#NaPoWriMo – Day Twenty – Last Trimester

You are here now, though not quite part of this world just yet.
Suspended inside me, you are growing into yourself,
becoming a person, becoming someone waiting for the first fall.

Continue reading “#NaPoWriMo – Day Twenty – Last Trimester”

#NaPoWriMo – Day Fourteen – My Married Name

This name is still an uncertain bird in my mouth,
perched at the tip of my tongue when I reach
for its fragile feathered body.
So small in the hold of my hand
it cheeps, cheeps, cheeps
and I say Finch, Finch, Finch
to the mirror above the sink,
check the windows are closed before loosening
the grip I have on its wings
uncertain if I can make the sound stick.

Write a poem that delves into the meaning of your first or last name.

NaPoWriMo 2021 Prompt – Day Fourteen

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 green
as the unripe citruses berried in-between…
and this is much the same,
this slow uncurling as you ripen
my own belly thickening till I peel
off my layers,
test the softness around my middle,
squeeze the fruit flesh.
You feel all this apparently,
spin like a top, end over end
become 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!

The Year After Last – A Poem By Carol J Forrester #DVersePoets

Squirming at the pumpkin guts, your hands scooped into ladles, spooning palmfuls of seed and sludge. We took desert spoons to the wisp remains. Raked the slick walls smooth. Marked out the features with sharpies, a wide outline mouth, hollow eyes, skeleton nose. Sawed kitchen knives through thick sick, fingers squeaking tight on the handles.

This year, that kitchen is someone else’s, and the plants have not spat out anything other than flowers, their yellow blooms autumn mulched into the borders. There is no spilling through the doorway, hat and coats rain kissed into my open arms. No mud footprints on the tiles. Only seeds, sat on the shelf, kept dark and safe, for more hospitable times. My own roots deepening, on the promises pushed away till Spring.

Evening has a weight,
a sense of things settling down,
comfort in closing.