Author: Carol J Forrester

DVerse Poets Poetry Form – The Rubaiyat

Snow In The Doorway The snow has not melted just of yet it would appear, crouched on the doorstep the last drift remains huddled here crying itself into the gravel driveway fake by flake, until this winter sun steals every single cold tear.   §§§   Kisses I think I kissed you once before, when we were both young, before kisses meant things like I forgive you, or stung. I think I kissed you because you were there to be kissed and I did not know that your mouth was a trap to be sprung. This week I’ve not written much due to being under the weather. I’ve got a virus that is slow to clear off and it’s making life a bit miserable if I’m honest. However, I wanted to make sure that I had a go at the DVerse Poets Pub Poetry Forms prompt as it’s an interesting project and it’s always good to stretch your poetic abilities with a challenge. (Even if you do just want to curl up in a ball …

Against All The Signs

I stopped believing in harbingers, the same way I try not to flinch when passing on the stairs, or hide the sidestep in my walk for cracks on the pavement.   Superstition crawled inside my head before I was old enough to name it. Caught up between pie crusts my great-grandmother baked, hidden in the coils of her apple peels.   Good Day Mr Magpie, are you well? How’s the family?   We buried glass somewhere, years ago, when it broke like ice and my mother feared the things she’d been taught might just come true.   Seven years bad luck unless it’s buried. Deeper now, deeper, hide the evidence and the thought.    Sometimes it’s simpler not to see the shadows casts as signs. Yet I still count in threes, for these things always come in threes.   Crossed knives,  tempest in a teapot, do not stir and do not pour these quarrelsome ideas.   The worst of it always comes unseen.

Lost: One Bench #Throwback Thursday

‘How can you forget where you left it?’ Samantha demanded, shooting Michael a withering look before closing her eyes and counting to ten. In a moment she would let out a deep sighing breath and give Michael her best, why do you insist on embarrassing me stare before ordering another drink from the bar and forgetting the subject altogether. 1,2,3,4- ‘I mean really Michael!’ Michael blinked, confused as to where the last 6 seconds had gone and why she hadn’t ordered a large glass of red wine. She wasn’t following the natural order. ‘It’s a bench!’ Samantha spluttered. ‘You cannot misplace a bench! Especially not one of yours! They’re massive and made of wood. WOOD MICHAEL! WOOD!’ Everyone else in the pub had fallen silent now, the hum of conversation dying as all eyes turned to stare at the couple having the argument. Or rather, Samantha yelling at her bemused husband since Michael rarely said two words to anyone about anything. ‘I could understand a nail or two, perhaps even your level metre, but misplacing …

All The Little Jokes

“Well I think it’s funny, all these women crying about men calling them sweetheart.”   It’s never really meant in that way when he takes you by the hips, shouts above the music, and introduces himself with a comment on your form.   It’s all banter, the older man on the phone asking for one of the guys who’ll understand better than the girl who called because that’s her job.   It’s just a joke, boys being boys, when they hold you in a corner, and pretend for fun while everyone laughs.   It’s just a little thing, on a little thing, on a little thing, on a little thing, that leaves a big thing missing inside of me. Written in response to Mindlovmisery’s Menagerie Friday First Line “Well I think it’s funny…”


Edged, your steel still held despite the age on your hands, worn from turning fields into food with the same strokes that built furrow lines on soil and skin. Seasons swept past like always but you stayed sharp. Ready. Dangerous.

Fallen From The Beaten Track #FlashFiction

No matter how he wrapped the blankets around himself, the wind found a way through the fabric. When he’d been here before it was summer. Bright and green, the pass lined cherry blossom and blackberry brambles. The other men on the pilgrimage had ignored the fruit, chosen instead to set up camp on a rocky outcrop and dine on the tough heels of bread they’d brought with them. James had spent an afternoon with purple juice staining his hands and mouth. When he was done, he’d cleaned himself in the stream than ran close by, marvelling at how cool and crisp the water felt across his tongue. Now the stream was little more than a strip of ice, the brambles only thorns. Perhaps, James thought, he was seeing the truth of it at last. The beauty of before was only a trick designed to lure him in, distract him from the death that was waiting for him, now he could see it all he could see what this place truly meant. The wind screamed through …

A Girl Called Spider #ThrowbackThursday

She sat smoking three seats away from the door, cigarette pinched between black talons as she waited for the boy in a green apron to bring her coffee. ‘There is something of the devil about that one,’ whispered an old woman standing in line. She leant in so her companion could hear. ‘Something unnatural.’ The pair twisted to stare; peering over round spectacles to examine the girl in black leather and brass buckles. ‘Very unnatural,’ hissed the old woman’s companion. “Not the right sort at all!” The girl sighed, pouring the smoke from her lips. She smiled at the old women and stabbed out the cigarette on the table-top. ‘Problem ladies?’ she asked. ‘This is a no smoking zone!’ squawked the first, pointing a shrivelling, stumpy finger at the no smoking sign just beside the door. ‘You are no supposed to smoke that,’ she pointed at the crushed cigarette, ‘in here.’ The girl smiled again, teeth bone white against ebony gloss. ‘I must have missed the sign,’ she said, curling her lips back further. The …

Fixer-Upper #FridayFictioneers

‘You realise no one is going to buy this place, right?’ Adam’s hand appeared above the back of the sofa, stray screwdriver retrieved. Sally took it off him, one knee wedged so firmly between the cushions that she stayed stuck when she tried to stand. ‘It’s a fixer-upper,’ she shrugged. ‘People like that sort of thing.’ ‘No, they think they like it,’ said Adam. He’d stood up and Sally choked down a laugh at the dust wig haloing his bald head. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Nothing, nothing,’ Sally spluttered. ‘Just maybe you’re right. It might be time to get a hoover.’

The Part Of Me I Didn’t Like

I wasn’t who you made me, I turned myself into that girl who threaded her fingers into the gaps between yours.   Lingered longer than should have outside of cafes, and pocket shops, between cobbles and walkways where we strolled away afternoons until the bus table declared enough was enough.   She who returned whenever she could because you made her feel wanted, told her she could be and would be if you weren’t already taken.   Like I said, she wasn’t her because of you. I managed to make her all by myself. Unmaking her was the part I’m still learning how to do. This is a poem I’ve written out a few times in various forms and never been quite happy with but tonight’s poetics prompt seemed like the perfect time to have another go at it. Still not sure I’ve got it right but I can always try again another day. Feedback as always is greatly appreciated if you have the time to spare.