Final day! Relieved as it has been very hard work this year finding time to write, though I know I’m still gonna miss it… For this prompt I’ve gone back to the warm up prompt and low down flipped it and reversed it (think I like it better this way!)
What the wind said to the peach:
you’ve already witnessed the view
what’s the point of shotgun?
i know you’ll never call me peach
i know you’ll never love me.
i know the worst has happened
when i find you in amongst red leaves.
they barely keep balance on a bike, my knees
they can’t take somersaults. i’ll lie down
only when lost in orbit. a thing on a stick-
the world becomes a peach. most nights
i wait until the stars blow themselves out in the birthday
of the sky.
my taste has grown in creeping sage and gold.
it doesn’t even try. i just see it as lazy. red
used to be a favourite of mine, intermittently
but some things are never meant to be
like the things that are, but don’t begin;
learning to turn somersaults on warm wet grass,
i guess it’s too late to ride shotgun, to live on a farm.
Eek. Only one more to go…
Today’s challenge was to write a review poem. humph. Cheese-o-rama.
Trip Advisor: The sky tonight.
Choose a day when the clouds are out of town
and you’ll be amazed at what you can discover.
It’s possible. Look hard. You’ll find the experience enhanced
if you’re intoxicated- any substance will do: drugs, liquor
love (though we advise to leave the latter ‘til past midnight
as excursions under the influence of the heart commonly
cause complex hallucinatory consequences, damaging to the memory
and the functioning of the brain and soft organs.)
We left the path and found a niche between the resting knees
of absent trees, but open fields work just as well. A sea soundtrack
adds romance, but is no means a standard requirement. We took a blanket,
but a spare jacket will surpass as a barrier for damp grass
though you may want to pack a hat
and double up on socks. Binoculars are an optional accessory
for the amateur , and a telescope
better saved for the professional gazer.
We have tried this in various locations and seasons. They all work
equally well though spaces far from the light pollution and eye reflections
of urban areas are spectacularly awesome. Look hard. It’s possible
to make out a constellation, a satellite in orbit. A shooting star.
The scar tissue of a moon or the boy’s full bodied balloon. Time spent pondering the infinite existence of beauty, the mishaps
of creation and the overwhelming inanity of daily living
are not recommended to those with weak or sickly dispositions.
Today’s challenge was about the bridge. Try as I might to write something dedicated to Saga & Martin & horrendous violence, I just ended up back in love again. : )
Forget Atlas and his shopping lists.
You are beautiful as an aqueduct,
able to weather the vibrations.
Strong backed and legged,
even beneath the easy of your featherdown
neck. The configurations of my mouth
are set by default to defence
and bypass the heart
questioning the feeling of facts.
But in the space between your timbered arms,
I am but water, running fast away from myself
bouncing back lights and stars
and other inexact things in awe of your solid structure.
Forget Atlas. You’ve built me an island,
and I’ve come home.
Today was about the hay(na)ku
an unmade platform-
and other lover’s
for the insecure.)
possibilities will compete
Draw’a finish line.
failure to return
as naked bone.
Feelin’ the burn. Still only four more days to go now :)
Today’s prompt was to write a persona poem. In the words of Chris Martin, to in keep with the spirit of mediocrity that surrounds this poem, I’m going back to the (almost) start
The Beasts and the Pear.
It was there, you know just there
swaying casually in the breeze.
A. Hypnotic. Pendulum.
And if I am honest, I wasn’t even hungry. Not really.
I’d just plundered a bee hive. But there it was.
past the point of ripe
teasing me in its golden jacket…
I’m not sure. I guess it was something new to try. You know?
Something other than seeds or leaves. Other than grubs.
And definitely better than great gobfuls of gravel.
We are elegant creatures. Reduced to eating stones!
