Tag Archives: NaPoWriMo



The sun is shining today. For once I’m sat here with my fingers on the keys and actually feel as though it may be possible to say something.

Anyone who reads this – and I am astonished/abashed/amazed/gratified at how many of you still seem to despite my perfidy – may have noticed the poems. Sorry if it was all a bit much and thank you to those who read and commented.

I bleedin’ love poetry in a very joyful, uneducated way. In that I read a lot and write a lot but have studied very little. NaPoWriMo seemed, in the early hours, a wonderful way to structure some of the free writing I do and attempt to break my sick-stomach aversion to my blog.

I know its been too long – and I don’t want to do all that justifying apologising stuff which I know is tiresome but I am sorry for not coming on and saying I was taking a break. So if you wondered – I am, wholeheartedly, sorry.

I’m hardly shy of spilling all on here and have given ample evidence of that in the past but this one isn’t really all my story so suffice to say; I am older  -hard to deny given our attachment to the linear nature of time – and wiser – I can now make custard without curdling it and in equal measures,  disillusioned with our legal system and still glad for it being there.

Some real world shenanigans left me mute here. I hated it – I couldn’t even bear to look at the site. The fracturing of my old hard disc gave me ample excuse to truant indefinitely but it was a constant small ache behind my ribs. An insistant sharp corner that wouldn’t let me rest easy and I hoped a bit of exposure could clean the place out for me.

Which it must have – because here I sit.














The kids are, as always, amazing. There have been festivals, celebrations, cooking, days out, new experiences, tantrums, daydreaming, quite a lot of cake and change- embraced change – between a gazillion beautiful things.

I’d really like to start sharing some of them again.


Look – LOOK! – thirty poems in thirty days. (Admittedly, not every day…) It still feels like a very small, personal miracle. Personally – I take my wonders where I find them. I have so enjoyed NaPoWriMo and loved the prompts set every day.

The last prompt is to take a short poem and invert each word to turn it inside out. I’ve chosen;

The Taxi

Amy Lowell  

From Sword Blades and Poppy Seeds By Amy Lowell


If you come towards me

Space lifts silent life

Unlike a taut string.

You whisper against me away from inverted dark matter

Or murmur out of the furrows little calm.

Fields leaving slowly,

Many before included,


Press me closer to you,

Shadows of the country smother my ears

Now you can be blind to the back of my head.

Than shouldn’t you come to me?

to heal yourself beneath the soft centres of the day.


Day Twenty-nine


Colour prompt.




Red is for fire engines

And tomatoes.

For all those poems

Written according to the rules

chalked up on the blackboard.


Now red is the blood on my thighs.

Red is the mist over my eyes.

The ink in the pen that marks me.

The smell of the wind that howls-

meanly- in the space inside me.


Now I know colour is all in the bend of the light.

The mystery behind my eyes.

We are all motes dancing.

I guess the rules are broken.



Day Twenty Eight


Golden sunshine dripping lemon curd.

Whip butter, egg and acid juice into dutiful place

See – watch my hand capable of this domestic miracle.

I deserve sweetness spread on bread.

Clever hands bonding the disparate.


Don’t think I can’t see you there

lined up and ghostly – applauding

my small miracle.

Gravely we nod womanly heads

I set my lever – flex my whisking muscles to move the world.



Day Twenty Seven

Prompt: Ten things found at an auction house


Drowsy, heat drenched day in the dusty rooms.

What sent my idle hand aloft – to bid – on a whim?

Seeded by some drifting dandelion prompt blown

by the sly goat eyed stranger dressed head

to toe in good tweed. Smart cane, hat tilted over horn.


Lot sixty three, Splintered, stencilled – bound with steel

heaved home. Breathlessly.


Now sat cross-legged – tea in hand, fragrant brew.

to prise it open. Impatiently.


First a cacophony of jumbled shapes snarled about with wools and string

Odd screws, unknown coins and here,

a key. Rusted, curlicue and heavy.


Next a strata of wooden edges. A cup bound with gold

Black bog wood – blood wine stains – reeking of holy

wooden teeth, satin smooth – scented with apple.

Here; Mahogany – ship in a  bottle. Beneath this haul

A knot that needs unpicking. Thick lustrous rope. Like

holding seaweed – or some semiprecious pearl umbilical twisted in the propeller

of a tin model plane. Golden B clanking, I trace the AE on the cockpit before

Swooping to land it.


