The house was as it always was; the concoctions of must and chipping paint gave it its usual pungent smell, while the ever-expanding cobwebs decorated the plain walls nicely. Like the residents, the spiders themselves were scarcely seen, however, meaning that the space between the walls were often left blank. An empty home was a strange sight indeed. No family, no dining table, no white picket fence here.
It’s been so long since I’ve written a poem, at first I was afraid to write. I stopped writing a while ago because I felt like I had nothing to say and if I did have something to say I wouldn’t say it right. Then, this summer, my grandma passed away (may she rest in peace). After a long battle against all her signs of weakness she left us and the silence that remained was overwhelming, both from losing her and my will to write. After a long battle against myself, my depression and my guilt, I finally decided to put my fingers on the keyboard again and write my first poem about her. I truly miss her, and I’m still not sure if the words I’ve used can capture the true essence of what a great woman she was. But I’m trying, and if I can even capture a tiny part of her through my poetry, then I think I’m doing as well as I possible can to preserve her memory.
Rest in peace Granny ❤
Happy halfway point of NaPoWriMo! Today’s prompt is so GOOD!! I LOVE fairy-tales!! It invites us to write a poem about a villain in which they are revealed to be human, but still evil. Enjoy!
New week, new poems! The writing prompt for today is:
A very small object
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]
This was originally meant to be posted yesterday, but my internet crashed 😦
I thought it was appropriate on Remembrance Day, to write a poem around that theme.
If I am to remember,
what does that truly mean?
Does it mean to remember the guns fired,
to watch the scarlet blood gleam,
or to touch the spirits who are still alive today,
and hold them in high esteem?
If I am to remember,
what am I to forget?
For it is difficult to say I am sorry,
when we have never met.
If the poppy grows in barren lands,
where do memories grow?
The brain does not work like a field,
but poppies don’t either, I bet.
Where does Time go when it comes home,
made old by rust and regret?
This was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 11, Poem #5]
WRITING PROMPT #74
“Why are we not permitted to show our faces in the picture , Mama?,” Charlotte asked, staring down at the photograph in her hands. The whole prospect of one picture alone to represent three young ladies in the newspaper seemed so obscure to the girl, that she had initially refused to be part of it at all; but her Mama had insisted, and so she did.
“Men shall often find one’s body more agreeable than one’s face,” Mama answered sharply, “can you not see that is why I have dressed you in the finest silk dresses you own?”.
With her nose held high in the air, so as to maintain decorum, Mama sauntered over to her grand mirror, her favourite part of her bedroom. It had been bought for her as a gift by her husband, as had the house her and her daughters now lived in. Many hours had passed in front of its golden frame, preparing herself for her husband or local balls. Time had withered her patience and she prepared as such for no one but herself anymore, and her three daughters. Now, in her corset and petticoat, she placed the photo on the bed beside her and began adorning her face with powder.
Her youngest daughter, grabbed it and exclaimed, “No rouge, no curls! No man shall ever send us prospects of marriage.”
She turned to her mother.
“Mama! What were you thinking?”
“Hush now, Anne! Your father payed a large amount of money to get that photograph taken, and we shall be rewarded for our efforts, I guarantee.”
A book snapped shut to Mama’s left.
“Then perhaps a woman shall send us a marriage proposal,” Emily began, “and I shall be so very pleased if that were to happen instead.”
This poem was written during National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 3]