#NaPoWriMo18: Day 4, What It Is

For the Day 4 Prompt, a challenge to describe an abstraction with concrete nouns. Photo by Steve Halama on Unsplash

What it is is something smouldering
A tiny reed, slowly taking flame
That perchance with time might
Burst into a raging flame

What it is is a call and response
A place remembered and returned to
In a season of despair

In its light one sees
the self in all its glory
warts and all,
and learns the painful truth
that one is human too

#NaPoWriMo18: Day 3, Name Dropping


For the Day 3 prompt, A list poem of band names. I fear my choices betray my age (and my penchant for Christian Contemporary Music). Photo by frankie cordoba on Unsplash.

Six Pence None The Richer
for you corrodes my conformity
into discordant notes.

On Black Streets,
six degrees north of Building 429
a Rush Of Fools Switches foot
and stops to breathe again.

DC Talks to the Newsboys
Ignoring Caedmon’s Call
Until the Third Day
when the Second Chapter Of Acts
is unleashed.

#NaPoWriMo18: Day 2, Home

Snowed in, somewhat. For the Day 2 prompt.

I ache
in the winter when it rains.
When the wind, like the fingers
of a malevolent one probe beneath.

Deep down
in a place sometimes lost
where memories once lived,
lies the linger of disquiet.For forgetting.

Some days
the smell of fresh wood wafts in,
borne as though on wings of the wind.
Then, these bones – aching in the cold – rejoice.

#NaPoWriMo18: Day 1, Begin Again


Off prompt for Day 1, Photo by Francesco Gallarotti on Unsplash

Let us begin again
at dawn. With the stirring songs
of the Skylarks ringing in our ears,
the dappled light of the rising sun,
smell of moist earth and the distant lap
of a gentle wave calling us.
In the shadows of the stations,
along this winding tortuous path
we have climbed this mount,
where like a seed once dead
is reborn, we arise again.

#NaPoWriMo18

Offshore Nigeria, back in the day. For the prompt Rise/Set.

It is now a mere three days to the start of National Poetry Month this year, three years since I last participated. Back then in addition to the prompts from the NaPoWriMo website, I had La Reine and Tolu for company, two poets who are far more deserving of the label. I plan on jumping in this year, the idea primarily being to participate, rather than hammer out high quality poetry. Fingers crossed.

NaPoWriMo Day 29 – Giving Stars

roamers - shoe

[Source]

Four stars
for the Chelsea boots
in brown; five
from Wood,
for their soft leather
and inner cushion,
for how easy they fit
his wide feet
and how they arrive
in time for spring
and the promise
of new beginnings.

One star
from Miles, for how
they fall apart; split
at the heel
after seven months of use;
for how
they’ll harm your feet,
and fall apart
as though sawn in two.

From Joshua, just three stars –
because they arrive damaged.

For the Day 29 Prompt at NaPoWriMo, to write a review; culled from a few reviews left on the Amazon page for the shoes above.

NaPoWriMo Day 28 – Bridge

forth-bridge


In the unknown
you clutch vestigial memories
of night journeys and of trains
and being surprised by
grey granite segueing
into lush greenery

but once you cross
the Bridge across the
Firth of Forth
Hope awakens
‘Cos you’re Home.


On train journeys, coming home and the Forth Road Bridge for the prompt for Day 28 at NaPoWriMo, a truly gorgeous sight on a (rare?) sunny November day as I found many years ago…

NaPoWriMo Day 27 – How To Make Small Talk

Pause,
On the corner of Kings’ and
23rd North West and smile,
let your face crumble like
a cookie dipped in spring milk.

Tell her the musky scent
of her perfume reminds you
of spring wafting in on the wind
heady, yet subtle, hardly felt.

Moan
about the weather, of
snow pelting down like hail
of sunshine shoved into a corner
by clouds and then nightfall

When you find she’s
clutching Chaucer to her chest
and McEwan in her bag,
read her a line from Komunyakaa:
‘I took seven roads to get here
and almost died three times’*.

But if her fingers linger
or tap dance on her phone
disappear-
because sometimes the nostalgia
of an unsoiled memory
is worth more than the pain
of paradise lost.


* Borrowed from one of my favourite Komunyakaa poems, ‘Providence’; from the Pleasure Dome anthology.