‘We’ve been waiting for over an hour.’ Sonya scanned the floodlit runway before stepping closer. ‘He’s not coming.’ I saw her lift my hands, her lips warm against my knuckles. ‘We don’t leave without him.’ She frowned at me. My hands went cold again. ‘And what if he’s dead? What if he’s been caught?’ ‘He might be dead,’ I admitted. ‘He won’t have been caught.’ She shook her head and I wondered if she’ll leave like she did in Cairo. ‘We wait.’ She bit the words out. ‘Just like we always bloody do.’ I smiled. Once. ‘For him,’ she growled.
I thought I’d see in the new year with a couple of Tanka and a few Haikus: Haikus 1. These years pass quicker than the ones I remember dimmed in memory. 2. I resolve to write more, better, with passion just like every year. 3. I have failed some goals yet exceeded in some ways my expectations. 4. Approaching New Year… I’ve high hopes for you and me, not resolutions. Tankas 1. Here, it is raining heavy against the window. Close your eyes, listen. This sound does not change with time, this year, last and next… constant. 2. This year brought changes, graduation, moving out, engagement and mortgage plans. This year I have dived straight in. You, have kept me on my feet.
Carrie leant the brush against the counter and checked the room again. Cardboard was stacked neatly in one corner, bubble wrap in a heap next to it and the twelve black bin bags of crap from twenty years neglect were by the door. She sighed and dusted her hands off. Not bad for the first day. The fading sunlight tumbled in through the stain-glass windows as she pattered towards the door. ‘De-consecrated,’ she murmured. ‘Just another word for abandoned.’ She spun and eyed up the old alter, broken and grimy with dirt. She smiled. ‘Not for much longer,’ she said.
Your words bites and fizz. They leave scorch marks on my tongue. When I echo you, try to mimic your crackle, my fuses only splutter.
If we were having coffee I would tell you all about my new jumper. I’ve never owned a Christmas jumper before and to be honest I’ve never really had the desire to buy one. But work has a Christmas jumper day and hey ho I found myself in the Next knitwear section perusing all the holiday themed woolly garments thinking about how I really wanted the sheep one but apparently that wasn’t Christmassy enough. So instead I go the one with a reindeer and snowflakes because that said Christmas without being utterly in your face about it. I have also not taken it off since I bought it because lo and behold! I have discovered that I love jumpers! It has opened up a whole new world of snugly and that sheep jumper is now on it’s way to me and tomorrow I will be the proud owner of two Christmas jumpers! It’s like wearing a dressing gown that’s socially acceptable to have on in public places like the supermarket. What’s not to love about …
In the mornings we would bake. Scones, crust pastry fairy cakes. You’d whip round those edges, make them trim and leave the bits for leaves and berries from tiny fingertips. Chairs pushed against worktops one on either side, you showed us how to do this and that. … In the afternoons we shared apples. Jo and I sat together and you with that single strand peel turning always turning until it coiled around my childhood and tugged out an adult who will always miss you, pastries and apples. Julia ‘Ba’ Farr – 2 April 1915 – 17 November 2015
You thickened your skin until it was armour. Poured yourself into the mould of something else as if it would keep you from harm and wielded smiles like knives. Made even your mother believe that this shell was deeper than a hair’s breath of water. He words bounced like ping-pong balls, plastic and harmless. When your laugh became acrylic, like the nails you gauged down the chalkboard with a voice that wasn’t your own, something fractured in this friendship. We became acrylic. We became snappable. I was at a bit of a loss for what to write this morning in response day three’s prompt: Skin – Prose Poetry – Internal Rhyme The prompts themselves were not the issue, mild exhaustion is and honestly, I’m craving the weekend already so I can spend some time curled up in bed with ‘American Gods’ by Neil Gaiman and not have to worry about anything else for an hour or two. So here is my mildly exhaustion contribution to Day Three.
The rose that bloomed between our lips wilted. When we brushed away the petals and cleared the crumbs of brittle leaves all that we had were sheets. Stark and white we stretched them, from corner to corner and smoothed away the creases, lay together side by side and searched the ceiling for stars. ‘I’m sorry, this is all I have to give.’ I really wanted to write something better but this was all I could come up with. Comments and thoughts on this would be hugely appreciated as I have no idea what I was trying to say here. For all the faffing it took to write it still doesn’t strike me as written.
Yesterday is but today’s memory, and tomorrow is today’s dream. Kahlil Gibra They called her Daydream Girl. Eyes, tucked away in the letters of books, spine crackled and binding frayed. She was music, tripping up over loose pavement stone in the hopes of digging out stories long ago buried in the sands of time. Her hands were skeleton keys pushed into every lock on sunken chests pulled up from abandoned rib-cages. Took care not to hurt the crustaceans as she pulled them away mail-link by mail-link until only the under armour remained. She poured laughter down my throat and burnt out my lungs with song. Left me bellowing misty dragons into the night. Ran my hands across the tempo of her chest and told me to dance with the beat. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. They will not tell me where to find her again. These words are brittle, there is nothing of you here and I am tired. http://dversepoets.com/2015/10/05/haibun-monday-2/ I wrote this piece and realised that it has a lot of similarities to last night/this morning’s …
I’ve seen you pluck time like plums heavy and warm from branches out of our reach. For you past, present, future all blend into one and each moment lingers, spreads across your face like light creeping in on lazy Sunday mornings. I have followed you through doorways unseen down staircases dreamed and across rivers summoned in single breaths. There is creation in your lips, like those plumbs you sow stones that turn to seeds grow into trees stand taller than us both. I have seen this universe remade in your eyes. Jacek Yerka, 2011 A rather random little poem for Magpie Tales’ weekly writing prompt. I was going to write an Alice in Wonderland based story but decided to go with this instead. Let me know what you think.