a statement of intent

Kiddies fiddling
with piggy’s hair?

Tuesday afternoon ha’sonnet

Come sit by me
and have a drink –
a G&T,
a chat, a think.
I’m getting old
for ventures bold,
but this’ll do.

 

 

dot or d?

A little bit Sunday afternoon nerdity: 

Newtonian notation
is fine for the neat of hand,
but for those a little messy
Herr Leibniz is our man!

bee sting

My currently hideously swollen ankle (see attempted matricide) reminded me of the last time I was stung by a bee, and decided that I really needed to get rid of my hive. This is an abridged version of the poem I wrote at the time:

My hand slowly swells
as the venom spreads,
until, stretched smooth,
all the wrinkles disappear
and all the tiny hidden scars
stand out clear –
my history, written on my hands.

night songs

In response to Eugi’s weekly prompt, “Cosmos“:

The fence hums, the frogs sing
and across the hills
an owl calls for company –
and is answered.

My breath merges with the wind
softly stirring the leaves,
and my feet provide a back-beat
as I climb the hill –

to where the milk in the sky flows,
a bright river above me,
pulling me upwards,
to drown in its silent symphony.

attempted matricide

Stepping down, a sudden stumble –
a hole instead of my stepping-stone!?
A searing pain and down I tumble –
I think I’ve broken an ankle bone!
It’s blue and swollen past tennis ball,
and I wonder, lying here on my side,
when the doctor asks “how did you fall?”
should I reply “attempted matricide”?

cautionary example

or “mechanical disadvantage”:

Alas poor Spidey, poor Spidey is dead!
She’s hunted her last, and now she is spread
flat as a pancake, behind the door.
She made a mistake, and now she’s no more.

When autumn leaves

In response to Eugi’s weekly prompt, “autumn leaves”:

When autumn leaves, she leaves behind
forgotten treasure for us to find:
sweet chestnuts, spiky as a curse,
bright windfalls for this year’s preserves.
Then we fill our jars with bright sunlight
to see us through dark winter nights.

The lady’s music room

With a nod to Swift:

The notes issue from my clarinet
like Celia from her dressing room,
rising clean and beautiful
to leave me behind –
red eyed from forgetting to blink
with spit dripping on one foot.

Some poetic licence there, I actually sound bloody awful because I’ve hardly played in months. 

 

home, sweet home

In response to Eugi’s weekly prompt, “home, sweet home”:  

Kick off your shoes,
hang up your coat.
and take off the face
that you’ve worn today
to meet all the
faces you’ve met.

Breathe out
the day’s disappointments.

Breathe in
the sweet smell of home.