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.

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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.
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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.

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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 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.
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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.

AprPAD Day 16: Selma Siri

Selma Siri (version two)

There was this brass bull
that I once rubbed for luck. Just the once though.
The right horn only, as rubbing the left
emptied your heart of love, as if,
but the right one was polished to flashes
of stroked affection.
And there was this girl who waited tables
nearby. Selma Siri was her name.
That girl, my-my, she was no polished bull –
she was rock hard and gave nothing away
when you rubbed her
the right way. She had a throaty sewing
machine kinda laugh that needled a bit
but we loved Selma Siri’s pretty name.
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Written for Miz Quickly’s prompt Day: 16
Originally written as poetic form: Dodoitsu x4 stanzas, and reworked. My original poem is at http://miskmask.wordpress.com/2013/03/25/selma-siri/

The Steam Vents At Stew Lane

THE STEAM VENTS AT STEW LANE

I am caught
I am held
By pale organza ribbon streams
Hissing damp
Into chaste air
Pursuing heaven from the depths
Of earth’s dark musked breath.
And all thoughts
Of this day’s Progress
Are swept up and carried
Into mists of ghosts.
They disburse
And
Escape me.
To flee
On wings of steam.
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Poetic Asides Day 2: Brightness and Darkness and Joseph Harker’s Recursions Day 2 Prompt: A Deep Drink

April PAD Day 1 – Lunch Is Served

LUNCH IS SERVED

The table was set with glowing cloudy bowls,
Shallow bee coloured dust from daffodils,
And broadtail cloth tinted of sticky toffee.
The guests were predictably storming
The rain-painted gate, while steaming
Spoon-flavoured soup waited
Like robins in soft metered rain.
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Written for April PAD, Day 1 Naming Constellations Recursion #1