2017 Day 30 – Rinse and Repeat

Another load of washing on the go,
A single sock swims in and out of view.
(Where did the other go? Who knows?)

Rinse and repeat.

The sun comes up each day and sets each night.
I wake and sleep, I wake and sleep again,
Following earth’s journey, light to dark to light.

Rinse and repeat.

Bus ride to work, by the familiar route.
Hours later, home – same bus,
Same noise, same smells, same men in business suits.

Rinse and repeat.

Each year another birthday. Sometimes cake,
Usually presents, but not too much fuss.
(December babies don’t get parties. Them’s the breaks.)

Rinse and repeat.

Another load of washing. Day by day
The chores repeat, the patterns carry on,
Circle through sleep and waking, work and play.

Rinse and repeat.

Spin cycle.

Done.

 

Notes: The prompt was to write about something that keeps happening again and again.

2017 Day 29 – May Queen

Dawn kisses dewdrops.
The faerie queen,
Her hawthorn crown
Jewelled with light
Steps out of darkness –
Beauty in blossom.
But flowers have thorns:
Caught in her golden hair
A single drop of precious blood
Hangs like a ruby.

 

Notes: The prompt was to take a concrete noun from a favourite poem, free write around that word and use that as the basis of a poem. I took the word ‘crown’ from To Juan at the Winter Solstice by Robert Graves.

2017 Day 27 – Spice Jars

Whole coriander seeds –
Their citrus burst reminds me
Of your curries.

Garlic’s pungent bite –
The hummus I made for
Long ago parties.

Ginger – Dad’s chocolates,
Fiery but wrapped in sweetness.
A rare treat.

Star anise – liquorice,
Chinese food cooking Christmas Eve,
Presents still unwrapped.

Dill – battered pickle,
Laughter at a wooden table
A world away.

 

Notes: the prompt was to write about the memories evoked by taste. I’ve written a little spicy concoction of Collom lunes.

2017 Day 22 – Promise of Harvest

While winter lingers, Earth is still asleep,
Promise of harvest curls within the seed.
What we sow now, eventually we reap.
We till reluctant ground with hands that bleed
Hoping for growth and that the crops not fail.
Promise of harvest curls within the seed.
Late frost or bitter winds or hail
May blight the tender shoots. We toil,
Hoping for growth and that the crops not fail..
Our blood, our sweat, will bless the living soil.
The weeds we leave to flourish in the field
May blight the tender shoots. We toil
And fight exhaustion, or we yield.
We shape our future by what we neglect:
The weeds we leave to flourish in the field,
The fragile shoots of life we don’t protect.
While winter lingers, Earth is still asleep,
We shape our future by what we neglect.
What we sow now, eventually we reap.

 

Notes: The prompt was to write a georgic. I decided to write a terzanelle with an agricultural(ish) theme.

2017 Day 18 – There Should Be A Word For It

There should be a word for
That feeling when you run off the cliff,
That hollow in the pit of your stomach
When you look down and see
Only air.
Should it be Wile-ness?
Coyotitude?
There should be a word for
That feeling when the glass has slipped
From your sudsy hands
But before it reaches the floor
And its inevitable shattering.
Slitherage?
Fragmentipause?
There should be a word for
That feeling of release
When you click ‘Send’
On that ‘Dear John’ message.
Splinternet?
Emailcipation?
There should be a word for
The random restless way my mind works…
A butterflight of fancy!

 

Notes: The prompt was to write a poem which includes neologisms.

2017 Day 17 – Nocturne

The purple sky
Turns velvet, kissed with stars,
Sliver of moon, a breath away from dark,
The whole world tiptoe quiet.
Under the trees, she sleeps,
Dreams of the time, a life ago,
She searched for fire in his kiss
And found there only music.

 

Notes: The prompt was to write a nocturne. The last line was a found line – the first words of five successive  lines in the novel I’m reading – and the poem grew from there.

2017 Day 16 – Excuse Note

Dear Muse,
Excuse the bearer
From poetry today.
Her brain’s got a case of writer’s cramp
And her metre’s gone astray.
She’s having trouble with her feet
When she moves away from prose:
Her iambs look like dactyls
And her dactyls look like toes.
She’s had her fill of villanelles,
The lines just keep repeating,
And haiku gives her hiccups
(Though it’s very good for tweeting).
Last night she took two sonnets
Before she went to bed
But a dodgy terza rima
Left her with an aching head.
Alliteration leaves her listless,
Lying limp and small.
Her similes are like a thing
That’s not like the thing at all.
She really needs a line break
From the art of crafting verse.
She’ll be back on form tomorrow.

Regards
The Poet’s Nurse.

 

Notes: The prompt was to write a poem inspired by the act of letter-writing 🙂