All posts tagged: inspiration

Vanity In Reptiles – A Quadrille (Entirely Jane Dougherty’s Fault)

The size six snake three trees over, slithered past here last Saturday. The iguana on fern saw her by the pool. Think‚Äôs she looks better in the water. Told the croc by willow he should swim on. Big boys like him stand no chance. This is what happens when poets start commenting on other poet’s work. You end up down the rabbit hole with snakes, iguanas and crocodiles. (It didn’t end well for the rabbit.) To check out the writer who provided the inspiration for this quadrille, and then joined me in the madness, hop over to Jane Dougherty Writes. There you can find more of her work like the poem below: Whip snake resplendent in green and black beading, striped vicious as a wasp, terrifying as braided headdress, twisted and entwined with feathers and human teeth, squirms and twitches and sloughs, aghast that this shrugged off apparel, skin of skins, must be how he looks.

Chameleon

Do chameleons ever forget how to change? Do they lose themselves in the backdrops. Forget skins on tree branches, upon broad, flat leaves? Where water pools in stills, catching light like a trap. Do they see themselves or just the skin they wear shifting. So I’ve just had a bit of surprise while scrolling through the wordpress reader! My poem ‘Until The Light Gets In‘ has been accepted and published on The Drabble. They did email me to let me know but I hadn’t check my email this afternoon and happened on my submission mostly by accident. I do believe the dVerse Poets Pub Quadrille night is the perfect way to celebrate.

Standardized Time

Whoever standardized time did a piss-poor job. I could tell them for a fact that Wednesday move more slowly when there is less to do, and Mondays always arrive much quicker than they leave, yet Fridays take their sweet time no matter the cheering from the stands because let’s face it they’ve worked out who’s top dog before the firing pistol went off and they don’t need to rush to prove their walking home with gold. Whoever standardized time, did a piss poor job of the whole damn thing. Because a second becomes a moment when the right person holds it, and a minute becomes an hour, when your waiting for the answer or the result, or the next sentence in a conversation you really don’t want to see through. Worst of all is the touch, that barely lasts at all, that goes before you noticed it and leaves you wondering for months if you should have seen it coming.

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 …

A Garden Variety Hurt

I looked up what ivy was supposed to represent, after we called the man with the poison to clear the wooden fence panel right to the root. This creeping plant, that works its way between the cracks, and closes its fist so slowly, so quietly, that you cannot see the brickwork break, it’s supposed to represent friendship. I thought about you then, how I’d failed to see how deep you’d planted yourself until the moment that you cracked me clean in half. Like ivy, you keep coming back no matter the cold or the drought, there is no prying those tendrils loose, no poison that will make this shadow of you wither. I must live with the damage you have caused. I must somehow learn how not to crumble.  

Halfway Along The Lane

I can’t remember if the fence was crooked before or after the stranger came? In my memory he’s tall, thin, white haired and smiling. Perhaps he wasn’t all that tall though. Most people seem tall to me so perhaps he was shorter, more averaged sized. Either way, I can still see him standing in the larger gate, the one we used, not the one eaten by the conifers, smiling at my parents’ house. He was the one who revealed that it used to be two and not one, and he had lived there at some point, back when he was my age. At least I think he said that, I might have made that last bit up. I think I was disappointing that my parents already knew the bit about our house not always being one dwelling. It was the same sort of disappointment that came I woke up from dreams with secret doors and hidden staircases. The mystery was never mine to find, it always belonged to someone else. My room is now the …