Author: Carol J Forrester

Wash Out The Bad #WeekendWritingPrompt

The official report blamed ‘a torrential downpour’ for Ichabod McGuffin’s horrific suffocation beneath two hundred tonnes of hillside. However, there were rumours about his mother, and the hairs on Eddie’s arms rose as he pulled up outside old lady McGuffin’s bungalow. He shook the feeling off and fetched the shopping from the backseat. ‘Such a good lad,’ she smiled, opening the door. She watched him set the shopping down. ‘Yes,’ she said again, and handed him her payment. ‘A good lad. Just the sort we want round here.’  

Playing With Lines Of Five #DVersePoets

Tanka – Deception The vines have curled up till she’s dressed within their arms. Astonishing green, to hide all the stress fractures now spider-webbing beneath.   Kyoka –  Toil Of A Water Witch Ginny Greenteeth waits, washes out last week’s litter from her pond weed hair. Snatches a plastic bottle like she would do a child. Ginny Greenteeth is from English folklore, and depending on your region her name can change from Ginny, to Jenny, or a number of other nom-de-plumes. It’s also the name used to refer to pond weed, or algae covering a pond’s surface and obscuring the water from view. She apparently lurks below the cover of the pond weed waiting for passersby to wander too close, so she can drag them to their watery depths.  There are perhaps some waterways that wouldn’t be particular pleasant to skulk in these days. Gogyohka – After The Storm We eye the horizon like a child, question our certainty that the crying is done. Slowly, we return ourselves to the garden, we peg the washing out while …

The Madness of Inspiration

It’s a sentence dropped in passing, just a side-note to the conversation, or a jotting blotted in the margin, only really half a thought.   Yet it opens the earth beneath you, hooks in under your fingernails, drags you to dimly lit, dusty corners, both imaginary and real.   It doesn’t care that no one wrote it, or if someone did then they lost it, or passed it into a safe place too good given the hindsight.   It’s dug a home in the meat of you. Demanded your eyes, you tongue, your head. Drew a line between now and then as translucent as spider silk.   Now you only have to find it. I’m working on a new poetry collection at the moment which I think I’ll probably name ‘Women, Water, and Witches’. The inspiration for it stems from the folklore surrounding women and water in Shropshire. This has led to me spending evenings researching Sea Witches, Jenny/Ginny Greenteeth, witch trials in Shropshire (there’s almost nothing in any source I’ve checked so far), then …

Grumpy Hobbit Takes A Stab At Being Political

Tescos ran out of loo rolls and soapboxes. Stay-at-home politicians with keyboards and opinions screeching their how-to, quick-fix slogans. Have you not been told? Fake it till you make it means everyone’s an expert. No one wants to say, we’re all just fucking lost. I’ll just slink back off to my grump little hobbit hole. Rant over in just forty-four words.

It Isn’t The Princess Who Needs Saving #DVersePoets

In the market they are talking about last week’s linens, still strung across the garden beneath skies dazzling blue.   The butcher’s wife does not like the cats with their black cloaks, stalking the briar patch at night, bright eyes like guttering candles.   Her husbands claims superstition, but distrusts the foxglove purple swords, the nightshade, the mistletoe, the cut stems by the hedgerow.   Forgets who birthed their last child, almost blue and so brokenly quiet. Breathed that first cry into him when they though him too far gone.   But there’s the girl and her tears, and her husband raging for some sort of explanation as to why the seed won’t take.   And why this year’s harvest failed, and the Harlow’s pig got sick, and the men from the church came and hung a witch out.   I’m going to admit, this poem got away from me somewhat, and I’m really not sure how I feel about the ending. Still, I hope you like where I took tonight dVerse prompt. I only …

In The Dark Of Things #DVersePoets #Prosery

‘Eddie! Stay awake!’ ‘Ah- what the’ Eddie flinched forward, the back of his skull throbbing where it had cracked against heating pipes. ‘Come on Gripes,’ he groaned. ‘What’s your problem.’ ‘You know what!,’ Gripes scowled. He was crouched down in front of Eddie, his phone light throwing his shadow along the length of the corridor.. ‘His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream, remember! You go to sleep and we’re both in big trouble.’ ‘That’s just a story Gripes. No one believes it.’ The torch on Gripes phone flickered. Eddie plucked it out of his hands and switched it off. Darkness swallowed Gripes’ face, but Eddie could smell his breath. ‘Erg mate, you need to lay off the cheese and onion.’ The darkness stayed quite but Gripes’ breathing picked up. He placed his hand on Eddie’s knee. ‘Ed,’ he whispered. ‘You need to wake up!’    

The Butcher’s Poleaxe – #VEDay

Somewhere there is a poleaxe, your sweat worked into the staff from unbroken nights, where the pig must not squeal. Milk bottle spectacles but no flame or light catching in the glass reflection. All of it done in the silence that cannot be broken, unlike the rules you’re cleaving with each precise blow.   Hands returned to steering wheel, on dark lanes winding home, nose to windscreen foot light on the accelerator, you mouth curled in prayer. May they not come back this way with the fat bulbs unsown on London, or Crewe, or elsewhere deemed vital. May they not discard their leftovers on these field tonight. Let the silence be unbroken. VE Day 2020 Not long ago my mother told me about the poleaxe my great-grandfather kept in the garage. He used it during the Second World War to slaughter pigs, as it was more effective at killing them quickly before there was chance for them to make any sound. This was during rationing, when there were limitations on the slaughter of livestock. My …

Water Song – #DVersePoets

I want to sink bells into the pond. Plant them just below the waterline, where the ripples look like scales lifting out of the shallows slowly on the back of an endless snake. Then at night when the moon lifts, turns her face to watch, I’ll slip out onto the decking, strip down to my silver skin. Drop like a stone or a witch into the quiet cold of a place not quite what I wish of it. Wonder as the bells ring out if anyone else may be listening. There’s a lot of Shropshire Folklore about women and water. The River Severn is often characterised as female, and there are tales of women (or women-like creatures) inhabiting lakes and ponds. Another image in Shropshire folk tales, is that of church bells falling into water and being lost forever, but the sound of their ringing being heard at night. I’ve always been in love with myths and legends, but more often than not it was the classic Greek, Egyptian, and Norse myths that I turned …

Sunsets Over Sleeping Cities – #DVersePoetics

Syrup thick the evening slides in, through an open window, past clinking blinds left low.   Settled in the heat of floorboards, today edges towards tonight uncertain of any other name.   Could be Sunday for all its softness, its lifted underbelly showing to a glow on the horizon.   Even the birds seem distant, their swooping songs drifting deeper into the quietness.   In other poetry news, guess who finally had time to work out kindle publishing! ‘It’s All In The Blood’ can now be purchased on kindle through the amazon store. Feeling more than a little smug with myself I must say.