Tuesday 30 April 2013

"There" by Horse-despiser of great seriousness (Here by Philip Larkin) with Day 30 opposite prompt.

There

Stubbornly West, to lazy auras
desire paths across fields
not stout enough to be unlabelled car-parks.
And now a velvet nameless street, that exposes
the taskless at dusk; awaiting acitivity
of brooks and bird-tempters,
air pillows, bears and chiffchaffs
and the tapering of the river's fast absence,
the depleted silver sky,
the dull untouched marble.

Dispenses to the horror of a small park
dips and spaces, wells and crevasses
failed crops - gather on open grassland
and the unbelonging from cooked saloons,
pulled down they live crooked inches,
away from pottery still walls, away from their fears:
expensive nakedness, green soft fedoras, boiled tuppences.

A healing emptiness, rural yet complex,
abodeless, here no generous strangers go
without a birth-new scentless rose.

Removal of pictures from skin,
merry wild haired husbands,
slow-aura chaff-towns,
stumbling low as pavements,
exposed grassland,
where encapsulated death
company confuses. There chaos rampant
like cold.
Darkly empty smog descends;
and inside the war's reddish invasion of personal space
the sea stealthily claims a forest.

There is fenced death:
Turned away from the sun, talkative, in my arms.

To Early Morning Fields (replacement for Day 25 - missing poem)

Back on a softball pitch.
Daydreams notched up in right field,
or the panic of being on second base
unprepared for the frenzy
of a triple play.

Bonding with team and wet grass,
with the sound of a leather ball
hit by a metal bat
in the sweet spot.

Another type of together
another sort of seclusion
moving to another rhythm.

I'm glad I've known the welcome
of early morning fields.


Thank you everyone. I loved this year and hope that some the poems I have written here become as well-loved as some of mine from last year are to me now! I've had fun. we've all worked hard. Now let's go and edit (shhhhhh!). Also made some brilliant new poetry friends on Facebook. I hope to meet some of them in the flesh sometime and would be honoured to read alongside them.  xxxxxx

Monday 29 April 2013

Language of play - NaPoWriMo language prompt Day 29

Language of play

Poetry to me
is 30% work
60% play and
10% editing.

Today I will play
(spelen igra juego chwarae bermain).

I discover apathy in Malay
(sikap acuh tak acuh)

and realise that Art,
three letters that endlessly give
(to those who look)

can ARTARTART RAT-TA-TAT-TAR
into WAR with a minimal alphabet shift.

War: three letters
that have taken too much
and always will.

Ah, playing became serious again!

Not sure what this is or where it is going. This is my offering for today. Only one prompt and a Zumba ballad left to post tomorrow. Thanks NaPoWriMoers for all the support. xxx

Sunday 28 April 2013

Something Borrowed - Day 28 NaPoWriMo prompt - Colour prompt

Something Borrowed

Cobalt, the clothes they say
you must wear from Day 1.
But you don't.

Turquoise, laboured laughter
pools of need and coping,
born from exhaustion rivulets.

Your Cornflower eyes
lost to the hazel
of becoming a boy.

Navy sky breathes relief
at your dusk snores
after an hour-long Royal tantrum.

Cyan reflected from ancient ice.
Terror, as I dream-slip on the brink
of an Athabascan kettlehole.

I clamber over your gate,
palm the rising of your chest
and Midnight calms my heart.


I am aware with every landmark Frank becomes more independent and steps closer to becoming an adult and leaving. Daft, I suppose when he is only two and a half, but I am aware he is borrowed and will be his own person. Oh and also the panic everytime you can't see that small chest rising! x

Saturday 27 April 2013

Let Him Sleep - Day 27 - Proverb Googlesearch - Never wake a....

Let Him Sleep

Hi------------YAH!

They had warned me.
Proverbs are common knowledge
for a reason.
Survival of the fittest, fastest
and those who listen
to the wise words.
Absorb them.

