Someone says panic attack, adrenaline spike, low, calm, and confident, laying a diagnosis out like a challenge, while I sit here, stumped, all root and no branch to climb up, to escape by, not a spike but a stake pinning me in this place.
I was born in a house with an unlocked door, had to teach myself to turn the key at night and then in the day to keep the warnings on the other side of this slate of wood, varnished to look like an invitation. For the Thursday Photo Prompt: Invitation
My sister and I are taking about family and afterwards I write about Wonderland. The way in which it frightened me as a child when Alice falls, and fall, and falls, and falls, and all the while the world is whirling upwards, downwards, outwards in patterns whorled inside each other like carnivorous flowers, too consumed with consuming each other to notice she is screaming. Someone asks me if I’m mad, without asking that specifically, because you know, that would be unkind. I tell her I’m not delusional. Reassure her, don’t mention again the shadows I keep seeing out of the corners of my eyes, my white rabbits flitting out of sight each time I turn. Put it down to an over active imagination. Tell myself the same. Spring plays peek-a-boo, the white rabbit’s ears twitch twice, I am clinging on.
Placed you up, out of reach, where you could be loved like an object. Perfect. Worshipped your tears and howls, as you begged for freedom.
When you arrived as the snowdrops melted, pressed cherry blossom to my breast, told me love is like a flower in bloom, already closer to an end than the start. Pressed cherry blossom to my breast, found thorns that left their marks, already closer to an end than the start when sorrow grew from these seeds. Found thorns that left their marks, taught me how to cut out dead wood, when sorrow grew from these seeds pruning became vital to overall survival. Taught me how to cut out dead wood, told me love is like a flower in bloom, pruning became vital to overall survival when you arrived as the snowdrops melted.
I always greet red dawns with caution. Farmer’s daughter, I turn over countryside sayings like hard-boiled sweets in my mouth. The syrup long since sucked from the center, now all crunch and brittle, the shards pricking my gums in warning. No amount of scoffing, can keep my grandmother’s voice from speaking to the dawn. Soft, and familiar, chanting the same words, myth now made fact. Red mornings are both beautiful, and dangerous. We should watch for a change in the winds.
When I woke it was with me, curled around my shoulders like a scarf both there and not, tickling the hairs on the back of my neck as I shuffled around the kitchen to brew the tea and start breakfast, crockery clinking between my hands while it whispered around me. Seeing the shadow across the door brought relief. The same as when someone balances a plate too far beyond the edge of a counter but you can’t do anything except watch it waver half way between safe and broken. When it finally hits the ground shattering into bright, white slithers that dance across the tiles into every corner the chord snaps and you can breath again. It’s the waiting that drains you until there’s nothing left to give. Daily Prompt: Premonition This is the fourth poem I’ve posted today here on writing and works, I’ve been trying to write more poetry and I’ve found the more I write the easier it gets. It’s also helping me improve my poetry so if you’ve got the time …
There were hieroglyphics on her parchment teeth that jangled in the breeze she breathed into dead languages still stuck beneath her tongue. Forgotten goddesses sheltered in her mouth, ancient secrets hung as pearls from earlobes and tombstone nails that peeled history apart layer by layer to see if she could spot the differences in each repetition.
Beyond the brook, in the woods, there are huts. Grey, empty eyed, with crumbling mouths, scattered, separated, almost forgotten. They sit alone, abandoned and abused, besieged by pine and birch. Ignored by walkers, they wait for soldiers, long from war and as they fall, the scavengers come, to strip away any worth until all that’s left, are empty shells, and broken bones slowly rusting into the earth. I’m writing about home again tonight. Dotted around my parent’s farm are a number of old army huts that I knew were once part of an RAF base, but were crumbling away to ruin. It turns out that my parents farm was partially built on an army base that was constructed in 1915 and served a fair few purposes over the years, including a prisoner of war camp at one point. My first few driving lessons actually took place on two of the three runways that made up the airfield, one on our neighbour’s land and one that runs along the edge of my parent’s farm. If you’re …
What if we are already at the end. The last planet in a dead universe watching the echoes of eternity play out through telescope lenses. Despite the probes, the satellites, maybe there is nothing left to find. Someone, something else explored it all first, planted their own flags built their own marvels and wonders, only to inch away into dust before we even opened our eyes. Tonight’s prompt for the Poetics Evening over at dVerse is ‘The End’. It’s funny, I was pondering this idea the other day and started wondering if we could be the last speck of light in a dying universe. It’s a somewhat depressing thought but as someone who spends their time buried in history it was interesting to think that the whole greater beyond could be just that, history already. *The title is taken from Dylan Thomas’ poem.*