All posts tagged: prompt

A Poem And A Blog Party All In One!

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Dream State Darkening “Slowly we slept into our fears” Ritwik Some nights the dreams slip past like minnow, dark and shadowy in the water. I am frozen, mud stuck and slow with limbs like old trophies bent, broken, scratched, the polish flaking like old paint till the wooden skeleton is left with all its pitted fragility, no more than a twig shivering in the storm. When I wake, I am still the scarecrow. Clothes tacked on in mockery of skin. Here I know the birds do not fear me. Instead they will come in flocks to peck at what is left when the last of me is withered and gone to dust. Some nights the dreams slip past like minnow, dark and shadowy in the water, and dawn is brought on by blinking, slow and succulent it bleeds through the glass, an orange splitting from its skin. In an echo of better days the dreams swim deeper, far enough that I can pretend to forget. These are the moments of peace between the nightmares. We’re …

Erosion

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I imagined that she was some great coastal cliff. Stone strong for thousands of years, but now the sea has managed to find a way between the cracks and it’s taking her apart in chunks. It doesn’t sound like a landslide though. She doesn’t shriek and splinter as pieces of her sheer away from herself. There’s only silence as another memory, another name, another face, slips beneath the waves and into darkness where it can’t be reached. There are still pieces of her left. Like fossils, preserved inside the depths of the cliff face. On days where it seems like everything has crumbled, they can find a way to the light. The willow withered its roots turned to dust and ash but it kindles still.  

NaPoWriMo – Day Three: SHEEP ARE VERY IMPORTANT!

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My Grandfather’s biography would be called ‘I’m sure a bit of string would fix it’. The cover held together with bailer twine splint ended and bright orange beside the tight, crisp pages of neatly suited companions, with their dapper dressed poses, and carefully choreographed covers.     It would be part of the collection. A Night Away For The Nile, Never Going Back To The Bog, Butchers Bike To Farmer’s Wife, Livestock Before Children. A Gate To The Face Or Three, Tales From The Garden Path. Down Drainpipes Up Ladders. Sheep Are Very Important! How To Escape The Country. How To Escape Back To The Country. Why Mad Families Are Worth It. Are You Really Going To Read This? SHEEP ARE VERY IMPORTANT!   It’s almost enough to fill a library. NaPoWriMo Prompt Day Three: A list poems about items with made up names.

Shoreline

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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  

Beneath The Geraniums

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The map had been tucked inside the cover of an old Beano annual and still smelt faintly of coffee. The kids, well they thought it was real and suddenly her borders were on the lawn and the geraniums were roots over leaves with the dog chipping in to help with the carnage. All for the sake of plastic lunchbox. ‘But mum! X marks the spot!’ She couldn’t argue. Not when she’d been the one twenty years beforehand, digging up the same borders and tossing out plants without a care for what her mother would say. The photo though… she must have forgotten she buried it. Strange that. ‘Who’s that?’ He’d hated photographs. Never wanted to stand still with the rest of them. ‘Mum, look.’ For this one he’d been sandwiched in place. Her on one side, her mother on the other. Bookends to stop him toppling over and out of the frame. ‘There’s another one. Hey, it’s Granny. Mum! Granny’s photo is in the buried treasure.’ He was smiling. She’d forgotten how he could smile, …

Love

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For the twenty-three year old with the widow’s peak, and freshly shaved cheeks, currently on the other side of the crack between office door and door jam, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. These are the moment when I am the most in love with you. That silly, childish quirkiness that tickles the grump out of my limbs and forces me to chuckle into folded arms, head down against the desk, aware that I should be writing but in all reality, I’m struggling to do so much as turn away from you. I flirted shamelessly for three years, until timings and courage were aligned enough that we ended up somewhere other than the shop you worked in and I, carrying something other than a so-called broken laptop, was trying to make sure that you realised that it was defiantly a date before somehow loosing my footing and almost falling straight on my arse. We’ve always found it easy to laugh. I come home to you, not the house or the things …

Lost In A Storm

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We sat alone and watched the rain, examined how is sliced diagonally past the windows and saw it exploding off the tarmac like flowers bursting open.   We did not see the other along the road, did not notice the other’s face behind a coat collar, or spare a glance for the blown out umbrella tossed into the gutter.   I do not think we would have liked each other much anyway.

Backwards Traveller

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I am not a wanderer. These feet find too much home in sandstone slopes and moss edged red bricks tucked up in dandelion lawns and weather worn fence posts. These souls loose their itch too close to the boundary mark. Shutter up too soon after leaving. Always find a way of looking back and remembering everything I want. I have. I just have to turn around.   My first poem since January. The prompt was to write a poem about the adventure of travel but I’m not ashamed to say that I’m an utter home bird. I do like visiting new places but I hate being away from home for long. I’m one of those people who’s attachment to their own bed beats almost every other attachment I have. I like knowing that I’m at home.

Key Takeaway

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I often forget how long I’ve been blogging for. Some days it seems like I’ve only just started and on others I’m reminded that it has in fact been almost six years since Writing and Works came into existence. Back then I had very little idea what I was doing and even less idea of where this blog would go. I still don’t know where this blog will go but oh well. Things seem to be going well and people seem to like what I post. So for those of you who are interested, here are my top five tips for new bloggers. Make use of the tools at your disposal. The Daily Post provides a new prompt everyday. If you don’t like the current one you can cycle through until you find something that suits you. There are loads of link ups and prompts across the blogging platforms and many of them don’t require you to use the same platform as everyone else. All you have to do is write sometime based on what …

Maybe

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    She found him crouched in a corner smoking, digging dirt and weeds out of a crack in the concrete with a twig. ‘You okay?’ she asked. She sat down. He nodded and pulled the cigarette away from his lips. ‘I suppose I got enough to do something about this now.’ He thrust the twig up and behind towards the ramshackle house above. ‘I could make it as good as new.’ ‘Or better,’ she said. ‘You could always make it better.’ He ran the back of his hand across her cheek, careful not to burn her. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Maybe.’