#napowrimo2016bd
inundated by rain, flotsam and jetsom floats down the street
the river has burst it's banks and now muddy water flows
through her house, at least her new car is safe on higher ground
we perch above it
this deluge of brown water
cyclone debbie's tears
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 7:56 AM UTC
*your echoes die,
your voice is doused by life*
the minutiae washed away
and ground down to sand
dispersed in vesper tides
the feel of your touch
now just froth and bubble
food for fish and crablings
last words whispered on
the wind, whipped away
whilst i was busy,
making lists
and counting coins
oh to hear your shout
one last time
but no
you have left this place
and we must look to living
and leave the detrius
to the sea's forgiveness
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 8:48 AM UTC
treeshaper and huggiver
lived a life of comparative luxury
on the sandedge of the whale road
knowledgespinner lived with them
they were three, happy souls
in a comfortbox, with a nannexe
for lifeknitter as she gathered
her olderyears...
they had two furlings
one tuxedocat, who hunted air
one longdog with boundless energy
and little understanding.
they did daily things,
but were happiest
when daily things,
were done
and the could
be together as one
fambily..
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
sisephean soldier *****
roll sand into spheres
seagulls sqwauk and swoop
for skerricks of sausage rolls
shaggy dogs bark and snap
at shifting sand and seas
dolphins dive and swing
throgh wave tips in a secret synergy
and out in the depths
whales sound and sing
with solemn voices
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 8:22 PM UTC
feelin lazy today,
so you get what you get,
turn the page
move on
learn from your mistakes
be brave face your fears
footloose and fancy-free
don't run with scissors
smile
stay a while
catch more flies with honey
wrong way turn back
a stitch in time saves nine
when i was your age
no rhyme or reason to it
high road or low road
polly want a *******
click, click, boom
first past the post
i 'm just a smiling sunbeam
barrel of monkeys
to thine ownself be
thank you what doesn't **** you
hand in the cookie jar
never seen the like
flat out like a lizard drinking
not happy jan!
take a bex and have a good lie down
pull your socks up!
sunshine and daffodils
slip, slop, slap, put on a hat
life passes by in the blink of an eye
stand up straight
chip on your shoulder
take note
laughter the best medicine
***
brainfreeze
kindness warms the cockles of my heart
if you can't be nice
you did not just say that
umm, ahh, now you in trouble
quiet now i am watching tv
do not cry
don't spray it, say it
do not tell mum
it was'nt me
hava mint,
please lol
go to your room
do not pass go
do not collect one hundred $$
hello
all the world's a stage... merely players
wanna play
go away busy
want to come over
can i kiss you
push
it's a boy
what a whopper
please i've seen better
do i know you
the dog ate my homework
who now
why am i here
put your clothes on
what goes up must come down
life goes on
is my *** big in this
stop the merry-go-round,
i want to get off
whatever
i need a dollar
tea anyone
she had a goodlife
sorry
how much
every things coming up roses
what pink pigs flying overhead
snap, crackle, n'pop
one sugar or two
in case i don't see you
good morning
good evening and good night
rinse, repeat. set
now see here
ttyl
out
take a bow you've earned it
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 10:47 AM UTC
table grain
worn to
soft smooth flannel
under many hands
bleached, bleached
to opaque memories
of tree
stories held within
each cell
birds at nest
leaves in flight
each year
slow deaths
new lifes
now repository
of tableware
keeper of daily cares
slab of timber
dressed and washed
bleached, bleached
still somewhere within
the memories stir
of breeze and rain
the touch of feather and fur
tea ring stained,
and portwine blurred
babies teeth marks
gnawed into wood...
taken from place to place
granfa's table, time for grace
grace and memory
clear the table time for tea
do I remember these things clearly
or is this just an ingrained fantasy
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 7:01 PM UTC
table grain
worn to
soft smooth flannel
under many hands
bleached, bleached
to opaque memories
of tree
stories held within
each cell
birds at nest
leaves in flight
each year
slow deaths
new lifes
now repository
of tableware
keeper of daily cares
slab of timber
dressed and washed
bleached, bleached
still somewhere within
the memories stir
of breeze and rain
the touch of feather and fur
tea ring stained,
and portwine blurred
babies teeth marks
gnawed into wood...
taken from place to place
granfa's table, time for grace
grace and memory
clear the table time for tea
do I remember these things clearly
or is this just fantasy
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 6:25 PM UTC
a prisoner of birth
the beachcomber
an a red rabbit
conversing in the place of lightness
spoke of the point of origon
then, shared the deception on his mind
in a painted house
until memories of midnight
became monday mourning
and the warlock
cried it's over now
let's bake ginger breads
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 2:00 AM UTC
somedays I sit
on the edge of sanity
feet dangling in a ocean
of the deepest black water
somedays I stand on the edge
of reality
willing myself not to leap
into the clouds of depression
that float by
somedays I lie in bed
whispering the mantra
circling in my head
I am not here, I am not here,
I am not here....