For digestion I might add. But. There it was all bursting. Soft and tender
and so full of juice…
Juiz… Sweet juiz…
Oh. juiz… juiz… juiz… juiz…
suspended in the air, and Ozzie, he says:
I bet you can’t eat that Pear. I bet you couldn’t even get close…
And well, after all, I am a bear. What can I do? I’m no good
Juiz….. so sweeeet….
so sweeeeet…. so niiice…
We have very little grip on things like even weight distribution
or gravity, physics isn’t part of bear culture…
and I almost did, almost, but, well, birds are not built for such activities…
Juiz… Juiz… sweet…sweet…
Yesterday’s prompt was to write a Clerihew. This is cheap and cheesy…But, I think that’s the point. I’ve dedicated mine to my new friend, who I made last weekend at a workshop.
You are just a head.
But a head’ll do.
I think I’m in love with you.
Today was meant to be parody/satire day. But I’m not feeling massively comical tonight. Apparently yesterday was Shakespeare’s birthday, so I’ve done him the solid of ripping one of his better known poems up into something that makes little sense and is very only vaguely poetic…
possession dimmed. his gold complexion
untrimmed. sometimes summer, or summer’s death
too short in art; nature’s changing course;
from fair to this eternal temperate. often time
can breathe lease to life. rough chance declines
when wand’rest lines in eyes do see hot but fair,
so long as men, lovely of heaven, compare.
to date a summer’s shade and brag
sometime, every and more. long lives more.
darling, the eye shines may shake eternal
and shall the buds grow’st and give
winds a day to lose, this shall not be fair
Today’s prompt involved card shuffling and free writing. This is a result of a true story and a stack of Cards Against Humanity (an ill advised Xmas gift for teenagers I may add)
‘Stephen Hawking talking dirty’
i think i spoke to him earlier, well maybe;
this afternoon whilst on the phone to Amazon
(to return the treadmill with the broken nut)
and the customer service man did sound incredibly robotic
with the coded sense of humour of a tin can.
though when i say talking dirty, really i mean arranging a courier…
although to him perhaps i sounded like Maureen of Blackpool,
Reader’s Wife of the Year 1988! with my old smoker’s mouth
and flesh coloured tights. maybe my jokes were mistaken for sexual
tension. my sigh for an ectoplasmic orgasm.
and to Asis, or Ashies or whatever his name or model number
was, me with my petty troubles of the landed gentry
(aka: the broken nutted treadmill) was like an ice-pick lobotomy.
was like a Sean Bean film. in very slow motion.
there are many dark and mysterious forces beyond our control:
catapults, the entire cast of Downton Abbey and Tom Cruise.
the morbidly obese and doing the right thing. there are crimes
against tea and nature. Asis/ Ashies, must have his own troubles.
me and my broken nut are small fry, but an oversized lollipop.
and after the well scripted and deeply impersonal farewell,
i imagine him breaking out into song and dance. i imagine
him eating handfuls of yoghurt coated raisins whilst Googling
“the way james bond treats women” and planning how to score
at the sports bar after work.
In case you’re wondering, (i know you are) my cards were :
Stephen Hawking talking dirty/Maureen of Blackpool, reader’s wife of 1988/sexual tension/petty troubles of the landed gentry/ice pick lobotomy/ Sean Bean/Catapults/Downtown Abbey/ Tom Cruise/the morbidly obese/ doing the right thing/an oversized lollipop/ breaking into song and dance & the way James Bond treats women.
Ectoplasmic orgasm was all my own. :)
Today’s prompt was in alignment with Earth Day. So I’m packing up my boots and going back to my roots…ye-ah
Humble Ode to the Simple Flower.
On your back
Under the swell of rain
And disproportionate darkness
Now your head turning hunger
And colour catching costume
Small glory. Clock keeper.
Decider of seasons. We eagerly
Await tentative shoots of spring
Celebrate your summer blessing
And mourn your reverse birth.
Today’s prompt was to write an erasure poem. This comes from The Broom or The Flower of the Desert by Giacomo Leopardi, from my Penguin Book of Italian Verse. Sorry about the dodgy scanning :)
The text reads:
mirrored by the sea, sparks. I focus on those lights and compared to them reality is nothing. knots of stars infinite to us only appear. do you remember which ground I press on.