NaPoWrimo Day 30

  A little hope (Cento)   I saw you in green velvet, wide full sleeves as the Sun withdrew his rays from the garden. I'll only stop to rake the leaves away. The sorrow of riverside blossoms inexplicable.   What house, the jade flute that sends these dark notes drifting, carefully stepping into a season of fever. I'm still in the forest, darkening wishing I were 'nicer.'   Maybe, Rose, there is always another story, lift my heart as spring lifts up- a yellow daisy to the rain, as if the moon had flowered.

NaPoWrimo Day 29

  The gifted They said that 'gifted' was not another name for cursed - in Perrault’s tale, the fairies bless, like Disney- I prefer Grimm and the wise women, one mother spurned, carrying her mouthful of spite, spitting it at the foot of the bed where my mother lay. And yes, Grandmother cursed me, yellow fairy of the hair and fingertips, leopardskinned and redmouthed, smoking, likely, as she recited litanies, long lost to family lore, dialect obscure- be careful who you invite to your feast; it’s not as if I blame much, but there's this- the years might be much easier without these gifts, clever and glittering as they are, and handed down, and if I made a list; my moods, my bones, my shivers, the ache in everything, the nag that finding magic brings, years of spinning in a dusty room, garnet on my finger, like a bead of blood, where the lover kneels quietly by the bed, so that the act of summoning is enough, and gifted is a word for what we lost.

Napowrimo Day 28 2)


NaPoWriMo Day 28

#1 Concrete poem, LBD  

NaPoWriMo Day 27

  Countrymen Sometimes, unbelonging is violence- in modern dress Shakespeare, a Welsh man smashes leek into an Englishman's mouth. There's soil in his teeth, and his mouth stops- his words stop, he will never speak well. He will never speak well, or learn about old empires- they only know they're winning when you cry- when you cry salt tears upon that volume, a book on colonialism with gilt edges. One part was guilty, the other me was good in battle, a hundred wars, white flag ship, slouch of names that slough and bleed, like old names often do. I plan to prick my thumb to get the right blood- sometimes, belonging is violence

NaPoWriMo Day 24

  the hardboiled case of the detective of dreams Sometimes, this life, this case, this prompt, it's as hard to understand as the flatpack instructions with a bit left over, unlabelled and unknown. That part looms large, a happy snaps out of focus photo, your thumb after that bee sting . The detective wakes up in the morning and their mood is as grey as 1983 in Birkenhead , the sun this grey dishwater rag. There's no breakthrough really, the revelation stalled as a broken horse. The fall guy stutters a confession,a busted tap, and any detective knows the case is really all about yourself. A spare room, full of files- unsorted and unloved, the terrible subconscious of Marie Kondo's nightmares

NaPoWriMo Day 26

    the world comes down much like how the old gods shrank, so they were no longer mountains with their shoulders above the earth, much like the gods shrank, the pools of their eyes no more oceans; no more the goddesses and gods forests, trappedlocked in one twisty tree that one can choose to worship or ignore on the way to the mall, trampling the earth god's skin, the temple just a lovely shell, the hollow places empty, new and quite cool cruel clevernesses, but semi sceptic health fanatics, genuflection into swipe mes, scarce monthly outlay of mothlike prayers, mystery-intolerance - much like this, is how it feels, you'd think