Tag / poem

by Carol J Forrester

Last Orders – A Poem By Carol J Forrester

News cycle filters through the pictures again,
muted buzz of static from the back of the set
perched high above an empty bar,
upturned stools kicked up like drunk legs.

Cigarette burnt low he flicks the butt wide,
watches it sail, scatter ash, splutter in the sink,
tap drip, dripping in that constant aching manner
of fists drumming against windows caving in.

Could comment on the old school tactics,
another plague, a new spin on the old classic.
Some times the old tricks do work best,
even if they stop short of razing it all to dust.

Tonight we are being challenged to write War Poetry, which immediately brings back memories of studying Wilfred Owen’s Selected Poems for A Level English Lit. However, war is something that always seems to exist somewhere at any point in history, and all too often conflict is much closer than we would like to believe.

by Carol J Forrester

Dry Eyed – A Poem By Carol J Forrester

Roll my shoulders,
crackle spine of dry flesh
smoked fractures and boiler hiss,
hiccup of breath in a radiator.

Airless and unloved,
in the dank basement of the mind
snow cannot refract any light
into these shadows.

Still it aches on the backs,
eyeballs tight against their sockets
straining past the crisp,
no bounce in the world outside.

Imagine melting into dust,
slithers of self pooling at the foot
of all this make believe.
As endless as this frozen season.

“Airless and unloved, in the dank basement of the mind” L. Igloria ~ A Reparation

by Carol J Forrester

Watcher Under The Table – A Poem By Carol J Forrester

Exhausted, your prostate yourself,
legs aloft and crooked,
chin tilted towards some ceiling corner
as if to suggest you were focused
on anything but us.
Still,
you follow footsteps with a beady eye,
wriggle your spine against tile,
happiness thumping in rapid, swishing beats.

As Lillian shared a lovely doggy snap with us tonight, I thought I’d include a sketch I did last month. I’m currently 9,000 words deep in NaNoWriMo, but when I’m not writing I have a go at improving my drawing skills, which mainly involves many hours of looking, sketching, going ‘well that’s shit”, erasing and trying again.

by Carol J Forrester

Jörmungandr – A Poem By Carol J Forrester

I’ll start at the toes,
short,
and not quite in joint
with one another.

Pause around the ankles.
Suckle them
like gobstoppers
to the marrow.

Crunch shin and calf,
ravish thighs
till the fat glistens
along my jawbone.

Pick the pelvis clean,
pop each ovary
between thumb
and forefinger.

Still juicy and ripe.

Pull intestines,
lungs, liver, heart,
kidneys free.
Mince into a pie.

Portion each breast
out with the cuts
to ensure a moist
cook.

Lick the remains clean
from each finger.
Grind the bones
between my teeth.

Leave one hand for eyeballs,
seasoned tongue
tastes a lot like ox,
ears more like bacon.

At the end,
begin again.

With Halloween just a couple of days away, I thought I’d share one of the more monstrous poems from my poetry collection, ‘It’s All In The Blood’ which sounds like a much darker collection when associated with this poem on its own.

by Carol J Forrester

Age Old Tradition – A Poem By Carol J Forrester #DVersePoets

I should have taken that course,
the one with the guy
who builds drystone walls up north
for the farmers who have to maintain
things the way they’ve always been.
A bit like how I’m still trying
to keep this how it was
when you laid each slab in place
one, against the other,
so clever with your fingers,
finding the flattest stones,
the edges most like jigsaw pieces,
and stacking the pile
till it looked like a skyscraper
even if it always was only a folly.

I’ve just taken part in Caroline Bird’s Brave Writing poetry workshop, so I was a little worried I’d be all poet’d out by the time I got round to the DVerse prompt for this evening. It was an amazing workshop and I feel like a got so much out of it, much as I did with the workshop I did last year run by Mark Pajak. Workshops are a great way to improve your poems and your craft.

Also, my poem When Medusa Goes Shopping went live on The Daily Drunk today! I think this is the first poem I’ve had published in 2020. After writing my collection I felt a bit like I’d run out of poems, and it’s only been in the last couple of months that I really started got the fire back in my belly when it comes to writing.

Since tonight’s prompt is Follies, I’d like to mention Hawkstone Park Follies. It’s a lovely site in Shropshire, built originally by the Hill family, and a local tourist attraction. The family built it as a pleasure garden (eighteenth century gardens designed for noble families to go walking in) and as a result the Follies boast fantastic sandstone caves, a hermitage, and the obelisk which is not actually an obelisk but a monument to the supposed first protestant mayor of London. (Supposed, the claim is a little contested). For those who enjoy walking it’s a fantastic place to visit (though only open between 1st July and 1st November). I’d highly recommend not doing it dressed as the Easter Bunny however. There are some steep bits.