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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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
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???
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.
Sarah writes poems 