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 .
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 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
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???
It’s after midnight, and the streets are empty. She’s a woman, walking alone, in a skirt that’s a whisper too short, and heels a shade too high. They lengthen her legs, giving her the vulnerable look of a deer picking her way through the forest.
The darkness has heightened her senses. She can hear the footsteps, following behind, even though they are soft. Someone’s wearing trainers. They echo her own steps. When she speeds up, they speed up. When she slows down, they slow down. When she pauses, they pause too.
She waits for a moment to be sure, then lets herself dissolve into the shadows. There’s silence, and then the footsteps start up again. They’re moving towards her.
She smiles and licks her dark red lips. She’s going to feed tonight.