Tag / inspiration

by Carol J Forrester

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.

dverselogo

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.

by Carol J Forrester

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.

Standardized Time – Audio Recording
by Carol J Forrester

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 split in two with that sneer

as I tried edging past him,

never close enough to touch

but clear and looming

this way was no longer mine to go.

 

In the light of my own hallway

I drop keys, and bag, and shoes,

and every memory of him,

the other lurking moments too.

 

We don’t speak about those here,

we don’t like to make a fuss,

those are the things for silent, empty rooms,

and notepads destined to gather dust.

dverselogo

I think if I was to write a collection of poetry then it would be called Words For Silent, Empty Rooms and I’d fill it with poems like Office Bitch and Legs Eleven.