I thought it was a child or dog
I wasn't supposed to rouse
from slumber.
I don't expect I'd have tried it
with a tiger or skunk either.

But in the middle of Karate Beginners,
I was off guard,
a white-belt greeness surrounded me
urged me into action.

I prodded the sleeping Sensei
hard in his chest.

Take it from me.
"Never wake a sleeping Sensei!"
It is difficult to say in this position,
but you need to know this.
I didn't
and the recovery process
will be protracted.

Some fun, little time today. Playing again. Love x

Friday 26 April 2013

Hopeful - An Erasure of Alan Ginsberg's Howl. NaPoWriMo Day 26


Hopeful   (Howl Alan Ginsberg - an Erasure NaPoWriMo Day 26)
 
I saw the destroyed, dragging themselves through streets at dawn
looking for an angry connection to the starry tatters
and in the supernatural darkness cities contemplating jazz.
Listening to the Terror through the wall,
as a belt ate fire, drank death.
 
Nightmares endless, blind shuddering in the mind
leaping between rooftops,  blinking tree vibrations.
Rantings chained themselves to noise,
battered bleak, drained of fire,
whispering
of memories and wars,
of the winter midnight shadow
who burned cigarette holes in their arms. 
 
Human caresses of love in cemeteries,
golden threads,
a candle in the sunset
and stolen
poems.
 
Rickety rows
faded in dreams,
woke sudden
suicidal romance,
full of onions and bad music,
breathing and roses.
 
Cough crowned with flame
under scribbled incantations.
 
Looking for an egg, every day for the next decade,
and forced to open,
they thought they were growing old and cried.
 
Clatters of iron walked away unknown
and danced on broken moans
journeying to
each other's jail-solitude.
 
Hopeless cathedrals pray for impossible criminals
with the charm of black hypnotism,
concrete, in one midnight stone
as heavy as the moon.
Nothing but hopeful hallucination.
 
A sudden flash
trapped a thousand years.
 






 
 
 


 
 

. Day 26. I know the ballad from Day 25 is missing. You will have it soon. xxx

Wednesday 24 April 2013

A Danish lion in Iran darns a sad halo - Day 24 - anagram of my name in a poem

A Danish lion in Iran darns a sad halo

A Danish lion in Iran darns a sad halo.
Six hands hold salad handrails.
Horn soil lain on a Radon dish snarls.
An ash lad nods his hoax rinds.
A liar also hoards hard rain.
A rash rhino lands on radish sand.

Very daft and including my middle L, so cheating a little. x

Tuesday 23 April 2013

Trial, eh? Day 23 a Triolet with one extra syllable

Trial eh?

A Triolet or trial, eh?
each poet's napowrimo store
stuffed with phrases, rhmyes and play
A Triolet or trial, eh?
the prompt for the 21st day
Words we've not used yet, add one more
(Triolet or trial, eh)
to each poet's napowrimo store


Sure I am not the first to have posted such a poem today, but I always post before I look at the other pieces from the prompt. I don't want to be influenced too much by other's writing on the theme and it would be hard not to with the high quality of writing. Just a bit of daftness and I have cheated on last line as you can see!xxx

Monday 22 April 2013

A Chalk Zoo - Day 22. NaPoWriMo - An Earth Day Poem


A Chalk Zoo

 

I draw a pig, a bird, a cat.

He sketches an aardvaark,

a dinosaur, a platypus.

 

You clap, leap, dance on these

at our instruction.

When we obey your tasks

you complain

when we dance quietly,

want our bodies to shout

like yours.

 

You have given it all

and with dusk fall

your retreat for a bath

and tale about Mama Bear.

 

I visualise the paving

filled with purple giraffes,

orange penguins

and turquoise bears.

 

I cancel plans, to sketch a zoo,

on our suburban avenue.

 

I sear Saharan camels on to

this Chorlton pavement

savannahs and jungles

grow from my chalk deftness.

 

I bask green in rainforests

and snorkel in the only Coral Reef

in South Manchester.

 

A murder of crows,

a murmuration of starlings,

a wilderness of monkeys,

a sounder of wild boar,

a business of ferrets,

a parliament of owls.

All intricate in imagination

ready to be realised

 

When I shake the packet

one small stub of white chalk

bowls forth.

I had grand plans.

 

Instead I draw you a smile,

a kiss,

a daffodill you dismiss

as messy,

and a shrew holding a heart

holding your name.

 

You are delighted

as if the road

was filled with feathers and snouts,

with talons, scales, dinosaur's jaws

and the scent of evolution.

Sunday 21 April 2013

Sound Advice - a fortune cookie poem fro day 21

Sound advice

Change your clothes and expression between the petting zoo and the pub.
Or expect to sit alone.

My one line Cookie Fortune poem for today. Learnt a lesson today. Hey, I got to meet two week old piglets though!

Saturday 20 April 2013

Witch's Litter - NaPoWriMo Prompt day 20 - had to include five words from a list

Witch's Litter

Six garlic cloves
seasoned with gutter salt
roasted twice
in olive oil and butter

the curl of parsley
provides a ghost scent
elusive
to the owl

who squanders
a week of dusk
seeking remnants
of my spell.


My words were: Owl/clove/gutter/salt/curl/ghost/squander - ok I used seven. Enjoyed this one. Am at the point where the end of April now seems to close. Can we do May too? Sure I will need a rest and an edit break by the end of April. xxx

A day at Alton Towers 1984 - a Wanted Ad poem Day 19

A Day at Alton Towers 1984

graze of hessian
cold relief of a metal handrails
uncontrolled screams
suprised from all six slides
of the Astro-glide.

the log flume
a rattling meander
through forests
peeping with dinosaurs
their growls and grunts

lying family close
under the starred dome of Cine 360
open-mouthed
as coloured fountains
dance to Sibelius

muffled screams
in Doom & Sons
fragrant machine-made smoke
UV light disorientates
as skeletons plummet floorward

candyfloss faces
cheese and pickle picnics
in gardens soaked in Summer
a Mars Bar melted
in distracted hands

driving Model T Fords
further into the past
in clothes of the 1900s
recorded in sepia.
Bob-sleigh exhilaration

feigned disappointment
every time
at the Corkscrew tape measure
until the panic
of being above the red line

tea-cup stomach drops
fear of approaching
bins teeming with wasps,
speed and peril of the Beastie
felt as a seven-year old.

Yey! Really enjoyed this one. Sorry it is a day late. I have been reminiscing with my Mum and husband about the old Alton towers and not getting round to writing about it. So much more material. This may be one of a series.

Thursday 18 April 2013

Unlabelled, unleashed, unconcerned

Unlabelled, unleashed, unconcerned

The NHS provided labels for 17 years.

Medical Laboratory Assistant

Pathology Receptionist

Ophthalmology Booked Admissions Officer

Day Case Admissions Officer

Post Mortem Secretary

Surgical PA

(and for 12 weeks staff writing workshop facilitator)

Discharge Secretary

PA to Hospital Dean

Student Welfare Assistant

What title should I give myself now?

The NHS provided labels for 17 years.


More fonder pieces about NHS to follow. Scuffling this one together while Frank finishes pooing in his pants and lets me change him! Will be on longer over weekend. Sorry for the rushed visit.

Wednesday 17 April 2013

Getting to know you - Greeting poem Day 17

Getting to know you

What's your name?
Frank's stock greeting
delivered as an almost angry toddler demand.

I wonder how much we can glean from a name,
from the way the owner says it,
do they cherish the vowels,
create extra consonants,
Chinese whisper the pronunciation?

Or do they eject it like venom,
a label heavy on their lapel.
A name they can't live up or down to.

Have they already resorted to deed poll
and if so what name did they choose?

