All posts tagged: children

Fourteen Weeks – A Poem By Carol J Forrester

The size of a lemon,which reminds me of a fruit tree,miniature,leaves buttered up and greenas the unripe citruses berried in-between…and this is much the same,this slow uncurling as you ripenmy own belly thickening till I peeloff my layers,test the softness around my middle,squeeze the fruit flesh.You feel all this apparently,spin like a top, end over endbecome a flicker in a whirlwind. Still hidden by your smallness,little lemon pip blooming. I’ve missed quite a few DVersePoets night over the past couple of months, and that’s mainly been because I’ve spent all my free time napping. The little Gremlin above is due this summer, and I’ve had all the fun of pregnancy sickness to content with, so my writing took a bit of a hit. My husband and I are very excited to welcome our little human into the world, and I thought what better way to tell my poet friends the news, than with a poem for the Open Link Night!

NaPoWriMo – Day One: Dupe

Dupe When I was told that for two years you squeezed your eyelids shut each time a sneeze scuttled upwards and threatened your sinuses, for fear of them bursting from their sockets, I hid my smile with two hands of guilt. I buried my bead of triumph. That lick of power burning like a forest fire in my lungs as laughter bubbled in its pot threatened to burst the lid, and show the world how much I loved, the idea that I had tricked you. So fully, so unintentionally well that even your best friend failed in convincing you it was a lie. We’re finally here and I’m practically bouncing off the walls with excitement. As with every other year that I’ve taken part, I took one look at the prompt this morning and went “pftt, I can’t write something for that,” and walked away from it. A few hours later the little seed that it left in my brain came up with half an idea and I managed to write a poem for it. …


When I was little I turned cardboard boxes into playhouses, stacked them one atop another until I’d built the tallest tower in the world or the biggest castle ever seen.   The settees in the living room were princess beds or safe land when the carpet turned to lava. Stepping stone cushions were employed to cross treacherous territory without risking loosing toe or limb to the fiery pits.   In the corner of the room was a cupboard where the toys and games were kept. We’d ransack the two shelves leaving them bare and empty ready for conversion into bunk beds.   Our garden was besieged by monsters that only my sister and I could defeat. Defending the keep at all costs we fought battles across the grass and through the orchard onto the desert planes.   When the games reached their end we’d hit the reset button. Go back to the beginning before the victory replace the villains anew and start over in our efforts.   If I’m honest, we never really stopped playing. …

Boundaries In The English Countryside

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Boundaries.” After growing up in the countryside I found that my perception of boundaries wasn’t the same as everyone else when I went to university. I had two close neighbours when living with my parents. The bungalow on the other side of the hedge and the farmhouse a quarter of a mile down the road. The rest of our neighbours were the people on the farms who’s fields bordered our own. At university my flatmates didn’t agree to this definition of a neighbour. If someone was more than a mile away then they couldn’t possibly be your next door neighbour. I got tired of trying to explain that in the country-side it just sort of worked that way. Farming is an isolated occupations and you often find that rural communities are the ones where everyone knows everyone and if they don’t know you then they know your aunt, or you mum or you granddad. The boundaries shift in the countryside and seem to become more blurred. Where …

Summer Dig

The paddock is still pitted with the evidence of a nine-year-old’s attempt at archaeology. Eleven years later, bits of the broken crockery dug up hang about, next to the oil tank, the bbq, inside the shed, reminders of how we sifted through sand.   We were going to match time-team. Discover the half-complete ruins of an ancient civilisation’s round house. Even now the most that’s been found is one, dusty, bent up spoon Dad brought in with him to the house. For a while I wanted to be an archaeologist when I grew up, so The Overgrown Garden became a dig site for myself and my younger sister who I roped into help me with the shovel work. I’m still hugely interested in the past, something that comes across to anyone who’s had the unfortunate experience of starting up any conversation with me pertaining to medieval/early modern history. I did also want to be an architect for a while, until I realised that it would take seven years and even then I wouldn’t be designing …

Good Day

It was a good day Nora decided, stretching to try and pop the kinks from her back as the kettle began to do its shuffling dance on the countertop. So far there had only been three slammed doors, one set of hysterical tears and a small screaming match on the second floor around lunchtime. As far as days went, this one was a quiet one. “MUM!” Closing her eyes Nora bopped her head along with the thick beat seeping through Nathanial’s bedroom floor. “MUM!” “Yes,” she called, eyes still closed and kettle settling down from its shuffle. “Dinner done yet?”  

Cat Flaps

Whenever I hear it I think of you wedged in the cat flap, half in the kitchen, half out. We’d never owned a cat. Your father had mumbled something about maybe getting a new door but we’d never done anything about it. You were only just crawling and before the cat flap incident you’d seem quite happy to stay in the sitting room where it was warmer and the floor was nice, soft carpet. Needless to say a new door was installed sharpish and the sound of bells has never seemed quite the same .