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 5:26 AM UTC
The teacup holds memories
of laughter, love and time
steeped in years of friendship
fine cut and flavorful our friendship
rests lightly in my hands beyond time
now, only in glimpes and fading memories
the russian caravan, has moved on and i am left with time
you are gone, but the not the friendship
the aroma from the teacup, ignites the flame of memories
so it is a ritual, of loving sorrow and joy
i often have cause to maintain
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 10:10 AM UTC
i am nine
and learning
by osmosis
secret women's business or
the art of pie making
production line style
to the uniniated
i sit perched on a stool
in the corner, out of the way
boxed in by fruit
it is a heady place to be
as scents of apricots(bought)
blackberries and apples mingle
sweet woody and exotic,
with the citrus tang
of zested lemon that sits
in an ever growing
pryamid on the table.
ginger and cinnamon motes
float in the oven warm air
and flour clouds the room
and settless in drifts
and dusts the collection of bowls
on the table
my mother aunt
and mrs blunt,the neighbor,
bustle about the room....
my aunts girth designates her as chief baker
and she rolls out pastry with
gusto...fat arms swinging
penduously, humming to herself.
mrs blunt is the pie filler
adept at judging the mix
and making the gelatonious
gooey syrups filled with sugar
and spice, chopped crab apple
and lemon zest.
mother is the friuter, she peels
destones and cores
chopping up apples, apricots and peaches...
leaving berries and cherries intact(sans pips)
and then later she mans the ovens
watching for the golden crust
and bubble of pie juice...
before removing
them to cool on poppa jacks
old oval dining table...
me I sit in wonder,
snacking on fruit,
and balls of leftover dough
swooning with the smell
of stewing friut.
Next year my true apprenticeship will start....
Until then, I listen to the murmer of gossip
the passing of secrets,
the bonding of these women....
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 5:00 AM UTC
my granfather cultivated
beefsteak and ox heart tomatoes
great big red things
bigger than his
gnarled and ropy fist
smelling of acid and
sun shine and deep rich
goodness
he would sit at the table
and seperate the seeds
out of the pink granular flesh
like a surgeon
and they would sit like pink red sago
on cut pieces of yesterdays news
set upon the window ledge
gross yet compelling
there they dried out
in the sun
and were sorted for planting
some discarded as not good enough
some set aside for the "prize winning" bed
the plot of soil that got the best sun
the best compost, and some watered concoction
that smelt of things dead and rotting
I once asked what made a good tomato seed
his reply," you just know girlie....
you know the ones that are going to be great"
tomato growing was serious business to my grandpa
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 4:48 AM UTC
tree
green
knotty
gnarled
limbs
bark
rough
roots
twigs
wood
oxygen
carbon-dioxide
xylem
leaf
flower
rings
seeds
earth
habitat
timber
bole
borers
sap
soil
life
earth
trees
forrest
green
red
orange
autumnal
livid
living
growing
worlds
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 10:50 PM UTC
November is a month
i dread, all the marking...
all the words ..... ideas
clutter up in my head....
all the hopes and ambitions
weigh heavily on my back.
the first day, my birthday
hip hip hooray!!!
then a rushing, pell mell
downward track
of red pens and meetings
going on and on and on
planning, prepping, late night stressing
then, when not at work,
not shirking, just not working
hoping to give the brain a rest
am bombarded...
like i am ******** in cheer
...continual messages of
christmas is near....
coffee and carols,
shopping and angels
harking, harking,
joy to the world, fa al lalala...
Santa queues
truly not an Ebeneezer
but Christmas teasers
in November make me grey
around the gills
fish out of water
lamb to the slaughter
and running on empty,
always empty,
just want one day...
when the world
would stop hassling
and just go away
no end of year parties...
prentending to be hale and hearty
with all sorts of colleagues
and academic smarties
no presentations of budgets..
thinner than last
no we could not fast
this area, to be on line
no it's alright, it will be just fine
while sculling copious amounts
of cheap, cheap, nasty red wine.
no hangover from said feast...
no, you be the one to corner the beast.
no more standing with mothers and others
watching children in a god awful christmas play
and clapping and chatting while little bettsy
recieves an award for knitting a sleeve
and george gets one for adding fourhundred and forty
please, please show me the door.....
not to mention hayfever,
daylight savings and more
but all this seems trivial...
when I consider
the blight of my life...
in the stakes of annuity.
the month of November has a great heart
Movember...a charity of moustache art
has an fanatic in my big, bluff,bloke
for a month he curries and cares for the
caterpillar that grows on his lip...
a fuzzy flecked monstrosity
with the mange and a weird flip.
November a month of avoiding
the succour of contact....
with that thing,
my toes curl now
thinking of it....
tho I try not to react
(after all charity begins at home)
november november
truly you are the ***
last year he bought
the ****** thing a comb
yet in the end
you are but a month
and it seems I survive you
year after year
thank god for take away meals
and long cold beers....
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
tonight the moon hides itself
shly peeking out
from behind ragamuffin grey clouds
the stars are a'twinkle, twinkle
on indigo blankets
clouds dash to and fro
i gaze upon the heavens
and briefly wonder
if others elswhere also gaze
and ponder about the nature
of the sky
and the nighttime flying by
or do they sigh and
give no thought
to why the moon
is shy
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC