What happened to art
until it was nothing but pagan symbols
of a time long ago in a
that place we’re banned
banished. The resurrected
myths and fables, stories
– some true
most not. Giants. Pharaohs.
Circles. Spheres. Phalli.
Dark, dark place buried
Searched for relics and
knowledge and misty
Sands. Time. Now a
popular virtual place
Replicated. Duplicated. Copied.
Misinformation place. That
witches seem to know
Canvases haunted by death
Decay and loss.
Among the living
Bones. Skulls. X-ray leaves.
Crumbling claws and rotting
jaws of death.
Murky brown meets dark
grey and black
Those witches of banal.
Nothing new there.
(NaPoWriMo – Day 22 – writing prompt:
Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem
that engages with another art form. – http://www.napowrimo.net/day-twenty-two-5/ )
A boy talks of professors of medieval history
to his friends dressed in jeans and tokes peering
into hand gadgets.
There is no in-between to the weather any more.
The mansions and castles have decayed with
memories and hopes
that don’t exist.
I am a mansion
with many rooms
pockets of void and mountains
that have moved
Failing to see squalor
of wealth that abides,
haunting me back, luring me to
– 21 Apr 2019 – writing prompt: Today,
I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that, like The Color of Pomegranates and “City
That Does Not Sleep,” incorporates wild, surreal images. Try to play around
with writing that doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses
and involves dream-logic. – http://www.napowrimo.net/day-twenty-one-4/ )
Think about what you’ll make, she says
I mould cold, white earth through my fingers
Pound it like dough,
enjoying how it bends to my will.
No, you can’t do that. You must do it this way.
Shudder. Think, control freak. Issues.
And why snap at me one week,
Then waltz me to the cash machine the next?
Hippie-crite, think. Taciturn. Capricious.
Be nice. Deep breaths.
Seems to be established. Into what?
Dig deeper. Bend. Move it.
Dub the Queen of Mud.
Raker. She earns it. Works hard.
An abracadabrian was the order of the day
Before we were all allowed out to play. I
Can’t think of a subject. I’m
Devoid of all topics.
Everything seems so banal and plain.
Forget all events of our
Hijacked and hoodwinked
In a thousand ways.
Jack-of-all trades, Jill-of-all spades
U and me, we
Yellow lights or white striped
Zones, to stay twee.
(NapoWriMo – Day 19 writing prompt: Today, I’d like to challenge you to write an
abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the words/order of
the alphabet. You could write a very strict abecedarian poem, in which there
are twenty-six words in alphabetical order, or you could write one in which
each line begins with a word that follows the order of the alphabet. This is a
prompt that lends itself well to a certain playfulness. – http://www.napowrimo.net/day-nineteen-4/ )
I was so happy when I heard that
you’d finally entered the
realm of the dead
converted to a lifeless mass of
stiff bones and gristle and the
dark matter that you once took pride in
Laughed out loud as I read
your powerlessness to harm and
put dread into all who cross your path or
those you follow relentlessly to steal
any life they might have had
Smiled broadly for days
heart skipping, feet dancing, low humming
in the supermarket, for all to see,
Gluttonous for information about
of that smouldering, secretive, dark, evil
(NaPoWriMo – Day 18 – writing prompt: Today,
I’d like to challenge you to write an elegy of your own, one in which the
abstraction of sadness is communicated not through abstract words, but physical
detail. – http://www.napowrimo.net/day-eighteen-5/ )
I creep in when you’re not there
peep through windows, bare
flesh to see
fresh, plump and new
no gristly lumps of old sinew
I love to know what you won’t tell
what’s going on behind the sill
if I can’t see
invade your door
enter in under the floor
this property is mine you see
even though you hold the key
I know the ghosts
that haunt you here
the ones who used to be my peer
from my vantage I’ve seen them come and go
the ones who stay and those who know
into hidden lives
questions, witness, jokes and lies
now white with age
and withered dry
my once new home
from where I spy
becomes the tomb within I die
NaPoWriMo – Day 17 – writing prompt: Today,
I’d like you to challenge you to write a poem that similarly presents a scene
from an unusual point of view. – http://www.napowrimo.net/day-seventeen-5/
The old shed
Becomes the ancient brick
walls in a Gothic mansion
in a gardened meadow
in a couple’s imagination
Becomes the tentative shield
of organic plants
in a planned and civil
on the other side of town
Becomes the bones of an
ultra-modern thermal-heated extension
in a close-knit community
of other thinkers
Becomes a molten blob of
in the accounts ledger
of a man who makes
something from nothing
Becomes the enriched soil
of new gardens
in a neglected house of
Becomes a piece of art
in the mosaiced glass,
tiles, coins and willow-patterned crockery
of the storied ground
Becomes a story
( NaPoWriMo – Day 16 – writing prompt: Today, I
challenge you to write a poem that uses the form of a list to defamiliarize the