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 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

pocket_logo2

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.


Splashes of Long Tint

SPLASHES OF LONG TINT

It was all in her brush –
magic and dramatic broad strokes
that soaked colour across canvases,
and dripped long curtains of wonder.
Splashes of short tones for passion,
long tints for withering calm,
and every thought sought its own
light in expressions across
the sky with sun-railed rainbows.
.
.
.

Written for Poetic Asides Prompt Day 17: “Express”

AprPAD Day 16: Rioja and Tapas

Rioja and Tapas

I’ve never been to Spain.
I long to though, on those days when my feet
are cold as grey stones, and my nose stings
from inhaling frosty mist.

I want to drink Rioja
and talk over tapas – but fresh baked, not
warmed weakly like fingers in woolly mittens.
I want sharp sunshine to wake me
from the gloom of winter.

I want to slip
from my skin and drink in Spain. I want
to flee the source of this emerald isle, rain,
and end my long winter.

I want this old world made new.
.
.
.

Written for Recursions Day 16: Give a Man a Fish  This prompt was about metaphors: coursing, streaming, a river of metaphors. I’m not a handy-dandy with metaphors, so this is about the best I can hope for today.