All posts filed under: Poetry

NaPoWriMo – Day One – ‘Later’

Later, when the tulips had dropped their petals. Later when the cards had been tucked away. Later when the phone stopped calling. Later when the house was cold and empty and the latch on the gate caught in the wind… That was when the tears came. Night is a solitary endeavour. When the world shrinks to the size of a skull. Memories are painted on the darkness, dissected in the gloom, relived, reviled, returned to the boxes where the came from at the break of dawn. Doors hang looser on their hinges, those memories of chanced lost, wonders of what could have been. Break my mind with words when the darkness is deepest and the hour is lost. It’s day one of NaPoWriMo, [National Poetry Writing Month]. I haven’t used the prompt for today with this piece but I might put up another poem later if there’s time. I managed to forget that today was the start of NaPoWriMo until a few minutes ago so I’ve had a slight panic seeing as it’s half nine …


The fair was in the centre of the racecourse and every Easter we’d beg our parents for pounds while Granddad clambered to stand on the back of the 4×4 and Granny passed around salmon and cucumber sandwiches, sausage rolls, cups of tea, and packs of ready salted crisps. Some years we would squirm away from sun-cream and hats, while other were spent huddled beneath umbrellas, or listening to the rain hammer on the roof and windows while the horses continued to gallop past the windscreen, mud splattered and steaming. You and I counted down the races one by one, until the vested interests of family friends had run their laps and someone was free to wander away from the track to the spinning swings, and the carousels and hook-a-duck where we laughed and screeched and groaned when we lost. Now I am older the fair seems smaller and we do not beg for pound or wander down the bank towards it. But it’s there in the distance, glinting and burnished like a penny in a puddle, …

Hey! Short-Arse.

I’ve always been short, short person, short stuff, short arse, elbow rest, lean on my head, talk over the top of me, clamber over boxes, steps, stools, ladders to reach those things you can reach. I’ve always been short, not going to get any taller, stopped growing now, stopped growing up at least, bought new jeans this week two dress sizes up which is a pain because these jeans are a 10 and my wedding dress an 8 but there’s room to breath and wiggle a little so perhaps I’m more 9 than 10 and as a 9 maybe I can suck in… or go to the gym and use the membership draining my account each month. I like to work out sometimes, I like yoga when there’s the room, but really I should go, less to loose weight more to tone and focus on staying fit instead of spreading outwards because I’m short and I’ll always be short so best not match my height with my waist and try to find the stuff to …

A Pause For Breath

You lay on your back in the hallway, head towards the door. So the light from the stained window could fall across you face and paint your skin shades of blue.   From the top of the stairs I watched you sing songs to the sunlight, while the birds whistled outside and the rest of the world fell silent.     Written For The Daily Prompt: Abstract

Home Imaginary

Can you build a place half ruined? Leave some of the rooms unfinished?   Carve a fort from Shropshire sandstone, keep the windows soaring and wide so the light pours into libraries endless and stacked high. With shelves and shelves of volumes. Every room another genre and books that never end and cushioned seats to loose yourself in so time becomes impotent and each day is just that, a day, and each night just darkening hours. Leave the walls to fall into the gardens running wild with cornflowers and daisies, a vegetable patch behind the old well, and orchards filled with plums and cherries, pears, apples and damsons, the trees old, huge and untamed, perfect for climbing. Can I build a place like that? Sprawling and beautiful, creeping and quiet, a castle, a keep, a place for words and gardens. Tonight’s poetic challenge is to create a building with our poems. I hope you like my booky castle. If you want to share your own perfect building or just check out the other entries, then …

Monsters Wearing Human Skin

You were a one person locus swarm. Everything about me was razed in seconds. Those carefully constructed pillars I balanced my self esteem atop became rubble, and I watched you perch atop it, smile wide and teeth white, telling me it was better this way. It wouldn’t do to get above my station. Daily Post Prompt: Swarm

Moments Of Magic

The memory has lost some of its sharpness, like a photo with dog-eared corners and thumb worn edges rediscovered from somewhere forgotten and old. But I can still feel the scratch on my palms of chunky stone walls marching onward towards the shore where the sea swam darkening around the ruins of an ancient fort. While the sun sunk beneath the waves and I squinted for a sight of Ireland on the horizon, and the sky turned red and orange and pink and… green. A single streak of emerald, old news to the locals, but pure magic to me. Inspired by today’s Daily Prompt: Vivid    

Lost For Words

I can feel the roots in my gut, knotting around my intestines while the branches creep upwards and my throat bobbles. Twigs stretch higher, almost to the back of my throat, while the words I wanted to say stick. Like half chewed bread on the roof of my mouth, no matter how my tongue toys with it, it won’t budge. I’m not sure if it’s even the right thing to say, or a thing you’ll want to hear. So I swallow past the thorns and say nothing instead.   Inspired by today’s Daily Prompt: Doubt

Speed Bump

I always forgot that the bump was coming. The little humpback bridge on the road to The Wharf. The one that sent your stomach into your throat, that had my sister and I whooping in the back of the car, small hands clutching the seats, convinced we had momentarily left the ground. I could believe we were flying back then. When you’re small everything seems bigger, faster, brighter than life. Granddad’s driving was like that for us. Bug eyed at seventy on the speedometer. We thought that was the fastest that anyone could possibly ever go. He was wild and exciting, not like those fuddy-duddies crawling along at twenty down the A41. He doesn’t take the bridge as fast as he used to. Now that I’m older, I think he only sped up for my sister and I, to make us smile and shriek. A lot of what he did when we were small was to make us laugh. We were his princess, and he was out merrymaker. ‘Gone to see a man, about a …

Poetry Anthologia Week Six – Celebration

2016 –  by Brittania Goffy You could say that we shouldn’t dance now and you’d be right, hey, not for a long time   But I don’t care now It’s over, over, Over and for the next day, we are gonna par-tay   celebrate that we’re not dead celebrate ’cause Beatles live celebrate that there’s no plauge celebrate cause we’re alive Celebration – by Carol Forrester   We sang until there were no words left and I could feel your pulse beneath my skin thumping like a drum beat marching us home from battle. On wobbly legs we stumbled into ourselves, collapsing into the grey light of morning with laughter still on our lips and tasting the tequila on the back of our throats. We won’t remember what we did, but we will remember the joy.