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
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”
I am gagging for a cup of tea, my feet are lagging behind my knees, my eyes are nagging for a kip o’sleep, my tongue is wagging like a wilted leek, my lips would beg if they could speak, please, I’m gagging for a cup of tea! . .
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.
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. . . .
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.
From whose knot did you untwine, unstitch and untie, unravel from your vine of thread, scarlet as poppies on a battlefield, vermillion love, lost red button staring back from the snow. . . . Written for Miz Quickly’s prompt: Day 17 “Found Objects”