
the stratosphere
and look down in awe
upon the blue planet.
too late to deal with training.
too late to get myself fitted
for the baggy astro suit.
too late to be given the bubble mask.
too late to feel the awkward gracefulness of no gravity.
I know....
it is too late...
my knees tell me so
each and every morning...
thank goodness...
it is not too late,
to be able to dream.
to forget arthritic knees,
in delirious early morning dreams.
to believe these things are beautiful.
to know hope and glory, even if only
in the moments when you are yet to
awake to this days humble grind.
to live other lives..... if only..... momentarily.
I guess....
and I hope....
there will always be...
time space for that.
I know there will
my knees tell me so.....
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC