Slip your hands beneath the ocean, sift the sands, though the debris laid to rest and the bones of forgotten things boiled down to soup stock in the murk. There is still a thread there, find it. A silver of something live, whispering as an eel beyond your fingertips. But you are not the trap or the bait or the line. You are the caught thing, the lost thing, the forgotten thing. Slip your hands beneath the ocean and find yourself.
The nursing home had labeled it. A thin strip of sticky white paper folded over the band, pressed together, with your name in neat, tiny letters as if it was a reminder in itself that the person who once owned it could no longer claim it as their own and had to be told ‘this is yours’ ‘this is something precious to you’ ‘this is part of who you were’. Tonight’s prompt was to write a poem based on a token such as those left by mothers for their children at the Foundling Hospital in London. Make sure to click the badge above and check out the other wonderful poems written by the fantastic poets taking part in tonight’s fun.
Barefoot I followed you across the shoreline. My feet shy of sharp things, I squinted in the darkness for warnings before edging my toes closer to the water not quite prepared for the bite brought about by the sunset three hours before when this had seemed like a good idea and I’d taken little convincing. While you waded in hip height I lingered in the shallows tide around my ankles, cold fingers creeping up my calves and a knot in my stomach that wouldn’t let me go any deeper. When I asked you to drive me home, you didn’t ask why. Daily Prompt: Dim
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 …
I have learnt where the pieces go by now. I have the blisters to show how many times I rebuilt your spine, and added reinforcements to the vertebrae, only to pick up the fragments when it inevitably snapped and shattered onto the floor again. There are splinters of bone beneath my skin. The bits of you that became too sharp, that became too much like thorns to bear them in your own sides. I let you turn my fingers into bramble thickets and plucked out all the edges of careless words hurled in your direction when all it really took was a whisper to knock you down from the scaffolding and my arms around you were no real protection. Poem For The Daily Prompt: Rebuild
Clean, crisp cotton sheets, and rain outside the window, summer storm breaking. A quick haiku for today’s Daily Prompt: Simplicity.
Fall in with me here, these lines will not march themselves. Why are you waiting? Stay and we will go without, leave you the dust of our wake. No idea what’s going on with my poetry recently.
Monday Slept past seminar with the help of winter chills that bring endless colds. Tuesday No warmth in the sheets or limbs willing to share what heaters won’t give. Wednesday I slowed each word spoke, chasing after sentences trying to escape. Thursday The fire was burning, when I stumbled in with bags spilling from my arms. Friday Searching for a name, As is: ‘own work’, written by’, not just about her.
He would use words like enrapture. Written in ink with a kick to each last letter of a word. She tried to copy his style in response, but a biro only affords you so much flair and the fountain pen wouldn’t obey her hands. But he was still charmed, delighted, enthralled by her words; captivated by her in a way no one else could match. At least that was what the correspondents said.