When the maiden name
changes how long does it take to stop responding
or are you always both names (or more)?

Which question would tell us more?
Perhaps the way someone anwers:
"what do you do?"
but not always.
Automatic responses are often blurted,
providing false impressions.

With consideration
this answer would be different.

What would you rather be doing
if you weren't being pestered by a poet?

Yes, that one might work.

A bit of a play again. Also busy working out what all the abbreviations on Mum's sites mean. Like joining a dating site. LOL, hope my GSOH tides me into belonging a little. Feel a bit of an intruder.

Tuesday 16 April 2013

What the Star Said Translation piece from Dutch - Day 16

What the Star Said

This star has a joyous heart.
When it reflects joy, nobody hungers.
This particular star's joy is viral,
places sparks in hearts that have never held joy.

Stars can be lodged
in the heart
by one word,
then it hungers no longer.

When the star says: "Stop! Stop!"
and the bowman
heeds the stars appeal,
the deer lives on.

Because the star says "Stop!" and again "Stop! Stop!"
the whole future of the deer alters
and all because the Great Coward listened
to the star's refrain: "Stop!"

A lesson for all sorts of wanderers,
who should listen
when a star hurls "Stop!"
Do.


Translated visually from below, then tweaked a little to make more sense.

WAT DIE STERRE SÊ
(fragment)
die sterre vat jou hart
want die sterre is vir jou nie bietjie honger nie!
die sterre verruil jou hart vir ’n ster se hart
die sterre vat jou hart en voer jou ’n ster se hart
dan word jy nooit weer honger nie

want die sterre sê: ‘Tsau! Tsau!’
en die boesmans sê die sterre vervloek die springbok se oë
die sterre sê: ‘Tsau!’ hulle sê: ‘Tsau! Tsau!’
hulle vloek die springbok se oë
ek het groot geword luisterend na die sterre
die sterre sê: ‘Tsau! Tsau!’

dis altyd somer wanneer jy die sterre hoor Tsau-sê
 
© 2003, Antjie Krog
From: Liederen van de blauwkraanvogel
Publisher: Uitgeverij Podium/Novib, Amsterdam/Den Haag, 2003
 
 
WHAT THE STARS SAY
(fragment)
the stars take your heart
because the stars aren’t the least bit hungry for you!
the stars exchange your heart for the heart of a star
the stars take your heart and feed you the heart of a star
then you’ll never be hungry again

because the stars say: ‘Tsau! Tsau!’
and the bushmen say the stars curse the springbok’s eyes
the stars say: ‘Tsau!’ they say: ‘Tsau! Tsau!’
they curse the springbok’s eyes
I grew up listening to the stars
the stars say: ‘Tsau! Tsau!’

it’s always summer when you hear the stars saying Tsau

Monday 15 April 2013

Peeling off labels - a pantum for Day 15 - I am back!

My fire is back - four poems mostly realised today. Only one for you. I am saving my others. They need small tweaks.

Peeling off labels

Keg Wood, Sunny Corner, Happy Valley.
Names that divide spaces, labels for where land dips.
To me a forest I found with O'Malley,
ropeswing trees and the door we knock to wake the witch.

Sunny Corner, Happy Valley, Keg Wood,
signposts and pathways, benches and direction.
Still, I mis-kiss the boy they told me was no good.
Heart-store the canopy, the light, the rejection.

Happy Valley, Keg Wood, Sunny Corner,
Now I read signs, ignore them, as my young prince hides.
Half career, half tumble, down a slope, clothes are torn,
I gather splinters, mud. Hoard butterflies inside.

