Last poems for April's NaPoWriMo and an accepetance

Okay folks, here are the remaining poems for April.  Please vote for your favourite throughout the month.  Comments make everything worthwhile.  Be back here soon.

April 26th

At the end

The flowers you brought have shrivelled

trying to return to their pre-blooming glory

each petal closing in on itself, but I’m not fooled.

They look worn out with the effort of looking bright –

the colour still hangs on like an ill-fitting coat,

drooping at the shoulders.

The water is putrid, no wonder they close up.

Bad relationships leave bad odours.

********

April 27th - Sonnet

The Long Man

No book can ever keep me from this view

No story line can drag my eyes away

For every time it’s like I see it new

And when I reach this point then come what may

I cast my book aside at Hayward’s Heath

Where this train will divide and split in two

And Sussex lies before me and beneath

In grassy downs where I look for the path

That carves into the hillside where he stands

The man of Wilmington who bears his all

Once phallus hope for women in these lands

Whose fertileness would answer to their call

Whatever else may change he’ll still be there

And folk will marvel at him, stop and stare.

*******

April 28th

Waterlogged

I’m down in this squelchy brown clay

stuck fast, gripped by wet goo

in all its sucky-sucky quicksand feel,

entrapped and directionless. I pull in panic –

the earth will not let me go.

If the sun comes out I’ll fix a pose,

become part of the landscape,

baked dry, entrenched, a human sculpture

plastered and entombed.

*******

April 29th

Surgery

Stark brown limbs in March;

amputated wooden stumps

await their new growth.

*******

April 30th

Traces

He is still here imbedded in the carpet

like tinsel months after the Christmas tree has gone away,

impregnated into sheets however many times I wash them;

the dent on his side of the bed still looks new

as if he’s just got up.

Somehow he has seeped into the walls

and his eyes watch me in every room.

The TV churns out his favourite shows,

the radio his favourite songs.

In the kitchen his mug is a lonely sight,

I’ve put it away but I can still hear its accusations.

I’ve removed everything of his that he’d not already taken

but he claims every inch as a silent ghost.

For a while I would got out every night to avoid him

but there’s nowhere to go where he hasn’t been

and been with me.

Finally, I have had one of my poems accepted for the Open University Poets Anthology which will be published later this year.

NaPoWriMo - day 24

April 24th

Life on Film

What was happening, well that could be me,

my life being played out on the big screen

with me in the lead role,

my family, those actors and actresses

with lines on cue, the accusations, the

pull yourself together,

the agony of desertion done in one take

and days roll quickly through the camera lens,

scenes race to a conclusion

in just two hours ten minutes.

Ah! but the DVD has the Directors cut,

those extra bits to revel in;

but I cannot edit out the bits I don’t like

I’ve tried but they return to haunt me,

constantly on repeat.

Morning - a poem for Tuesday

April 23rd

Morning

Day starts early,

birds communicate

before light shows itself,

then slowly the room lightens,

objects creep from under cover,

patterns redefine themselves,

colours break out of black,

show their true selves,

textures bulk up from

the flattened night

morning is alive in

sound and shape.

Ideas into poetry

April 22nd

Poems can come from anywhere.  Sometimes we need prompts, sometimes they just seem to arrive and virtually write themselves.  I have used some prompts throughout this April exercise when I needed a quick start or a new idea that perhaps I haven't thought about before.  Today's poem came from reading Quiet Spaces (a sort of alternative everyday Bible study - more creative based and spiritual).  The passage today was looking at Matthew 6:28 'consider the lillies of the field.' The word to concentrate on was consider.  We were asked to consider an object, a pen, say and all it does, it's relationship to us, its knocks and scratches - really to consider it in great detail.  After reading the passage I was drawn to write a poem and below is the result of that.  Never disregard any idea even if it's one line or a few words.  You can always go back to them and see where it leads you.