Rolling on the bottom – a stoppered test-tube wrapped in an envelope

postmarked Porlock. Inside- the middle of a poem, strangely haunting.

Snagged in a corner a flagscrap of vibrant yellow silk -sewn to the edge a list of

secret runes – a chemical shopping list.


Late afternoon light slides in like syrup – slipping to the bottom

of the chest as I tilt it out of place

to check I have lifted every listed secret up to my face

to be inspected.


With tender shock I see a ragged edged moth pinned to the wooden slats.

Silver headed stabbers. Demanding relentless things.

She turns her furry head. Hope she sings.



Twenty Six


shouts ripple in the air

reflecting refracting

chlorinated joy



Day Twenty Five


Ballad prompt


The Ballad of Mick Philpott


Back bent under the sheer

Press of six bodies draped there.

Surely children are heavier

for a father to bear?


Standing stubborn at the dock

Fingers a sieve to pass tears through.

Pressed unwillingly out by the shock

In our eyes as we silently watch you


And judge. For you are unrepentant.

Prison’s not where you should go.

You swear blind- you never meant it,

Sure you’d turn out to be a hero


In the ballad of your own life

you were always the puppet master.

Keeping control with the tip of your knife

Who knew it would end in disaster?


Back bent under the sheer

Press of six bodies draped there.

Surely children are heavier

for a father to bear?


Barrel chested and lordly in reports

Clear now you only loomed so large

up against your chosen child bride cohorts

Throned like a rajah in their regard.


Back bent under the sheer

Press of six bodies draped there.

Surely children are heavier

for a father to bear?




Day Twenty Four



Who made you woodlouse herder

darling? Fiercely intent

and crouched in frowning concentration,

You guide them

with soft voice and occasional gentle poke

from a dirt rimmed finger, tender

with care and hope

for their survival despite my thoughtless feet

and casual moving of pots.


Face pregnant with worry you will rescue them,

righting the fallen.

Occasionally cupping them in an reverent, hot palmed hand

to stroke the waving fringes

of their legs.

Day Twenty Three

Who put these pictures into my head? Who planted these seeds?

Who fed me these lines? Was it Sylvia, Dolly, Nancy or Jane?

Why did I think it had to hurt, to ache -to pain?


How could you think that love meant sliding

down a wall to rest your head blindly.


Long early hours in a green vinyl chair waiting,

scraping for reasons to appease them

when finally it’s your name they’re calling.


Tight rope walking for approval

saying; never mind, it doesn’t matter, that’s fine.

Until you’ve forgotten what it was that you wanted

what you were dreaming – too busy pleasing.


Who said

Love meant


Watching your hand break the cup you like best

like a wave falling down on the beach

turning in the  page empty of story

to find no grain in your harvest sheaf

To sit in the gutter rotten and putrid with grief



To feel your heart swell at the injustice

the sadness. At feeling alone in your own home, out of place.

When you look in the mirror and see nobody there

Who said you should suffer for it, be racked with despair?


As you lie awake feeling your heart beating time with his breathing

and fists curled, find yourself dreaming

of smashing the pan down

on his face.


Why did you think that you need to submit to the sadness

Make windows rattle with the rage and the madness

send obscenities scattered to grey skies.

Storm off, run out, slam doors. Never pause

casting yourself out to the edges that cut you.


Then creep back and beg back – to take up the burden

because love is for hurting.


Who said this? Where did you read this? Who dripped this poison,

Viscous and clear, slow drip drip drip down the thread to your ear?

who set your feet on this path to distress?

Who ever said that this model was best?

Who said this system was the one you had to adhere to?



Leaning by the window as my slow train slides into the station we’ve been aiming for. Weary bent arrow.

Through blocked lines, mudslides, mixed signals, pileups – missed connections.

Footsore, armsore – weighed down with baggage.

To see you

standing up from your bench where you have been waiting.

Quietly, patiently – inscrutable.

Knowing I would arrive eventually on a train. Some train.

and I would like to tuck my arm into yours and

walk home in the drizzle, feet dipping unnoticed into puddles

of splintered lamplight at our feet.


So now I tell you. This is love.


Day Twenty Two and confirmation of my time travelling skills…


because it’s Day twenty four’s prompt. Gah!


Anagram of Laura Parsons

Arson rasps; our soul snarls to pour

Sour slop pus on our parasol parlour.

No oar, no spur, no spar, no roar

Nor loan us a polarspan, a soap lunar


Alas, a sun uproar as a sauna

also, soul-plan scorns our aura