All posts filed under: Poetry

Mother Time

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.  


There is a difference between true north and the magnetic one. The differ just slightly. In the end you have to make a choice between the two of them. Follow the compass towards something you can’t see and chase the man-made landmarks. Daily Prompt: Magnetic

The Lurch

It’s hands flat on the dashboard, the crack of skin on plastic throat concertinaed into your mouth and every fear suddenly there beneath your tongue inside your cheeks pressing into your vocal chords choking for a way out. No matter how quick you see it coming, the lurch in your guts as organs batter your ribcage is unexpected. But you’re never thrown backwards, it’s always forwards into something new, frightening, paralysing exciting. Daily Prompt: Lurch

Garden In Progress

I’ve spent the summer trying to drag the garden in my head out of my thoughts and into the little patch of land attached to the house we bought last year. In April I had dreams of babbling waterfalls tipping from the deck into the coy pond, honeysuckle and clematis flushed full of flowers, trees bowed double with glorious, ripe fruit, and every herb under the sun dancing drowsily in the sun. In reality things have worked out a little different. The deck isn’t level, it’s sloped so that the water runs away, but not the right way. It runs inwards and puddles at the centre. This had led to rot and a rather worrisome, growing hole that requires extreme caution when trying to hang out the washing. Beside the deck, the pond is less than halfway done since August rains have put an end to many a bricklaying attempt. There’s no waterfall as of yet but we’re certainly pumping enough of the stuff out of the pond to try and keep things moving. I think …

Echoes And Memories

Unfurled you filled the house in a way I wasn’t expecting. I kept finding you in new places like under the edge of a lampshade, between the folds of curtains, inside the grain of the floorboards. Places I’d never seen you go became mementos of you. Snapshots you couldn’t be cut out of. When your smile found its way between the spines of two books I turned the shelving to firewood and places the offending volumes at either end of the house. It didn’t help. You still echoed in the chimney when the wind blew just right. Daily Prompt: Unfurl

Split Second

I can find you in the hammering between my heartbeats, that moment of tightness when my breath stutters for a pause my fingers tighten on the seams of my trousers and I can’t let go, the split second where the world reduces to a pin-head.   When the oxygen leaves a room your chest hollows. It is not a pleasant experiences, it’s both pain sharp and crushing. It’s not my pulse in my ears but a waterfall exploding threatening to burst me open like a balloon stretch too thin.   That is when I find you in the back of my mind, when I feel your hands against my shoulders and your strength against my spine.   Old conversations saved up like pennies rattle loose until their weight is enough to keep me grounded until my lungs catch up with my breath . We’re writing a non-metered, non rhyming sonnet tonight at the dVerse Poets Pub. I’m hoping my attempt is close enough to count as a response to the prompt but I’ll let someone …

Strangers With Familiar Faces

I’m short because of my grandfather but I forget more than I remember that it’s him I’ve taken after. To me he was a shadow painted into family portraits. Only half real in any memory I still have of him and I together. But that’s the danger of not knowing anything about a person besides the fact they’re sick. You have to wait for photos after the funeral once the sorting has begun. Then you find the questions that you should have asked burning behind your mouth without the person you want the most anywhere to be found.   Today’s daily prompt Grainy reminded me of this old photo of my Grandfather and his friend from when they toured around France on their bikes. My uncle had it restored after it was rediscovered a little while after my Grandfather passed away. It was one of the first stories I heard that made me realise I’d never asked him about his youth or even his life before I was born.  

This Is Not Weakness

Will you still love me when I got nothing but my aching soul Lana Del Rey – Young And Beautiful I take pride in my independence. The way I make decisions for myself, choosing how many rungs to climb, which skill to equip my mind with, which challenges to tackle next.   That is why when I stare at the ceiling, listening to the rain outside our window in the early hours before dawn breaks I have to remind myself that this isn’t weakness.   I dare not tell people how you stand guard against the blue days. How you can peel the lead from my bones, soothe the hurricanes in my head, and find me among the shadows without a torch.   These days, it is not right to need someone but some days I can’t do anything but need you.   I have to remind myself that this is not weakness, this is partnership, and love doesn’t make me any less. I am allowed to cling to you when the world feels like it will …

Back In Time

Some nights I dream I’m back at school, stomach crawling up my throat while I wait for the hall to open its doors, and swallow me whole. I return to being terrified, to being her. I remember it too well, she’s not gone far. I love the quadrille night over at the DVerse Poets Pub. Tonight’s prompt for your 44 word poem is ‘dream’. Take it however you like so long as the word ‘dream’ or a derivative of it appears in the poem.

Beautiful Fragments

On Tuesday I punched my fist into the nettles at the bottom of our garden. My whole arm lit up with fire, and I screamed through clenched teeth determined to see if the poison would do anything beyond hurt. See, I’m an expert at cradling wounds out of sight. My pockets are full of scars my handbag crammed with bruises and you can hear the piece inside me rattle if you shake hard enough. I’ve been broken so long the edges are too worn to fit back together again. Instead I collected them like sea glass in jars along the windowsills, and when the sun rises they shimmer in every colour you can imagine. They are still beautiful to look at. Written For The Daily Prompt: Prickle