Ode to The OfficeTeam Mini Ballpoint Pen

Functional and small enough to slip into my micro handbag

you write nicely, smooth and are a comfortable fit in my hand.

Your potential to produce words flow on to the page in blue ink.

Actually, you aren’t really mine but I have adopted you,

teeth marks on your top are your baptism into life.

I enjoy your company, the feel of your royal blue

plastic casing rolled between my fingers.

We know what to expect from one another.

You may not be showy, have a designed name,

a cap or a click in/out facility but you do for me.

You meet my requirements

and because you are different from all the others

you stand out and I can always find you.

Sunday poem

Two for the price of one!  I missed one post about a week ago so today I am giving you an extra poem so that I am still on target for the challenge.

21st April (this is using the prompt of 'mask' from The Poetry School)

Mask

Under the skin are flesh, muscle, tissue and bone

And that’s what we all have in common

But if I could see through the layers, through the mask

Maybe I would get to the heart of you.

Would your feelings flow through your veins with blood?

Surge like a river round every part of you?

Would I recognise you there where every hurt is exposed?

Where you try to keep it in, hold it together.

And if I cut your skin would it all come flowing out?

Would it drain you of every emotion?

I would gladly clean up the mess of your life

Here, my cuts are healing now.  Let me heal yours.

******

Small Stone poem

White vapour trails criss-cross the sky

merging into painterly streaks of cloud,

branches still hold their new growth in,

a brush of twigs sweep morning blue.

Saturday poem for NaPoWriMo

April 20th

Map

The green paint has peeled off the garden heater

after years of wintering and sun

and underneath, the rust is rough and dotted.

It reminds me of an aerial map,

the rust is the earth, red as South Devon soil,

the dots are buildings flowing down

the cliff face to the harbour where the green sea laps

in the bay and the curved lines across the rust are strata,

layer upon layer holding stories of the past.

Friday 19th - NaPoWriMo

April 19th

House Clearance

I’d always liked the Utility furniture,

the light wood wardrobe and dressing table,

the pink cane weave linen basket.

The mantelpiece cleared of holiday souvenirs

stood across the blocked in fire place that granddad fixed.

I could still remember the fire

glowing in this north facing freeze box.

Downstairs there was a bookcase I had no room for.

It all had to go.

Upstairs I heard the men breaking up the bedroom items.

If only there’d been more time.

I left before they got to the bookcase.

I couldn’t bear the guilt of it.

A Thursday poem

April 18th

Tree

Our tree was removed years ago,

just the stump remains,

but every time I pass it I stop and smile,

remember the kisses,

experimental, then more probing,

the longing played out under its canopy.

We’d seen it through a winter and a spring

before our desire moved into a house of its own

and we no longer needed its privacy

in the quiet end of the lane.

But when we visited my folks we’d stop and say hello tree,

recall those early days of new love and hold hands again.

And now the tree has gone the memories remain –

we just shut our eyes and there it is,

our tree in all its greenery wrapping love around us.

Poem for April 17th

April 17th
(The prompt for this was from The Poetry Society to write about buildings)

House of Prayer

I wander the paths of this house with its lofty ceilings,

white washed, its the fresh lemon walls,

corridors maze in and out with pockets left and right,

a cubby hole here an occupied room there.

I come back to the landing with its skylight

shedding the day in sunlit beams to the ground floor,

peace springs off the bricks and paint, the plaster and wood.

Here everything is silent but I listen for the still small voice.

Icons pull me in to prayer,

I wander, I sit, I read,

I do it all again

Time is mine and I cherish it.

Joseph and the boy Jesus watch from the window ledge

as I eat my pasta lunch.  I have the whole wooden table to myself.

I move from room to room recording it to memory

then pack up my Bible, my books and paper and take my leave.

