Archive for April, 2013|Monthly archive page
Aha! Forgot to post day 29….
Protest for April 29th: another life
In another life
I would have a tattoo,
a tattooed zip,
all the way up my spine,
to celebrate the scar
which travels its length.
I wouldn’t tell people
but they would catch a glimpse.
I think once that had settled in,
I’d have another done,
and then another,
careful that they were placed
to best avoid the sagging of my flesh
that’s bound to come with age.
But then, I would start not to care,
and have tattoos
The final day.
Prompt for April 30th: what’s left
The dog peed on the bed.
It’s a protest, I think.
Not enough exercise.
The weather’s been bad.
It’s hard to go out,
when it’s cold,
the rain doesn’t help.
The dog peed on the bed,
so I binned the duvet,
bought a new one.
I sleep easier.
The old one was so heavy,
pinned me down as I slept.
I built a bonfire.
I put on all the other things,
a coat he used for gardening.
Stuff he left behind
without a second thought.
I found the watch he bought me,
on the ledge in the bathroom.
It doesn’t keep time,
not since I washed it,
in the pocket of my jeans.
I put that in the bin too.
That just about does it.
The prompt for today: in the mirror
She stopped buying veg
from the man outside work,
he queue jumped her every time,
serving the girls from accounts before her,
when she’d been first in line.
Walking home past the shops,
she saw herself in the window,
and finally realised why.
Prompt for today is: Three new fish
The terms of my lease are firm,
no pets, no sub-lets.
But fish don’t count as animals,
I place three new fish
in a big glass bowl
and content myself
watching them circle
instead of running my hand
through thick ginger fur,
or coaxing a timid rodent
to eat from my hand.
When I was a little girl…
She was a skinny, little woman in a skimpy red dress.
Hair like a great bush
illuminated by afternoon sun.
She staggered, no, tottered,
half walking, half dancing,
pacing and jumping,
one hand in the air,
the other clutching a big fat microphone
like her life depended on it.
She rejected all her pain
and radiated life for the living.
We stood up, unable to remain seated
in the presence of such energy,
we were electrified.
And after the encore,
we stamped, we clapped, we cheered,
red dress gone,
and those staggering heels,
she sang again,
“when I was a little girl I had a rag doll….”
Who would have thought I would make it this far? I must say some days are harder than others, like today, for example.
The prompt is : sidewalk
We call them pavements.
They are narrow strips of paving.
We scurry along them
out of the way of traffic.
We give our objects names
which describe their origins,
Our nouns tell us about the past.
New worlds label things,
according to their present function.
So our pavement,
becomes their sidewalk.
prompt for April 24th: favourite relative
It was my grandmother spoilt me rotten,
let me comb her hair,
play with her brooches and trinkets,
sleep in her bed at weekends.
I laughed at her old fashioned mottos.
Her airs and graces.
It was my mother,
raised by this woman,
who let me grow free.
Today’s prompt is: lottery
my first child’s birthday
the month my second and third child were born
the number on my front door
the age I had the best year ever
the A road that leads to the coast
The home straight, only 8 poems to go.
My sister has been doing this too and has noted the drop in numbers as the days have gone by. The poems can be Found here at 3030 Poetry Challenge
The prompt for today:
‘Get a job with a pension,’ they told her.
She walked into her first job,
selling fancy paper goods.
Interviewed for her second
working the bar in a snooker hall.
Got poached for her third,
selling high price shoes on the high street.
Juggled waitressing with cleaning,
cooked organic casseroles and pulped veg for the woman battling cancer.
She worked box office
at a theatre above a pub by the canal,
did publicity runs in their clapped out van.
She sold ad space in magazines,
crewed a yacht around the Med,
up the side of Portugal,
across the Bay of Biscay and home.
She sold new-designers into Fashion houses,
worked the night shift in a broadcast company,
listening into programmes and sending out reports at 3 in the morning.
She did voice overs for marketing,
sold children’s clothes in a boutique,
scouted for young designers,
pulled pints in a nightclub,
cleaned rooms and served at table in a taverna.
She ran a cafe in the mountains.
She ran a cafe by the beach.
She cleaned villas and apartments.
She sold trips to tourists
and solved holiday dilemmas.
She cooked for American airmen,
who longed to be home.
She sold papers and paints.
She wrote poems.
She has no pension.
Prompt for today is : this round
I must admit Im struggling now, but I’m hoping there are lines and thoughts in amongst all this that could become decent poems further down the line.
We have an unspoken rule
that we don’t do rounds of drinks.
An understanding that finances are strained,
each in a different direction,
a different shape,
and that’s how we maintain the grouping.
Moving and easing and shifting
like an old house on a hill, shifts
with whatever the elements throw at it.
We shift, we come together.