The universe is.
I am.
You are.
Together.
Thank you.
It is more than enough just to be, if you exist.
A poem about love without love mentioned, I am really this year.
Saturday 4 April 2015
Friday 3 April 2015
Not the Best Fourteen in the World
This is a hard one. A poem with fourteen syllables in each line. And I am finding it harder than I thought I would. But I have half an attempt here.
Not good, but its made me think... quite hard!
Fourteens a number I have come to hate with a cold heart.
Just thinking what to write today is making me just barf.
All the brainache it produces, its driving me insane.
How I wish to write in fifteens but the rhythm ain't the same.
Thank you for reading, l think.
#napowrimo15
Not good, but its made me think... quite hard!
Fourteens a number I have come to hate with a cold heart.
Just thinking what to write today is making me just barf.
All the brainache it produces, its driving me insane.
How I wish to write in fifteens but the rhythm ain't the same.
Thank you for reading, l think.
#napowrimo15
Thursday 2 April 2015
a mustard scarf.
A mustard scarf.
There are no stars tonight.
'Though the moon slowly grows,
And glows through mist laden clouds
That casts a circular rainbow.
A watercolour, bleeding in the rain.
And I am cold.
Oh how I ache for the lost warmth of a mustard scarf.
So long, I could wrap it
Once.
Twice.
Thrice around my neck.
So thick, it muffled against my ears
And swung comfortingly against my chest
In bright, custard yellow swags of joy.
But it is gone.
Lost.
Missing.
Left behind.
Unseen but remembered.
Like the stars.
#napowrimo15
There are no stars tonight.
'Though the moon slowly grows,
And glows through mist laden clouds
That casts a circular rainbow.
A watercolour, bleeding in the rain.
And I am cold.
Oh how I ache for the lost warmth of a mustard scarf.
So long, I could wrap it
Once.
Twice.
Thrice around my neck.
So thick, it muffled against my ears
And swung comfortingly against my chest
In bright, custard yellow swags of joy.
But it is gone.
Lost.
Missing.
Left behind.
Unseen but remembered.
Like the stars.
#napowrimo15
Wednesday 1 April 2015
Am I A Poet?
Am I a poet?
I ask myself.
As words from my pen, vomit upon a crisp, white page.
Like pigeons flocking for crumbs
amongst the cracked paving slabs.
So i search for hidden meanings
In those words.
And find,
Only wonder.
Confusion,
And doubt.
Am I a poet?
The question presumes I know one important thing.
That I know what a poet is.
What a poet does.
What a poet is for.
My pen stumbles through brambles that catch,
and tear the meaning apart.
Leaving strands of tattered thought behind them,
wisps of coloured wool.
Snapping in a flickering wind.
Leaving only this moment to fall,
forlornly on the page.
The rest:
Lost.
forgotten.
Washed away, and dissolved in the humdrum of the every day.
Am I a poet?
But this is not the question that needs an answer.
Is this, a poem?
And that is not for me to decide.
Is it?
#napowrimo15 http://www.napowrimo.net/
Say Owt Slam 4 https://www.facebook.com/sayowtslam is back on 19th May and I have agreed to give it a go. So as well as trying to write a poem a day, I have to find something to say for then.
But really, I am wetting myself just thinking about standing up and having others score my attempts, and I have too much time to think it over. I am always better doing things off the cuff.
And sat owt slam 3 was beyond amazing. So many talented folk to tickle my mind with thoughtful insightful and funny prose and poems, I know I have a lot to live up to.
Ok, OK it is only my own expectations that make my heart thump madly, when ever I think about strutting my stuff on a stage, my voice echoing oddly in my ears as lights blind my already watering eyes but I am looking forward to it.
At least I think so.
Thank you for reading. xx
I ask myself.
As words from my pen, vomit upon a crisp, white page.
Like pigeons flocking for crumbs
amongst the cracked paving slabs.
So i search for hidden meanings
In those words.
And find,
Only wonder.
Confusion,
And doubt.
Am I a poet?
The question presumes I know one important thing.
That I know what a poet is.
What a poet does.
What a poet is for.
My pen stumbles through brambles that catch,
and tear the meaning apart.
Leaving strands of tattered thought behind them,
wisps of coloured wool.
Snapping in a flickering wind.
Leaving only this moment to fall,
forlornly on the page.
The rest:
Lost.
forgotten.
Washed away, and dissolved in the humdrum of the every day.
Am I a poet?
But this is not the question that needs an answer.
Is this, a poem?
And that is not for me to decide.
Is it?
#napowrimo15 http://www.napowrimo.net/
Say Owt Slam 4 https://www.facebook.com/sayowtslam is back on 19th May and I have agreed to give it a go. So as well as trying to write a poem a day, I have to find something to say for then.
But really, I am wetting myself just thinking about standing up and having others score my attempts, and I have too much time to think it over. I am always better doing things off the cuff.
And sat owt slam 3 was beyond amazing. So many talented folk to tickle my mind with thoughtful insightful and funny prose and poems, I know I have a lot to live up to.
Ok, OK it is only my own expectations that make my heart thump madly, when ever I think about strutting my stuff on a stage, my voice echoing oddly in my ears as lights blind my already watering eyes but I am looking forward to it.
At least I think so.
Thank you for reading. xx
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