Day 16 - NaPoWriMo

April 16th

Changing Colour

Draped on me the fieriness of a red dress too powerful for today.
It jars in its over vibrant shade, unnerving, too quick, flippant  and on the go.
I shed the red and pull out a mint green jumper and blue jeans,
sighing as I shuffle in.  I hang the red out of sight,
feel my mood shift, settle and slouch into a stillness and calm that's me.

April 15th poem

April 15th (a small stone poem)

Sun glistening on rain drops,
silver specks, diamond gems
shivering in the breeze
on the glass top of the cold frame.

NaPoWriMo - something light-hearted

April 13th

I'm aware that the poems I have posted so far are a little........sad (you thought I was going to say awful didn't you?!).  I do enjoy a good wallow in poetry I must admit.  Anyway, today I am posting something a little more light-hearted, well I hope it is or maybe that's my weird sense of humour!  There was no particular prompt for this and it kind of went off in its own direction so I went with it.  Have a great day folks.

Ghosts

They come now all of a sudden;

all these years and not a glimpse;

sceptical me had to see to believe -

even now I dismiss them as tricks of the eye

for they pass in a sliver, not quite there…..

but I know.

Is it because I’m older that they haunt?

Wearing me down, a warning perhaps

that I’m soon to go with them.

I could taunt my family and friends I suppose -

I’d like that; get my own back….

and they’d say….

She never believed and now look at her

floating the floor of the dining room,

moving the plates and whispering words.

I could stand in a doorway and just …LOOM!

There’s fun to be had here but not yet……

I’m really not ready for that.

NaPoWriMo - free verse poem

April 12th

I did have a poem ready for posting here yesterday but I was out all day.  I had a quiet day at a retreat centre and didn't want to ruin the atmosphere by logging on to my computer when I got home.  So better late than never here is want you would have yesterday using the prompt of a first line from a random choice poem.....again Mr Farley!

Weathering

(inspired by Paul Farley with acknowledgement to him for my first line!)

Is mine the only heart out in this weather

battling against the ache of the unspoken in the wind,

the deluge of rain tearing down the sky?

I tried to leave it behind by a cosy fire

but it is so attached to me that I cannot wrench it away

and its icy fingers numb my chest.

It is self-indulgent, wallowing in pity

I tell it a joke and it shuns me. How can you? it says,

can’t you hear my anguish?

I wish to abandon it, leave it with the lost souls

trade it in for an unhurt model or one that can withstand

the weathering of emotional turmoil head on.

NaPoWriMo - 10th poem - free verse/random word prompt

April 10th

Random words poem - words from a Christian booklet I had to hand.

Willing                  runners                               Eucharist

Afternoon           creation                              channels

In Communion

I am a runner for God

willing to be his servant.

I am his creation

and when I celebrate

the Eucharist is transforming,

he in me and me in him;

this afternoon

the channels to my Lord are open.

©2013 hcw

NaPoWriMo - 8th poem

April 8th

I seem to be leaving the prompts behind at the moment.  Sometimes they are not up on the sites when I look so I am thinking out my own ones.  However, this next one was inspired by a prompt by The Poetry School to take a random poem and write a response to each line then play and edit.  The most handy poetry book I had at the time was Paul Farley's The Dark Film which I am still working through.  I took his poem Adults and below is the result - the theme is similar but not quite the same.

The Other Side

He was the one I looked up to

but lately I’d heard him late in the night

and watched him from my window, swaying and giggling

sometimes singing, never in tune

and he’d piss over the garden wall.

By day he seemed normal

controlled, holding it together;

I could forget his stumble up the stairs,

the sound of him puking up

because he was my rock and I would be his.

He’d taught me to ride a bike and he’d ruffled my hair

now he cried over some guilt I didn’t understand;

unforgiven he sought consolation in a bottle

but the liquid never satisfied his thirst

and his angry words frightened me.

What could he want to be happy again?

He had me even if mum looked down her nose at him.

I tried hard to make him smile

yet still he came undone in the night,

weeping, shouting; then he’d pass out.