All posts tagged: art

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 …

Luck Of The Draw – #FridayFictioneers

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 #Cinquain Poetry – Writing In Fixed Form For Colleen’s 2019 Weekly Tanka Tuesday

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 …

Words For Silent, Empty Rooms

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 …

Uneasy Footing – #FridayFictioneers

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.

In The Nowhere Places

Have you met the girl crowed in roses? She has her head in the clouds that one, stars in her eyes and daydreams for wits. I wouldn’t listen to her much. She hasn’t been right since the before time or perhaps it was the after time the time between or yet begun? She’s infectious. Stars can burn if you get too close, they prick and tickle scorch tiny holes inside your soul to let the madness in. The thorn don’t help much, they’re sharp and tough with barbs and hooks they’ll keep you even if she won’t. You won’t be the first that looses themselves inside that witch’s thicket. Tonight at DVersePoets we’re writing poems based on inspiration from the wonderful  artwork by Catrin Welz-Stein. Image By Catrin Welz-Stein  

Time To Defrag

No, I insist, I really do. Take these words and my hands, take these clothes from my back, take these thoughts from my head, take the stories I can’t work out how to tell the sentences that don’t string together well that end up dropping letters in the oddest of places. The syllable end up confused, verbs, adjectives, nouns they have started to interbreed, there is now no telling the difference between this and that! Its all become the same and even the comma has gone on strike. Fed up with my inability to decide when exactly I need a breath and the blue faced frustration of loosing parts of conversations due to suffocation. I have too many beginnings and middles but no end. I just go on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and… BREATHE! For heaven’s sake breathe! Do you see this? Do you see why I have to insist that you take someone of these loose …

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 …