Block of text

I took my axe

my whittling knife

my trusty blade

 

working away

at the block of text

 

removing all those extra words

those adjectives, those adverbs

 

axe

knife

blade

 

trying to carve

a poem thing

a thing that might

just be

a poem

A quick little stream of consciousness poem for Misky’s twiglet #151. 

 

 

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A weathered bench – an inkling for Misky

The name half worn under the green that’s gathered here

this bench sunned in love and rained in fear

and always facing outwards to the sea

because he loved it here

and I can see him striding out

in wellies, always, coat in winter,

hat in summer – got to protect

that bald patch from the rays,

and the dog that never came the first time

because there are too many smells here –

shit and creatures and the nasal semaphore

of other dogs that come and go –

and then him sitting in this spot,

unscrewing the flask,

taking a deep breath, a lung-clearer,

and always facing out towards the sea.

Just a quick stream of consciousness for Misky, who inspires with a twiglet.

Clocks never wake twiglet

clocks never wake

me, I just don’t sleep

watching the hand trail slowly

round the face

counting those endless seconds minutes hours

clocks never wake

they sleep viscious on the shelf

whispering their cruel dreams

of time passing past passing

and look at me

sitting at the mirror

my hand trailing slowly

round my face

counting those endless seconds minutes hours.

Misky’s twiglet prompt.

Downpour of birdsong – twiglet poem for Misky

It was the suddenness of it – stepping out

into all that light, and the noise, the thrill of it,

a three-dimensional soundscape,

drenching me in noise, so that

I could hardly say what was sound,

what was sunlight, what was my own heart

beating in my hollow chest.

twiglet 119, from Misky.

A pinch of fog

A pinch of fog

stirred into coffee

will blur the mind…

sprinkled on porridge

will soften the day ahead…

scattered on strawberries

will bring sleep

and dreams of winter…

use it wisely.

A quick fire twiglet for Misky – a pinch of fog

behind the door – twiglet poem

There is always something      …….                       (but what?)

behind the door

or scrabbling between the floor …… (polished wood…)

and the …. ceiling

and I never quite catch it

it moves quickly …. (that’s what scares me)

darting from dark to …. dark

half formed shadow …. ( eyes)

but I hear it. …. Oh, I hear it.

a twiglet for Misky

Razor blade – poem for Misky

She cuddles like a razor blade,
kicks like she’s cotton wool –

oh yes, she’s complicated –

hands that hold tight
to the lit match,
slide over tree bark,
stick on slick ice –

she’s silent sometimes,
then screams under water


A little poem for Misky’s 104th twiglet! That’s a lot of twiglets…

Mast and Sail – twiglet for Misky

If I’m the mast, you’re the sail –
I mean, the thing that drives us on –
so that the wind creates momentum
and the ocean is connection –

I thought the water was a barrier,
but you see opportunity,
and I have hidden from the wind,
but you have made it energy –

but then again, I’ve held you,
strengthened you, tied you
to all these things you love,
kept you from flying too far away

losing too much, creating
too much distance. This is the power
we have together, to make purpose
out of fear and chaos. To travel.

 

 

A twiglet for Misky – a first go at a poem inspired by Miskys prompting phrase. It’s all about inspiration . 

Unlike my mother

I always eat cherries straight from the bag –
brown paper smudged with juice – I risk
the stain. I pour milk from the carton.
I grab at life.

I spill things in my rush. I’m grass-stained,
snag-nailed, over-booked, laughing at myself.

I can’t make cakes.

 

 

For Misky’s Twiglets. 

Far Better – twiglet 70

Far better to be quiet and still.

Far better to keep your soul in your hand
than to throw it to the moon,
even when the moon is a silver
sliver, a knife slice of beauty.

Far better to brush your hair,
keep it shiny and smooth,
and cleanse and tone and moisturise,
than to ride the wild wolf
of midnight, and call to
the stars as if they are your sisters.

Far better to creep quietly
down the stairs, and sit
at the kitchen table, and consider
the strange complexities of life,
than to play loud music
and dance around the room
accompanying yourself
on the saucepan lid,

and to walk through the garden
in the night air, listening
for the owl who lives
somewhere over there,
watch for her silent skimming
over fence and hedge,
and her last plunge
of murderous intent.

I really wasn’t going to do this, because April is a big month, what with NaPoWriMo and all that, but then I couldn’t resist, so this is undrafted, unedited, spilling forth of words kind of poetry all done in a rush. Far better than not writing at all, I guess. For Misky’s 70th Twiglet prompt. Maybe a twilight twiglet???