I love it. x




Sunday 14 April 2013

Mid point slump - Back to a Day 1 prompt from elsewhere - Day 14

I have reached that NaPoWriMo mid-point where I am sighing and the amount of reads on blogs tends to drop around this time too! Feel like I should be pulling a rabbit out of the hat and instead I am resorting to the first poem I wrote and rejected on Day 1! Oh Dear! I will return to today's prompt and I have a few more I am working on further from past prompts too. I have the next two days as holiday and feel this may put me in even more of a NaPo slump with all the time but no inspiration. Time to read other's stuff, definitely, but also time to dwell on what you are not writing. Oh Dear! Prompt was to take two words from page 28,35 and 42 of anthology. I chose BOMP3. So thanks. x

The Slump

Three weeks sunken in the sinus,
synapse,
silence of this virus.
I crumple and twitch,
living in shade, a state of decline.

I hope soon to turn to a mirror
and watch as my energy rages
in familiar song,
beckons me back,
embraces my worn torso
and mends it slowly with sleep,
redeems it with rest,
hugs me into humanity,
once more.



The virus mentioned is long gone and cannot be blamed for the slump - I had a long walk, (somewhere I used to have family time as a child) Frank, Philip and I "family all together" today: Picnics, witches, waterfalls, cows and poos not in potty. These may all feature shortly.

Saturday 13 April 2013

The Dog-watching bench - Day 13 a walk in Chorlton Ees

The Dog-watching bench

Seven paths meet here.

I approach from Monday
where the river's progress
is unimpeded,
lower than the flood-tides
of February,
the fear levels
still marked high on the banks.

Tuesday offers a tall building
and wide wild fields
unknown to me.

Wednesday holds the meadows
we ran Jasper in,
tentatively unmuzzled,
here, he could bite the ball.
I hope he relished
this fleeting freedom.

Frank kicked a ball down Thursday
before he could even walk,
standing well and keen to imitate us.

Friday leads to the shorter block,
where I found art in trees,
magical to me then,
still so now,
but not as suprising,
now I know Chorlton.

Saturday takes me homeward
to the support of tarmac
under feet that crave
gravel, soil, grass.
They will return soon.

Sunday, the bridge across the river
to cars that are not mine
and the nursery
Frank will be too small for
when he starts in September.

Hmm! Notes typed up better than I thought, but still notes I reckon.

Friday 12 April 2013

Those three little words, spoken by the right person - saying something (not quite the prompt today, sorry!) Day 12

Triplet poem, as suggested around day 5, apologies can remember the suggester was male, but not who? 

Those three little words, spoken by the right person

"I love you!"
the first time
given without prompt.

It hits harder
from his lips,
arrests my actions.

His brown eyes
reflect more love,
make tears fall

as I lift
my son Frank
from wee-filled potty.


Oh was it supposed to be three stanzas. oops!


Another bonus one, as I enjoyed the triplet poem style:

Spring's face

Lines and curves
reveal patterns, as
sunlight defeats frost.

Blossom decorates trees
in pointilist style,
promises Spring soon.

The day resets
smooths the wrinkles.
As sleep does.

Thursday 11 April 2013

Contorting to Conform, not for me - Day 11


Contorting to Conform, not for me

Never be a sheep.
Good advice to teenage me,
heeded with black paint,
ball gowns, brace worn ironically,
NHS frames, thicker skin.

Judged as a misfit
then, but garnering respect
from those on the sidelines
not ready to misfit yet
they watch the slaps, fights, duckings.

I come through brighter
express myself in spare words,
picked with poet's care.
On the way, more scars incurred.
I'm healed whole by rhyme within.

Ok I know the last line is one syllable too long. But I tried changing and cutting. Nothing worked.

Wednesday 10 April 2013

Lego of me Gandalf - Day 10 Unlove poem

Lego of me Gandalf

I wonder who bought the lego Mark Twain,
his torso decorated with finely rendered braces,
a scarlet bow tie, lovingly moulded hair,
moustache and eyebrows that cover half his face.
Was he a hirsute fellow
or has Lego made this so?

