Day Thirty: Finality

Thank you so much to everyone who has followed my blog during NaPoWrimo 2014. It’s been harder this year but I’ve really enjoyed it and have loved reading and responding to your kind words. If you want to keep up with my work after this, please come and follow me here. I post poetry regularly and also book reviews and articles on paganism, writing, mental health, feminism and various other subjects. Au revoir!

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Parting is such sweet… Hang about

Where’s the sugar?

Where’s the honey?

Is it saccharine? Artificial

And bitter after

Like a poem with no

Finality

No end to the story

No ‘closure’, no handshake

Now end, please, and go

But in joy

For what is to come.

Day Twenty Nine: Moonbather

 

Lime juice sea lapping at my feet

Fish talk to toes; sharing the FTSE

I smell the green, ’tis so intense

Nose crusted in salt like a sinus margarita.

‘Nathan, come splash!’ But he prefers sand

And dig, dig, digging to Australia.

Air rushes through the impossible hole

And my airways are clear once more.

Can we climb through? Will the sea rush in

And fill this chamber of travel to the brim?

‘I’ll go to ‘foot of our stairs’ I say

And no one understands. I sigh and lay

Upon the sand, toes still in water

Thinking of the steaks we will eat in the evening

The bed sheets to come; a cool crisp promise

Of relaxation unheard of; real je ne sais quoi

For I can’t say what it is like to escape

From the mundane and crippling day to day clamp

For if ‘I think, therefore I am’ be true

Then if I think I am me, can I think I am you?

With my hand in my flowery pocket of love

Can I transmute myself? Are my thoughts enough?

The fish are a sudden lead weight on dead toes

Heathcliffe’s string pulls tight; tis time to go.

I’m flying on sand power! Jets from the beach!

And the sand keeps on whispering, trying to teach.

Now floating in space above holiday hell

The stardust is tickling soles of my feet

The sun in a black void instead of blue sheet

As I search for the well of your voice

I’m a moonbather.

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Day Twenty Eight: Live Text Updates

BBC plan first leg

Against dead leg

Money would not comment

On availability missed.

Radio matches

Season the league;

Expect to enjoy

Favourite love.

With the cauldron handle

Refusing to talk:

Tell, tell!

16 appear:

Best the game.

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An erasure poem based on today’s prompt to use a news article as inspiration.

Day Twenty Seven: Black Swan

black swan

 

Captured forever on water

Now so still

Then rippling with life

Gifted by wind

Airy heartbeats

Thrumming beneath

Your ebony breast.

Smooth and slow

A stately slide

Across this breathing pond.

Yet beneath the chuckling surface

I know too well

Your legs are tired

Pushing, pulling, forcing back

The endless current.

Day Twenty Six: Shake

Shake the blackened curtain on this stage
Where tread the actors of a tired play
That bores a mocking audience away
The doors slam hard with twisted turgid rage
Shake the curtain, knock the dust out; grey
And thick on the cracked floor of this cage.

But hark; bird song filters through the beams
And a shaft of compromising light
Landing lyrically on boards now bright
Crippling the nauseating night
Lifting my dreams.

Day Twenty Five: Falling Asleep in the Early Evening

Am I dreaming?
Tyres slicing through the rain
Rubber balm to ease a pain
Puddles ploughed again, again…

Am I dreaming?
Man knocks once, knocks twice, and knocks
Door over, falling, crashing clocks
Breaking boundaries, crumbling crocks.

Am I dreaming?
Clear floors are chased by clumsy cats
Jazz is played by good old Fats
While we try each other’s hats.

Am I dreaming?
Hands are holding by themselves.
Records dropping onto shelves
Happiness in twelves, and twelves, and twelves…

Day Twenty Four: Broken Bridge

Finger nails in your crack
Cringing slightly as the pull
Of rough stone fights
With my fingerprints
Pulling them into a new shape
A new person, a new identity
Then I let go, and am the same.

Cracked stone in a bridge
I touch you every time I pass
Sometime more moss
Sometimes bird shit
Sometimes mud from
Callous cars.
Always that crack,
That never seems to widen
Just is.