You spend so much time picking petals. Pretending enough will make a flower of your own. If you’d spent as long studying the structure, stem, stamen, stigma, you might have seen. Seeds. Instead of stolen petals you could have grown a garden. Not as easy maybe, but more beautiful than you know. Tonight, the bartender at DVersePoets has thrown us some beautiful pieces of artwork to inspire poems. I highly recommend checking the rest of the piece out as they are all incredibly thought provoking.
Was I a plaster you slapped on to cover the burns left by your family? Something temporary, to hide the harm. Was he water? More than you’d seen all in one place and so inviting you were willing to drown. Did you lose me on purpose? Or did the currents just pull us apart? Either way, did you notice that I was gone?
You have to swim here. Kick to keep afloat, and scoop the water into yourself, with arms winged either side of a weightless body. Dug out by the flow, a pool deepened by cascade. A bridge masked by track and concrete. This place is thick green almost jungle. Clear right to the sand, easy to pretend I know this place. Too well to be tricked. Safety in confidence I say. Water washes all clear away, but to where, and when, will it come to shore again? A prompt mash up tonight. Ending on a question for NaPoWriMo Day Two and ‘Cascade‘ for dVersePoetsPub poetics night.
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 …
The heating has been on since six and the kitchen is warm. Beyond the windows trees are grey skeletons, the lawn knotted with weeds. Three fence panels slump away from their posts, and the sun is out. Through the glass it pretends that the heat in the kitchen is its doing. Kara knows it’s lying and pads barefoot across the tiles. The kettle has boiled but she leaves it, takes the jar beside instead, twists a slip of paper free. ‘Live,’ it reads. She folds it and places it back, rooting it towards the bottom. Tomorrow she may pull different.
Echo. Shadow voices drifting slowly closer. Seconds crackle, shiver, collapse. Silence. The little poem above is a Cinquain written for Colleen’s 2019 Weekly #Tanka Tuesday #Poetry Challenge. Each line has a set number of words, and a set number of syllables. Overall it’s a tiny, tight poem, that like all fixed forms can be a pain in the arse to write well. Fixed Form is probably the hardest poetry to write to a high standard, because the rules mean you have to find words that suit what you’re trying to say, but also fit in with the structure you’ve got to work with. It is just the same when you’re working with a rhyme scheme. You might have a word that paint the right picture for the piece, but it might not rhyme in the way you need it to, so you have to substitute in something else of rework the entire poem. It’s why I write so much poetry in free verse, because that way I don’t feel like I’m hammering my poems into …
all smiles and glitter staring back at you
in that echoing space
I’m still getting used to this lion in my mouth. But sometimes the notion of seen and not heard still aches in my chest, despite the waterfall of words I seem to spout whenever my lips part. When you’re trying to stay silent, some times it helps if you cover up the abscene with something meaningless and hollow, like empty poetry. Laughter is also good. If you can laugh about it, it can’t of been so bad. But time can chip away at you if you let it. Too much silence can eat the soul of you completely. Not matter how small the seed. If we just don’t mention it, ignore it and carry on, then it’s not that big of a deal so why make a fuss. Women always make a fuss. At night I feel silly, walking with my car keys turned to the sharp edge of a key-chain, cold and hard against my palm Alone is when I think about the school corridor, his face …
The jetty had rotten clean through in places, creating a hopscotch of holes almost impossible to see in the dark. Gritting her teeth, Emile slid one foot in front of the other and eased her weight onto it. At the end of the jetty a light flickered and went off. She paused and steadied her breath. Patience, she reminded herself. She’d waited fifteen years, she could afford fifteen minutes to get across this dock unscathed. She ran a hand across the outline of the pistol inside her jacket. Fifteen minutes, she promised herself. That’s all she needed.
A ten minute sketch to try and get back into the swing of things since I haven’t drawn anything in a while. I picked the nearest thing to me which was my bedside table and decided to have a go at drawing what was on that.