Ode to my broken piano

Poetry
On the days that I do not love you
my love looks nothing like love.
In fact, it looks much like
not quite
the opposite
but an
in between state:
A half-working key,
an almost soundless note
pressed against my finger-tips.

Old Man

Poetry, Small Poems
Sometimes I like to compare myself to an old man.
Note how I did not say old woman – for old women have a
special quality to them
which old men do not:
you can see it if you brush away the dust,
buried inside them is a treasure
chest where
pearls of wisdom remain.

Tongue

free verse, Poetry, Small Poems

Yay! Double digits – 10 poems in 🙂

I think what I’ve gotten out of NaNoWriMo is realising that not all poems need to have a deep meaning behind them, and you can just write a poem for the sake of writing a poem. So, with that in mind, I chose to write this poem about how my taste in food has changed since I was a kid.

Culture

Poetry

New week, new poems! The writing prompt for today is:

A very small object


Culture

Priyanka means ‘beautiful’,
in a language I can call my own,
it is fun to curl next to my Culture at night,
to be able to call it home.

Many people envy that,
they do not have such a Bubble,
maybe it is because they must find their culture,
in other people’s rubble.

The roof of the house only came crashing down,
I tell them,
because one of your ancestors wanted Greed.
They wanted more than they could bargain for,
and so their limits they did exceed.

Their house grew and grew until it could fit no more,
whilst people of my culture,
were left to wash the floors.

Now, my home is beautiful,
with bright colours and small trinkets,
it has been enhanced.
Perhaps that is why the Names that live here,
are more freely able to dance.

 

 


This poem was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 12, Poem #6]

Quiet voice

Poetry

The new poems will be based on the Savannah Brown prompts which she gave in the description her write with me video. If you’d like to check them out they’re here.

The first prompt is:

Listen to the quiet voice


Quiet voice

When Time fades, and the clocks melt away,
I want to be right where I am now,
not beside another name, place or day.

together but alone, is how it’s best,
together is where we shall be,
isolated from the rest.

this feeling is our home,
that we have built from the ground up,
the foundations run smoothly,
even if they took long to put up.

within this house is where we shall remain,
listening to the quiet of our voices,
sheltered from all the rain.

 


This poem was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 9, Poem #3]

Drury Lane

Poetry

WRITING EXERCISE #83

Today, one of my toddler daughters had the end of a stick in her mouth. I said, “Stop eating that stick! We don’t eat sticks, silly!” and my 4-year old daughter said, “Yeah, Lulu. If you eat sticks, you will get old.”

So let’s riff off that. Write a poem built out of four (or however many) cinquains that tell the story of someone getting old. Make sure one of the things that made them old was something they ate. Something they saw. Something they heard. Something they felt. A fragrance. Have the first line be the person’s name. If you want each cinquain to be about a different person, cool. Oh, and if you forgot what a cinquain was, here’s the format:

line 1 – 2 syllables
line 2 – 4 syllables
line 3 – 6 syllables
line 4 – 8 syllables
line 5 – 2 syllables


Drury Lane

Name here,
Sign here, sigh there,
Wear and tear of the town,
causes tearing of hair, baby
cries —

–closed eyes.
Lullabies sung,
Tumbling now
that standing up has come,
Standing on your own two cold feet,
good bye —

–I smell,
the Muffin Man,
hungry as I run to
Drury Lane, a girl or
a boy or something else holds me,

my body,
isn’t what it
was, I can’t run,
but I can sleep now forever,
with
closed eyes.

 


This was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017, [Day 2, Writing Prompt #83]