There is something ritual about it, the morning stock-take of new imperfections sleep softened but dawning in the mirror’s first take cut. Some can be teased or tweased slipped beneath another skin, of crafted contours, folded to hide the everyday not found anywhere but reality. The tally builds like glass bottles, one hundred hanging on a wall but if one should fall there shall be ninety-nine and a smile to hide its absence. When there are none left to shatter you will see the shell crack, hollow and so deathly dark even the light whimpers, wanes and withers into something cold. Daily Post: Ceremony
They carved a mirror out of shadows when you died, just to pull your reflection from it, held the silhouette up like a man full formed and walking despite the brittleness in his limbs when he reached for anything other than the stories they planted inside his mouth like the kisses I used to keep there when the world receded with the tides on blue moons and snowy days in June. I alone knew that you did not smile in that way. I alone knew the curve of your mouth was remade backwards, the bend of your nose lost beneath legends, a scar on your palm, no longer than the width of one finger healed by their songs. If we had laid together I would not recognize the man they’d forged, even your eyes changed colour in the light of their voices. In the end I had to learn to let them keep you this other version of you, that I did not own, and I did not know. Daily Prompt: Famous (Also inspired by Madeline …
You doled out temper tantrums like hard gums, sugar flecked jellies that locked my jaw kept me mute while you spun words into waterfalls and rapids that broke over me like I was nothing more than rock carved out to test your anger upon. Daily Post: Froth I’ve been writing longer poems for NaPoWriMo this month so I went with a simple quardille for today’s daily post prompt.
Tongue tied behind your pearl teeth, I plucked roses from the wreath of flowers wrapped round my arms now wilted much like your charms. Tonight I’m combining the Daily Post Prompt Betrayed and dVerse Thursday night ‘Meet The Bar’ prompt to write a Tanaga. A Tanaga is a poem with four lines per stanza, and seven syllables per line. This is my attempt at writing a short Tanaga to get myself back in the poetry mood before April arrives with all the madness of NaPoWriMo.
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. …
It’s almost as if someone forgot to turn the radio off. Not in this room but the one across the hall or down the corridor, a somewhere that can’t be found no matter how many corners I check. The distance turns voices to static, punctured with partial comments slipping between floorboard like strings of mist on summer mornings. Even if I press my ear to the wallpaper I still can’t link the lines into one another. The harder I try the deeper the crackle in the speakers. If I busy myself, turn the dishwasher on, boil the kettle, fill the house with the rattle and clatter of things needing to be done, I might just stand a chance. A hiccup in the warble leaves a sentence pressed against my ear, burrowing its way through to find the next line in the dark of the grey matter inside. All the while the radio continues playing in a room I cannot find. Daily Post: Constant
If you can knock the mud from you boots and plant them another step, I will do the same. There are blister and splinters in these fingers but they can managed one more rung. Lend me your lungs and I’ll give you my breath. It’s not quite meeting in the middle but we’re also not finished yet. Daily Post: Compromise I write a post about not using rhyme very often in my poetry and now I end up writing a rhyme filled poem. How’s that for irony?
Present tends to become past before I notice its arrival. I am so busy mulling the future, distilling down the possible problems that tomorrow could bring that I don’t hear the doorbell ringing. Now becomes then and I’ve already skipped ahead to try and read the ending so present in stuck somewhere between the previous pages where I’m not looking. Daily Post: Present
If courage is something we inherit then mine was already battle scarred the day my parents sewed it into my blood. Whenever I have to reach for it I reread the fingerprints bruised along its flesh from worried hands that clutched it close seeking reassurance. The beatings haven’t made it fragile. Instead it’s more like leather, worked until it bends softly beneath pressure but refusing to break. More often than not I wrap it around my joints in the hope it will support knees elbows aching wrists when I force them to lift me a little higher. I cannot hide myself completely beneath its folds as all armour has its chinks. Instead I protect myself as best I can, tuck in the frayed edges, darn the patches when they come loose and try to add something of mine that I can pass on when it becomes time. Daily Post: Courage
I knew we were wrong when the doors closed on an empty theatre and every mistake I’d ever made came up in black and white on the screen behind you. Power-point has its uses. Explaining how to make someone more lovable is not one. Daily Post: Lecture