I have a gruding desire to own
Indy, Darth or Spiderman,
am impressed I could now
build a Millenium Falcon,
Hogwarts Castle or Temple of Doom
that would not fit in our biggest room

Gandalf was released in 2012,
his staff and crumpled hat
and the fact he is grey
are all that differ from Dumbledore in purple.
Or better yet,
a Frodo Baggins with cooking corner set.

Who would buy this when
it sits between the Mines of Moria
or Attack on Weathertop?
featuring Weathertop fortress ruin with tree,
flick missile function, trapdoor,
weapon rack, pedestal and fireplace. Who could want more?

So little left to the imagination now
I start to wonder what and how
we built with lego
in 1980, three decades ago

We had blue, red and white caps,
the hand and leg design remain the same
as my 1978 model doctor
with a white top and simple red cross

we fought over four green fences
and six red windows
and we could build anything
but usually built our house
or the one across the road,
plenty of Quality Street stained glass
stuffed behind fences to represent tulips and grass.

An idea. Needs more work - enjoying having a play though. I miss the simple Lego! xxx

Tuesday 9 April 2013

Each Dawn I Die - Film Noir poem NapoWriMo Day 9

Each dawn I die

Edges all smoothed away
by the warm darkness of gaslamps,
draped in the light smog
of 1930s London,
like a dozen villians
have just extinguished cigars
on the eyeballs of their enemies.

High heels clack
dangerously
on cobbled streets

don't return

Must and musk smothers alleys,
cobwebs choke windows
thick with grime,
that frame fearful faces,
there such a short time
your imagination could have made them.

Visibility is poor
a flash of stockinged leg
a hint of a revolver
all you will see
still, you've seen too much...


Yey! enjoyed that one. It feels like it was waiting to be written. Love it when that happens! xxx

Monday 8 April 2013

Grey Rainbows - An Ottava Rima (Day 8 Prompt)

Grey Rainbows

Purple Beech and Rowan Mountain Ash bring
green. Berries promised, distant autumn flame.
Daffs bloom bright after a dozen false Springs.
Our sky remains blue a fortnight of days.
Still, desire lines for places more inspiring
the unerring contrails of Easyjet planes.
Here, at home, spare pink shoots begin to grow
under the scarce light of a grey rainbow.


Think I got all the colours in. I enjoyed playing with the form and think I might force another couple of awkward poems into this shape and let them bounce back out of it more considered and pared and see what happens.

Sunday 7 April 2013

A Valediction to gambling on the horses - Day 7

A Valediction to gambling

Grandad, with eight children
in a noisy two-up, two-down,
saves some coins
for Sunday afternoon in the Bookies,
quiet in it's frenzy of hope and desperation.

He takes a pen
writes poetry
on the back
of redundant betting slips.

He writes
in the same neat block print
my Dad employs.

Nanna, one of five girls,
sailor father left them in Maryport.
Nanna, easily feeds fruit machines
a tenner and buys scratchcards by the dozen,
but doesn't put the heating on until you can see her breath.

Pop, only bets on National Day.
He picked the horse with rudest name
and I clearly remember
a dizzy afternoon spent at the bed-side
of his pulmonary embolism
shouting on the horse
only children would shout for
with Pop shouting loudest.

And I wonder if anyone ever found the notes
they left each other every night
either of them had a hospital stay.
Their scrawl difficult to read
on paper in ink in hearts
tied together by 7 decades together.

Real Real Real - Day 6

Real Real Real

Her wildest Harley rides
never happened.
These moments were stored
in well-ordered files
under fantasy.

Her life raced on
in the monotony
of starched days
and early nights.

Her highlight was
washing day,
several hours
wrapped in sun-dried washing
breathing it's freedom.

Her landmarks
when he returned from the fields,
lit a couple of candle stubbs
and crumpled her pristine clothes
in his rough embrace.

Her wildest Harley rides
happened only in books,
her heart
soared
with Hunter and Hell's Angels.

but belonged
by a lit hearth,
bare feet
touching cold marble
her husband asleep on the rug

Why, then, did the hum of an engine
between gripped thighs feels so real?



