Fiction and poetry writing, recapturing the muse.
I was at the funeral of my husband’s grandfather. It was an odd experience because I’d only met him a few times and was witnessing everyone else’s pain rather than feeling it myself. So the next few poems are about what I observed/felt during that.
22:39
Scramble to replace scuffed shoes
that fails in emptiness.
Turn around the bag
so its blank, respectful
for the day of mourning,
where personality is not allowed.
22:38
Liquid comfort or liquid coffin
surrounds me as I emerge
in a world I abandoned
a lifetime ago.
Memories of threats
that were never real
splash at determination
and long to sink
my ambition.
Quickened breathing
longs to stop
and admit defeat,
but desperate legs
pump within the confines
and slowly crawl forward
until, eventually,
fear is forgotten.
22:37
Activate my motivation
through motion and guilt.
Extract a monthly fee
so I will return,
booking, attending,
sweating away my idleness,
until an itch for more
grows and grows.
Swipe my member card,
check my name,
fill my diary with plans
so I can smile
and prove to others,
to myself,
that I am not lazy.
22:14-22:35 I used with my Masters course, so I won’t be sharing them yet.
This was written on the day of the queen’s funeral, and it was raining where I lived when I first woke up.
22:36
On this day of mourning
even the sky shows its
sorrow and gloom.
A cliché, perhaps,
but evidence of its dismay
coat the pavements
and settle on those waiting.
22:13
My method to prove I miss you
is by having an extra sandwich in the fridge,
because you’re not there to make it yourself
and I’m not here when you need it.
22:11
Passing ships wave again,
smiling and pretending all is well.
It won’t always be in motion,
opposite of each other.
But they don’t realise
one ship is empty,
its inhabitants lost at sea
long ago, jumping to escape uncertainty.
Distance hides all, and the
remaining soul waves and dreams
a future already gone.
22:10 I am Enough
Enough spins on my finger,
there for now,
but sitting loosely,
ready to slip off
when you forget to pay attention.
Poems 22:4 – 22:8 will remain hidden for now because I used them in my masters course.
22:9
Connect the words
and create a meaning
that everyone understands,
or, at least, pretend they do.
22:3
Air so thick with trapped moisture,
sweating from the effort of holding it in.
22:2 Abused Fingers
I pick and pick and pick
whenever I feel nervous.
(Which is all the time.)
I imagine a situation,
real or fantastical,
and feel my nails claw at flesh
chipping away skin from my tips.
Often I’ll be bleeding without realising,
a little trickle running down my thumb,
setting into the crevices and painting
my tone brighter.
It is unsightly, unhygienic,
but I can’t stop.
A scrolling advert on Facebook
will ease my tortured skin
when I order and receive two anxiety rings.
The silver bands are thin and plain
cheap looking to judging glances.
On each ring is ten beads
taking up only half the band’s width,
but mobile around its circumference.
Now restless fingers reach towards
the small spheres, pushing and separating,
grouping and counting.
I have one on each hand,
moving them to different fingers. My skin no longer bleeds.
Scribbled Thoughts