All posts tagged: poems

Bubble-Wrap Knuckles – A Poem By Carol J Forrester #DVersePoets

Fireworks popping off underneath skin,an explosions against the brickwork.Blood so bright it burns my retinasand when I dreamed I can see it,the splash, the sizzle of colour.My own fists tight as un-popped corks deep in my dressing gown pockets,buried under lint and hidden things,like the sound of bone crackon plasterboard,always plasterboard,this fuse pulled taught between my shouldersunlitand your face so dark with thunderthe crash of it in a plate on the kitchen floor,slowly starts to clear. I feel like I need to preface this poem with the fact that it is not a description of a real event, or specifically based on one real individual. We’ve had sporadic fireworks for the last couple of weeks, so if anything, those are the main source of inspiration. Right with that out of the way, here’s an audio recording of the poem, and a note to say go and check out the rest of the poems written for tonight’s DVersePoets sound prompt.

Without Roots We Rot – #DVersePoets

You spend so much time picking petals.   Pretending enough will make a flower of your own.   If you’d spent as long studying the structure, stem, stamen, stigma, you might have seen.   Seeds.   Instead of stolen petals you could have grown a garden.   Not as easy maybe, but more beautiful than you know. Tonight, the bartender at DVersePoets has thrown us some beautiful pieces of artwork to inspire poems. I highly recommend checking the rest of the piece out as they are all incredibly thought provoking.

Poetry Anthologia -When The Sun Rises

We have two contributors for the second round of Poetry Anthology here at Writing and Works: Britaina Goffy, and Yoly Miller. I’ve had not bow out of this prompt due to NaNoWriMo consuming my soul but hopefully I’ll be back up and in the swing of things by next week. 4 [by Britaina Goffy] If we’re still alive, breathing air If we’re still sane somewhere deep the sun will rise higher, bright to cleanse  the air free of scum dark days, dark years ahead long time to hold, hold your breath the sun still rises and we still breathe Maybe Tomorrow (When the Sun Rises) [by Yoly Miller] I have no time for this There are children to be minded Religions to be lauded and ideologies to be followed To the letters on my phone To the faceless voice that shouts for me to run I have no time for heeding let alone feeling anything but the fear inside my head No time to vacillate between ignoring you or taking your warnings to heart I …

Summer Dig

The paddock is still pitted with the evidence of a nine-year-old’s attempt at archaeology. Eleven years later, bits of the broken crockery dug up hang about, next to the oil tank, the bbq, inside the shed, reminders of how we sifted through sand.   We were going to match time-team. Discover the half-complete ruins of an ancient civilisation’s round house. Even now the most that’s been found is one, dusty, bent up spoon Dad brought in with him to the house. For a while I wanted to be an archaeologist when I grew up, so The Overgrown Garden became a dig site for myself and my younger sister who I roped into help me with the shovel work. I’m still hugely interested in the past, something that comes across to anyone who’s had the unfortunate experience of starting up any conversation with me pertaining to medieval/early modern history. I did also want to be an architect for a while, until I realised that it would take seven years and even then I wouldn’t be designing …

Organising Up

I’ve been buying notebooks again, however I do believe that this is based on fair reasoning. In preparation for the third of April, when I will be launching my new book of poetry and stories at the Shrewsbury Coffee House, I’m attempting to attend more poetry open mic nights. Since most of my poetry is spread over an accumulation of about five individual notepads, interspersed with inspirational imagery, chapters from fan fictions and layouts for original chapters, a new form of organisation seemed overdue. The plain notepad is the new one. Dedicated to poetry only, and what is more, dedicated to completed poems only. It is what I will hopefully be reading from at any future open mic nights and what I should be reading from on the third of April. (Though that night I may read just from the book.) Do leave a message if you know of any up and coming poetry nights in the U.K, preferably around Shropshire or Bath. Even if they’re not open mic, it is still nice to go …

Upon The Fingers Of One Hand

You can count them on one hand, those ones that mean the most care the most put up with the most.   You can gather acquaintance like confetti, but there are always gaps between fingers where people fall through and when the wind sweeps by it will leave you with empty palms.   Those ones who cling on, who can be counted on one hand are the ones who’ll scale mountains, dig beneath oceans, trek over desert and parachute in over enemy territory.   All for the sake of standing in the background to push you forwards, when the spotlight seems too bright.  

Haiku August

I am trying to write a Haiku for every day of this month. I wrote Summer Birds on the first day, yesterday I wrote: Leaf mulch and bare bark. Faith went the way of Winter without Spring for hope.   and today I have:   You’re my thunder dusk following heat clogged daylight. I listen for you.   I find writing haikus a little bizarre. Why? I don’t actually know if I like them… Haikus never feel as if they hold enough when I read them of write them. I can find some crackers and think “wow! I really like that!” But it remains the same for the vast majority of haikus, I simply feel that they don’t suit me. So I’m trying to write one every day for a month to see if my opinion changes. How about yourselves? Are there any poetic or prosaic forms that simply stick in your pen? I would be interested to hear if anyone else finds themselves in a similar situation.