If you’ve followed this blog for a while, you might have noticed that I tend to write in free verse and I don’t use a lot of rhyme. The main reason for this is that I find rhyme can force poets to try and fit words into poems that simply don’t belong. In some cases it even leads to words being created completely out of the blue (which I don’t have a problem with per-say, but if you’re doing it to fit a rhyme scheme, you’re not doing it for the right reasons). When I sit down to write a poem I try and hammer the first four lines out and then I let the poem take me where it’s going to take me. Then I go back and find the lines I really like, delete the rest and re-write the poem based on those. Each time I make an edit I read the whole poem aloud before moving on to the next amendment. I do this to make sure the poem sounds right. I …
If courage is something we inherit then mine was already battle scarred the day my parents sewed it into my blood. Whenever I have to reach for it I reread the fingerprints bruised along its flesh from worried hands that clutched it close seeking reassurance. The beatings haven’t made it fragile. Instead it’s more like leather, worked until it bends softly beneath pressure but refusing to break. More often than not I wrap it around my joints in the hope it will support knees elbows aching wrists when I force them to lift me a little higher. I cannot hide myself completely beneath its folds as all armour has its chinks. Instead I protect myself as best I can, tuck in the frayed edges, darn the patches when they come loose and try to add something of mine that I can pass on when it becomes time. Daily Post: Courage
There are doors in my head too big for their frames. Winter came and I learned that wood swells when wet. Some have seized on their hinges, too fat to budge, other simply moan a little when I pry past them and then a few I cannot close at all, no matter how hard I try. Yesterday’s prompt from the dVerse Poets Pub was to write a five line poem. I’ve written a few in the past, mostly fixed form pieces like Tankas, but tonight I thought I’d keep things simple and limit myself only to the line count.
I knew we were wrong when the doors closed on an empty theatre and every mistake I’d ever made came up in black and white on the screen behind you. Power-point has its uses. Explaining how to make someone more lovable is not one. Daily Post: Lecture
Have you met the girl crowed in roses? She has her head in the clouds that one, stars in her eyes and daydreams for wits. I wouldn’t listen to her much. She hasn’t been right since the before time or perhaps it was the after time the time between or yet begun? She’s infectious. Stars can burn if you get too close, they prick and tickle scorch tiny holes inside your soul to let the madness in. The thorn don’t help much, they’re sharp and tough with barbs and hooks they’ll keep you even if she won’t. You won’t be the first that looses themselves inside that witch’s thicket. Tonight at DVersePoets we’re writing poems based on inspiration from the wonderful artwork by Catrin Welz-Stein. Image By Catrin Welz-Stein
He filled the night with fireflies the dawn with silver smoke and when the sun was burnt and full he turned himself to oak. Daily Post: Conjure
Just a murmur, a whisper, that was all it was. Passed like an injured bird, cupped between your hands, palms hollowed so not to crush its wings heart a juddering drum beneath feathers. It sang to me like you did. It gave me life. It’s Quadrille night over at the dVerse Poets Pub. Tonight’s prompt is ‘murmur’.
No, I insist, I really do. Take these words and my hands, take these clothes from my back, take these thoughts from my head, take the stories I can’t work out how to tell the sentences that don’t string together well that end up dropping letters in the oddest of places. The syllable end up confused, verbs, adjectives, nouns they have started to interbreed, there is now no telling the difference between this and that! Its all become the same and even the comma has gone on strike. Fed up with my inability to decide when exactly I need a breath and the blue faced frustration of loosing parts of conversations due to suffocation. I have too many beginnings and middles but no end. I just go on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and… BREATHE! For heaven’s sake breathe! Do you see this? Do you see why I have to insist that you take someone of these loose …
There are days where parakeets won’t stop squawking, monkeys are rattling cage bars like tambourines, chatter and laughter from hyenas is overflowing, elephants have expanded from trumpets to brass bands, pythons pay xylophone across giraffe necks, riverdance is hammered out by gazelle, hippos have taken up a baseline that’s rattling my bones while lions sing tenor like a welsh church choir and all at once sound becomes this physical thing battering me in submission. This zoo inside my head doesn’t know silence, it doesn’t even know quiet or tempered or hushed, all it knows is the racket threatening my eardrums from the inside. The one that won’t stop despite my screaming despite my pleading. It doesn’t understand that all I want is for it to stop. Written For The Daily Prompt: Zoo
There were hieroglyphics on her parchment teeth that jangled in the breeze she breathed into dead languages still stuck beneath her tongue. Forgotten goddesses sheltered in her mouth, ancient secrets hung as pearls from earlobes and tombstone nails that peeled history apart layer by layer to see if she could spot the differences in each repetition.