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 retinas
and 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
on plasterboard,
always plasterboard,
this fuse pulled taught between my shoulders
and your face so dark with thunder
the 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.




Instead of stolen petals

you could have grown

a garden.


Not as easy maybe,

but more beautiful

than you know.


Flowering Mindscape- J.Hurlbert

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
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 want to breathe
to think
to feel like I am free again
But I don’t have time even for that

Maybe tomorrow
If I still breathe
If I still cry
If I still live
Perhaps then
When the sun rises I too will rise
Maybe then I will have time to see the truths I’ve been hiding from

With no courage to find my walking legs
No courage to gather my wits
No courage left to run away
With no more courage than what I use for surviving
I cannot do more than what I do
I’ve used it all up in staying safe inside my cage

Maybe tomorrow
If I can still think
If I can still feel
If I can still breathe
Perhaps then
When the sun rises to warm my naked bones
Perhaps then your voice can find me and save me from what waits for me every night at home

You see
I have no time for this
My children come first
My god comes second
and what you think is best for me comes so far last I can’t even see it.

I hear you
I hear you loud and clear
But remember
As thick as blood can be fear is always thicker

Call me tomorrow
Leave me a message
Text me all those numbers again and again
If I am still here I might hear you
If I still feel I might heed you
If I still breathe than I might still need you

Don’t give up on me
Don’t give up on me yet

If I do as you plead me to do I might not have another sunset
I might not have another tomorrow
I have to walk slowly
Walk in circles until the rage that binds me here stops raging
Only then can I hope to find my way to you

I hear you loud and clear
I see your outstretched hands
but there is much for me to lose tonight
Perhaps when the sun rises I will feel safe enough to try the unlocked doors to my cage
But until then please be content to hear me cry
and know I’m safe.


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 buildings like Bath Abbey, or Notre Dame, so really what was the point?

Anywho… thank you to DVerse for the opportunity to final work this spoon into one of my posts. I’ve been trying to work out how to use it on Writing And Works since I came downstairs and discovered it on the kitchen window sill. Not that unusual really. My dad tends to pick up random bits and bobs from the fields as he works. [Farmer with an interest in history. I take after him with the history, not so much with the farming.]