A gathering of sticks and stones #poetry #thedirtythirtychallenge #fire

 

A gathering of sticks and stones:

 

I see the strain in your hunched shoulders little love

Your crouched knees show me everything

Eye to eye we curl into each other

My fingers reach towards you

Flickering and clean

But you –

   Retreat.

 

*

 

Dirty Thirty Day 23 Prompt:

Write a poem from the perspective of a natural element ie. water, fire, earth etc., or a force of nature, for instance, a hurricane, earthquake, tornado etc.
The clincher: the poem gets shorter with each line.

 

The Dirty Thirty Challenge is one poem a day for the thirty days of April. Dirty Thirty prompts are from ‘The Dirty Thirty Challenge’ facebook group (admins). Poems published here are my own unless otherwise specified.

Adopted #thedirtythirty #poetrychallenge #poetry

 

Adopted

 

He is –

 

 

Murky breaths and midnight toenails

Perfect Tai Chi in between the walls

Headlight free and Sunday solid

He bends I told you so’s into spoons

 

 

                         – made in his mother’s image.

 

 

Silent in a father’s absence.

Light feet on cold floors

Old dreams starting new wars

Nothing in a name –

 

 

He’d like to ask. He doesn’t.

 

 

– but shame. Woven into brickwork clusters.

Filling in cardboard carpets and red flags.

A dented screen, a captured queen.

A ticking secret on the other end of an Instagram like.

 

 

He swallows.

He bends.

He –

 

 

                   – is.

 

 

*

Prompt: Free write Friday.

And then #thedirtythirty #poetrychallenge #micropoetry

Day 14 Dirty Thirty Prompt was to write a tiny poem.

 

“Your challenge is to experiment with brevity so much that it nearly destroys you.”

 

Micro poetry is my favourite form. #tinytwitterpoem (s) being my medium of choice.

Today’s poem:

 

*

 

Still falling.

 

*

 

 

Day Eleven. #thedirtythirty #poetrychallenge

 

The heel holds the world together.

Sweat stained upper lip.

Moustache dream.

 

Fingers made into mountains.

Uncurl today.

This, then.

 

Eyebrows pierced, hungry now.

For laughter,

joy.

 

Knit watercolour

Made new.

 

Swelled sound mouths drown

Now.

 

We sleep full.

 

We weep.

 

I.

 

*

 

Day 11 Dirty Thirty Prompt

Write a poem about the Deadly Sin you feel you’re guilty of most but without telling us what it is.

 

So guesses- which Deadly Sin am I most guilty of?

 

Spectators #thedirtythirty #nationalpoetrymonth

Today’s poem inspired by a prompt from facebook poetry group ‘The Dirty Thirty Challenge’ – one poem a day for the thirty days of April.

 

Each day the facilitators of the group offer a prompt, today’s prompt was:

Grab the closest book on your shelf/desk/bed. Go to page 7.
Write down 5 words that stand out to you, and use at least 3 of those words in a poem

 

My response:

From page 7 of ‘Improvisation: The Guide’ by Lyn Pierse

The five words were: judged, panel, risk, crafted, spectators

 

Spectators:

The panel nests in song.
Strong.
Strong.
Their silence a gift.
A gift,
crafted in eyes and sighs.
A risk.
A risk forgiven.
A risk forgotten.
A risk, no more.

A question mark in the shape of a stain #nationalpoetrymonth

Image: Some mind chatter scribbles from my journal 01042016

 

April is ‘Poetry Month’ in American and Canada and quite a few people jump on the bandwagon here in Oz too. So I figured why not?

Returning to some work, creating some new things. Will share a poem a day here during April. This one started life in April 2013, I’ve used some of the ideas but given it a new skeleton and rewritten almost entirely this evening while sitting on the couch watching ‘Brother Bear’ with my smallest human.

A question mark in the shape of a stain

Shouldn’t be a question. Couldn’t be an answer.

A statement pile. To shift through. Lift through.

You are set adrift,

too.

Empty ache. Hungry sorrow. Eyelid twitch

of a sleeping dog.

Who are we kidding?

Anyway.

He is red and smells like wet soap and socks

I forgot what you asked,

I was trying to answer.

Trying

to.

Sheets of gyprock. Unfilled walls. Unspilled halls.

His silence –

Soaks into the carpet.

With me.

With my sinking knees.

Chandeliers on the end of my ears.

His pipe on the end of my nose.

Where does lost love go?

I am left.

Right.

Left.

Right.

Left.

A Red Lid. A #draft #poem by me.

Her dreams taste too small. Too big to lean into. So she folds herself into block mazes on tiny screens and cries quietly behind her eyelids. We are all of us trying to escape ourselves.

Two children to tow along, through the currents that try to drag her under. All of them have seaweed nesting in their hair. Sometimes she ties their hands together with salty shells. And together they float beneath a sun turned angry.

She has forgotten how to recycle. Can’t even spell it without thinking really hard. The palms of her hands are soft like the inside of her discipline. And she is trying. Trying to tread water with her mouth full of sand. It’s all she can.

An ABC of Women #feminism #mop15

 

* a first draft, inspired by #mop15 weekly prompt

 

An ABC of Women

Always
Braved and
Coloured in with skin,
Depths circled and given in.
Entered,
Fully with
Grace, poise,
Head held just so,
In the light melted to your eyes.
Joined in silence.
Kindness welded in,
Left to dream, to weep.
Made
Noiseless
Only,
Paperthin and
Quickened,
Ready,
Softly
To
Undress
Violently.
Women, made
‘Xeno-’ by
Your hands, in their hair, their faces, their words, their lives. Now,
Zombies. Left. Discarded. Ruined.

 

No one can alone my loves, no one can alone. x

Because #summertime #mop15 @sawriterscentre

 

IT changes you. The doorway you can never not have stepped through. The words you can never not have said. The moment you can never not, not have been there. The silences you can never really fill. You are changed and made whole by them.

 

And without you in the room something shifted and moved and sighed itself into a new alignment. They’d made the decision for you. Because you weren’t there. Because you weren’t ready. Because you didn’t.

 

Because you didn’t. Because.

*

Month of Poetry, this entry inspired by SA Writers Centre Summertime Inspiration prompts

 

Fill Me – Month of Poetry #MoP15

I’m starting off 2015 with lots of small, achievable and fun creative outlets for me – one of which is participating in Month Of Poetry this January.

 

“Otherwise know as #MoP, Month of Poetry is a personal challenge to write one poem ever day for the month of January. Co-ordinated by Australian poet and children’s author, Kathryn Apel, #MoP is for enjoyment and inspiration – for everyone. It’s not a competition, and you won’t be judged. There is no disgrace in writing less than thirty poems, so make the challenge work for you – and celebrate every poem you write!”*

 

As part of Month Of Poetry, Kathryn also offers a prompt challenge each Saturday. Today’s challenge was to write a colour poem (a poem inspired by a colour).

So this is my little effort:

 

Fill Me.

Painted walls slip as music spread between clean sheets and tasting plates. I am echoed. I am filled. I am joy. Grown into tall leaves and large faces. My daughter’s laughter in honey jars. Flakes of salmon painted in coriander and love. I am yellow. I am home. I am filled.

 

*from the Month of Poetry ‘About’ section, head here to find out more.