Category: My Poetry

My Poetry

The Picnic

  NaPoWriMo day twenty two and poem number twenty two is called The Picnic. Today NaPoWriMo’s optional prompt was to write a pastoral poem so this is my modern take on one…

The Picnic

We laid out our picnic, grateful

to have found a quiet spot on this pleasant day.

The park though large and rambling was popular

with families and couples alike so it was nice

to have found a niche, a sleepy hollow

where few seemed to tread.

With only the faint hum of the city in the background

we sat civilised with our wine, olives and brie

and watched nature doing its work around us.

Birds flew down to peck at stray crumbs;

a few rabbits went about their business

from a safe distance, heads bobbing up

and down, ever on watch.

And then from nowhere a fox strode into view.

Stopping mid stride he turned towards us.

Transfixed, we daren’t move

lest we frightened him away.

Unlike his mangy street cousins

this one was big and bold with a strong coat

and gleaming eyes that did not waver.

He seemed to hold our gaze forever

but really it was a matter of minutes

before he dismissed us as harmless

and trotted off to some unworldly place.

We went back to our rustic feast, confident

that we had witnessed something magical.

My Poetry

The Ghost of Cabbage Past

  NaPoWriMo day twenty one and poem number twenty one is about those good old days when Olive Oil was something you used for earache and leafy greens were plentiful.  It’s called The Ghost of Cabbage Past

The house smelt of cabbage

cooked and eaten long ago but in no hurry to leave.

The ghost of cabbage

slyly seeping through the keyhole;

creeping through the cracks;

lurking in the stairwell;

sliding under the doors.

The room itself was clean,

a little faded but a pleasant enough aspect

if you like your views grey and decaying.

I tried the bed, it creaked.

I sniffed, there was that smell again

invading my nasal passages;

lingering in the air.

“It’s ten shillings a week,” she said.

I caught a faint whiff of greens on her breath.

Was nowhere in this house free from the tyranny of cabbage?

“I can do you an evening meal for an extra two shilling and sixpence.”

“Would that involve cabbage?” I asked

“Maybe,” she said suspiciously.

“I’ll take it.”

My Poetry

The Chiropodist

  NaPoWriMo day twenty and poem number twenty is called The Chiropodist…

 

We talk of Italian shirts and Chinese food

as he takes a knife to my feet

and deftly slices away the effects

of the city’s pavements.

Alien corns are shown no mercy,

toe nail clippings fly in all directions

and my soles are buffed to perfection.

We inspect the finished articles.

He has sculpted two silk purses from sows’ ears.

Pleased with his handiwork

he points to the debris below.

I am repulsed yet strangely interested.

As I watch the Henry suck it away

I wander how many feet will fill him up.

I slide on my shoes and say goodbye

bouncing home on reborn feet.

My Poetry

Water Song

  NaPoWriMo day nineteen and here’s poem number nineteen. It’s called Water Song

I cried a river

Seems a strange thing to say

But when I left you tonight

I cried a small pond.

Your mind went on a journey some time ago

But the rest of you refused to follow.

Tonight it came back for a visit

And your clarity overwhelmed me

When you finally leave

And all hope is gone

I’m sure I’ll sob an ocean

But perhaps in time

It will reduce to

An

Occasional

Puddle

My Poetry

Ugh

  NaPoWriMo day eighteen and here’s poem number eighteen. I enjoyed myself a bit too much last night and woke up this morning in a similar state. It’s called Ugh…

Ugh

Head hurts

Can’t lift it

off the pillow

Someone asks

“Cup of tea?”

Can’t speak

Overnight

tongue doubled

in size

Just nod

“Ugh”

Did the trick

Cup appears

Reach hand out

Grasp cup shakily

Drink golden nectar

Mmm

Bit better now

 

My Poetry

You Got Me

  NaPoWriMo day eighteen. I had a night off last night to go chuffing and boozing with friends so this is poem number seventeen. It’s called You Got Me. This one has been written with Ghost Poet’s, Off Peak Dreams ear worming me all day, I can’t get it out of my head today. It’s called You Got Me…

Okay so I lied,

you got me,

I lied but I meant well.

I tried to keep it from you,

you got me,

I hid the truth but I meant well.

What you don’t know won’t hurt you,

what you don’t know won’t cut you,

won’t make you cry.

And now you know the truth,

you got me.

Now you know I lied,

you got me,

it’s me that wants to die.

My Poetry

Mervyn Clutton the Bellybutton Glutton

  NaPoWriMo day sixteen. Poem number sixteen is inspired indirectly by a young man called Harrison Baugh who likes to write about underworld creatures. It’s called Mervyn Clutton the Bellybutton Glutton

Hello, my name is Mervyn Clutton.

I live inside your bellybutton.

I like to nestle in the fluff

and wallow in the icky stuff

that you would rather not face

deep within your special place.

Mites for breakfast, lunch and tea

followed by a nice fat flea.

I top it off with food that fell

into your bellybutton well.

It’s fair to say I am a glutton

for the feast that’s in your button.

I may disgust your tender soul

but someone has to clean your hole.

If left to its own device

it would be overrun with lice.

So please do receive with glee

my bellybutton friends and me.

My Poetry

Elegy for Dying Love

  NaPoWriMo day fifteen. Poem number fifteen was inspired by a line I heard recently in a TV drama which I thought was such a sad line that I had to steal it for the first & part of the second line of this poem. The poem is called Elegy for a Dying Love…

 

I am losing you.

You do not know it yet but I see it.

I see the snatched looks;

the side glances;

hear your quickened breath;

feel you tremble when he is near. Continue reading “Elegy for Dying Love” →

My Poetry

Red Tulip

  NaPoWriMo day thirteen and here’s poem number thirteen inspired by the plentiful red tulips my garden waiting for their petals to open to the sun. It’s called Red Tulip…

Red tulip.

A floral film star

striking an ingénue pose

in the heady world of the spring garden.

At the start of a burgeoning career

petals are pulled in tight and demure.

The next day a pout appears

and the next a big, blousy smile

ruby lips flashed wide in the spotlight.

But as with every ageing beauty

stardom fades and character parts

become du jour,

a backdrop for the bluebells,

until tired and yellowing

it’s put out of its misery and replaced.