Bit of Mellor about Stanza 4. Thanks for John G Hall for the first line and NaPoWriMo prompt to end on a question this time.

Friday 5 April 2013

Second Life/Baptism of Fire/Irises ignore a broken promise

A Second Life for the South Manchester Reporter

Kindling.
Smokeless fuel waits,
coal-like on a newly
crumpled Manchester Reporter.
Flames soon.

Baptism of Fire

Burning
old job contracts
virus heavy tissues.
Words released, smudged, free from structure,
Burning.

Irise ignore a broken promise

Four stalks.
Purple feathers
subtle lemon tongues taste
me, new and no longer with you.
Betrayed.

(unsettling this sounds like a sex poem, but was addressed to someone in my old employment).

Three today, I couldn't limit myself to one cinquain (five line poem) from the prompt for Day 5, NaPoWriMo.

Thursday 4 April 2013

Frank Exchange of Views (author comment: "My Frank Dixon!")

Frank Exchange of Views

You not Big Boy
You not lady
You not woman
You Mummy

I'm Batman
I'm Big Boy
I'm Darth Vader
I'm beautiful

I'm the boss
You no the boss
You Mummy

Stand back
My shut it!

My want cuddle
My the boy
My the winner
My doing a wee in the bath

You put pretty on ears
You look like lady
You not lady
You Mummy



All True and said in the last 24hrs can't believe that prompt came up. Want to write something more obscure from it too, but it was gifted to me.

Writing a piece inspired by the title of an Iain Banks spaceship: "Frank Exchange of Views" Author Comment: "My Frank Dixon"

Wednesday 3 April 2013

Meeting Morwenna

Short, daft one today, no sea shanty though (didn't take to the prompt!).

Meeting Morwenna

A night meant for romance
but that voice
from table 29
that voice keeps
stealing my attention
from candles and wine

"Morwenna!"
I hear her labelled
and I wander closer
step back
as late-staying children
crowd round her table

as she oinks a retort
her laughter
becomes a snort
and I recall the pig
she is known for playing
everyday (in our house, at least)

I look closer
for snout-like features
am let down
by small, unflared nostrils
and lack of appetite
as she nibbles at a Caesar salad.

It was like high-fiving Paul Simon
then finding
he doesn't have diamonds
on the underside
of his Edward Greens
and if he does they have never been seen.

Sarah L Dixon  Day 3 NaPoWriMo - not sure what this is or where it came from and the nearest it comes to using the prompt is the repeated rhyme.  x

Tuesday 2 April 2013

The Museum of Unrealised Potential

The Museum of Unrealised Potential

Parenthood is real.
The heart-string snapped at a fall,
the blood that drops to the lino
takes their stomach with it,
as scared this time, as always.

Parenthood is real.
The giggles are infectious
the shared moments of hilarity
forge a life-strong bond
in the world of the frustrated.

Parents lie.
Say they are fine
about time
no longer put aside
for them to be.

I am the Museum of Unrealised Potential.

I mourn their unwritten plays,
unborn poems,
the thoughts they never
give their brain
scope to think.

The clay stays damp and flat, here,
without the flair of bare hands
that crave it's cool touch,
an antidote to feverish
childhood cheeks.

They have a unique view of adult and child,
but instead of taking this gift
and moulding something,
something outside the relationship
of parent and child,

but detached,
they deny more beauty or ugliness
a record in the physical form
of paper and ink, tapestry
canvas or clay.

They sleep exhausted and fraught with potential.

No time to read, no time to paint, or knead,
no place to voice their own thoughts, words or needs.

Parents.
Be honest.
Take time to visit
The Museum of Unrealised Potential.

Stay a while.
Surprise yourself.
Design a new life
with space to discover
what you can be too.

You haven't stopped growing,
because someone else is.

Close to you.

