Day 23: Counting Knots

Counting Knots

There are thirteen
knots on the wall.
I know that’s not
all – I know there’s

probably more than
thirteen knots on the wall,
hundreds I’ve seen
but that’s where I

stop counting them,
falling asleep at
thirteen knots on the wall.
Heavy my eyes,

drifts of deep mists
and tangy pine
timbers, and dreams –
thirteen knots on the wall.

.

.

Written for Mis Quickly’s AprPAD prompt #23 A Repeating Poem 
This poem is not a ‘pure’ poetic form. I took liberties. I do that sort of thing from time to time, not because I’m a rebel – because sometimes I’m just damned lazy.

AprPAD Day: 22 The Earthiness of It All

The Earthiness of It All

Worms never scared me
never turned me into
a girlie-girl.
I loved them –
their twisty curly bits
that swirled J shaped
hooks off the end
of my finger. I loved
that they lingered
and lounged
wrapped around
my thumb.
Earthy jewellery.
Nature’s ornaments.
And they were also
damned useful for fishing.

.
.

Miz Quickly’s Prompt; Day 22 – Earth Day

If Only For An Instant

IF ONLY FOR AN INSTANT

Will I think of you when the wind howls
and waves break white as surrendering hankies,
or will I think of you when the sun breaks clouds

and dances on new leaves, green with childlike
abandon. What is it that brings you into my
thoughts; what senses spark a memory of you.

I thought I saw you yesterday, if only for an instant,
speck glint dust caught in the sunlight, ploughed
rough in the neighbour’s field. You were dressed

like spring, chasing bluebells through tangled
hedgerows, and then you were gone. Again.

You are a fleeting memory, a spark that lingers
and flickers, and survives in the shadows of song.
And I miss you like the day is eternally long.
.
.
.

Prompted by Recursion #25 “A Drowning”.
Written in Vester Aaby Denmark on 26 April ‘13

A Room with Winter Sun

We’re here for a visit. Brought two cakes
and what cheer we can. She’s been here
three years, the same amount of time that she’s been blind,

the same amount of time that she’s
lost her will to live. She’s tried three
times, and three times she’s been stitched back up. Now she sits

in her room, floods of winter sun
warming her back and yet she sits
in the dark, in blackness without sight, not caring.

‘And I don’t even have the heating
turned on,” she remarks. We chat, she
chats – economics, banking, politics, but no

mention that we just buried her
sister’s ashes today. The late
afternoon sun dances on her face, shadows set

into deep wrinkles ploughed by age.
She’s a sundial casting shadows.
And we eat cake, cut into neat squares by the nurse.

No one is allowed to touch knives
here. Nor scissors. No cords on drapes.
And in between sips of tap water and bites of cake

she says, ‘It’s a struggle growing old,’
and I can’t but agree, although
I’m twenty-years her junior, and then she says,

‘Living like this is pure hell.”
Without emotion and matter
of fact, stating facts as facts. And what do you say

to a statement like that. So we
nod and clear our thoughts with more cake
talking long into late afternoon. The sun casts

deepening colours that track the time,
and we offer the nurse one more
piece of cake but she declines, taps her watch, saying

that it’s time for goodbyes. The cake
is packed up by the ward nurse,
and taken away, where I don’t know, but suspect

that the nightshift will swarm on it
and then lick the plate clean. I can
but only agree; living like this is pure hell.

.
.
.

Written in Denmark 28 April 2013.
This is written based on real events and prompted to Joseph’s Recursions prompt #21. This piece does not follow a specific form, but I have restricted its rhythm and confined it ‘spread’ to an 8.8.12 count per stanza with 3 lines per stanza (reflecting the Taoist belief that the number 3 symbolises death, not specifically of a person, but perhaps a belief or way of being). Recursion Prompt #21

AprPAD Day 19-20, Provocateurs

PROVOCATEURS

We turn and churn each
shadow beyond an idea, ignite
bright flashes, smoulder
and burn tumble-down

dusty, dry-eyed weariness
to blistering sweet syrupy
dalliances, your dreary days
dashed and brought to tow.

We twist your world
and covet your words.
We are provocateurs..
.

Written for NapoWriMo, April PAD Challenge, Poetic Asides Day 19 and 20

AprPAD Day: 18, We Merrily Go Round

We Merrily Go Round

It’s an unhappy thought,
being next in line. Parents
gone, moved on, leaving you
next on that revolving wheel.
One falls away, leaves a cog
to be filled, round we
merrily go, and yet we’re
profoundly surprised
and unprepared for the day
when we jump free
from our cog on that wheel.
.
.

Written for Recursions: Day 18 – The Big Wheel Keeps on Turning

AprPAD: Day 19, Strung Out on a Guitar

STRUNG OUT ON A GUITAR

Mama thought everything changed
after he was hit by lightning. He swore
off the weed, dismantled the still,
turned away his fleshy needs,
and steeled his will. Now he wiggles
his fingers and flexes his arms,
and drapes himself around the neck
of this favourite guitar – Daddy’s
entangled and strung out in love
with its song. But he says a vice
by any other name is still
just a vice, but he reckons there’s
no harm in being drunk on a song.
.
.

Written for Miz Quickly’s Prompt Day: 19 “Wish you were here”

Poem In Your Pocket

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18 April is Poem in Your Pocket Day, and I’d like to share one of my favourite poems with you. It’s an engrossing tale by Charles Dickens called “The Song of the Wreck”. For more info, pop over to Miz Quickly’s April Prompt blog.

THE SONG OF THE WRECK By Charles Dickens

The wind blew high, the waters raved,
A ship drove on the land,
A hundred human creatures saved
Kneel’d down upon the sand.
Three-score were drown’d, three-score were thrown
Upon the black rocks wild,
And thus among them, left alone,
They found one helpless child.
A seaman rough, to shipwreck bred,
Stood out from all the rest,
And gently laid the lonely head
Upon his honest breast.
And travelling o’er the desert wide
It was a solemn joy,
To see them, ever side by side,
The sailor and the boy.
In famine, sickness, hunger, thirst,
The two were still but one,
Until the strong man droop’d the first
And felt his labours done.
Then to a trusty friend he spake,
“Across the desert wide,
O take this poor boy for my sake!”
And kiss’d the child and died.
Toiling along in weary plight
Through heavy jungle, mire,
These two came later every night
To warm them at the fire.
Until the captain said one day,
“O seaman good and kind,
To save thyself now come away,
And leave the boy behind!”
The child was slumbering near the blaze:
“O captain, let him rest
Until it sinks, when God’s own ways
Shall teach us what is best!”
They watch’d the whiten’d ashy heap,
They touch’d the child in vain;
They did not leave him there asleep,
He never woke again.