You don't stop knowing
who you are,
just discover more.

Lies - Prompt 2, Day 2. NaPoWriMo Sarah L Dixon

Monday 1 April 2013

Tired beyond caring

Tired beyond caring

I am tired of pretty,
unstyled and not arsed.
I ruffle stale hair,
rough
with the mousse of a week.

I am exhausted of sexy,
a two-year old and his virus
steal my energy and enthusiasm,
give me smiles#
and tantrums.

I am tired of pretty,
make-up washed off
by tears of anger and emotion,
effort reduced to run mascara,
by one misplaced word.

I am exhausted of sexy
as you make overtures
candles, music, James Spader films,
my eyelids close, sleep claims me
on the settee.

I am tired of pretty
exhausted by the thought of sex,
tattoo my make-up on
and hold my hips tightly
I may orgasm, if I can be bothered.

Sarah L Dixon (3 pints drunk!)

Stole first line from Mid Shelley, BOMP3

Friday 8 March 2013

Flinging paint and leaping deep


Monday 10:30am

I am told my maternity cover contract will not be renewed on 29th March. Someone else was marginally better, according to HR scoring system, than me, even though I had been trained in the job for six months (a little bitter? yes!) 1% difference. Was it worse to be so close or affirming that I nearly got it? I still haven't decided.

Ok. Cliche time! The world does stop. The floor does drop from beneath my feet. My legs do turn to jelly. My heart does skip a beat.

I am sent home, a drive I know I won't have to do many more times. I won't miss the tram plant traffic or the Grand Canyon potholes they leave as tarmac surprises for my wheels each day. I won't miss the game of "Where have they put the temporary lights this morning?"

SOUNDTRACK: Devendra Banhart weirdness and Ben Folds Five piano genius

I have been a Laboratory Assistant (spreading sputum on plates), a Medical Receptionist (taking semen pots from shy men), an Admissions Officer, Post Mortem secretary and worked in Student Welfare.

On arriving home I check the website of the company I have continued to return to, for seventeen years of employment. This company is all I have known of the job world and is automatically the place I return to.

UNTIL TODAY!

I scan some agency sites. Nothing tempting.

At The Parlour, a slow pint of something with a daft name and Danny Baker's autobiography "Going to sea in a sieve". How I feel, at this moment, but my concentration is poor and I have to re-read it all again at bedtime.

At Battery Park Cafe, some spicy soup, liquorice tea and familiar faces. My settee corner is free and I begin to plan my re-launch, three hours after I found out. I decide I am being thrown into the sea of uncertainty to test if I can swim, how strong my stroke is and which direction I will choose. Will I pick an easy promontory or take a long back-crawl to an island beyond my imagination?

I plan out my ideal week, the PA in me leaves little space for the spontaneity other parts of me may require.

I make concrete plans with the cafe for writing workshops I was tentatively setting up.

Within a few days I decide to quickly expand this and have now made enquiries in several different regions. I contact venues, secure a creche, design flyers and posters, update my website, social networking and other online forums. I write my first blog in three months.

Also, I have secured 14 hours work from home, employed by a neighbour's company, without the cost of petrol and 9 traffic hours and I will have an extra couple of afternoons with Frank. Within three days things are looking promising.

The Belle and Sebastian pop mope is becoming quieter and is now outside my head. Booker T and the MGs are doing something amazing with my car speakers and the world is suddenly wider.

Friday 16:00h

After an early morning Zumba Boost, I revel in Frank's energy and courage at Head over Heels, a soft play area and leave some flyers on the counter and my heart half way down a slide into an unknown life. my one moment of unadulterated joy this week: a multi-drop slide, like the ones at Alton Towers in 1984 (but without the wicker bag with handles - I can still feel the joy associated with holding these mats in one hand and a cold railing in the other, waiting my turn!) 

Watch this space: it will be full and new and scary and surprising and I will grasp opportunities by the ears and make things happen.