Day nineteen – and then there was light!

A creation myth inspired by the film ‘Allegro non Troppo’ – evolution from a coke can.  I have finally caught up again, yay!


And so it began.
A dim light
under the door
a forgotten can –
drip, drip,
slowly dripping
damp into plush.

A stray beam
of slatted sunlight
crawled over the carpet,
conjuring a faint
wisp of steam.

Drips slowed,
steam rose,
time passed,
the world turned.

Wars raged,
people died,
wood rotted,
walls fell,
then all lay silent.

One night, moonlight,
cut wordlessly through
the mossed carpet.
where no one
was left to see,
a faint hiss,
a vague undulation
of the soupy mass
heralded new life,
the miracle of creation.


Day seventeen (better late than never?)

I apologise in advance for the quality of the next two/three posts!

Did my usual thing and allowed the prompt to baffle me and put me behind once again!

The Nocturne prompt left me completely cold. To be honest I don’t feel like I have a tender bone in my body at the moment. Probably a tad harsh but I’m just really not feeling it all.

They’ve just been talking about limericks on Eggheads, so I thought that was worth a shot as a last resort.

There was a young woman called Jean
Who had an obsession with beans.
She grew so big and strong,
she resembled King Kong,
now she’s head of the Royal Marines.

Day eighteen – neologisms (is that made up too?)

The challenge for the day was to write a poem including neologisms, or made-up words. Had no idea where to start again, but as it’s all over the news at the moment and Brexit is a made-up word in itself, I thought I would play with that idea, also using the fact that Germans are great at stringing words together to make longer ones. (Any issues, please blame Google translation!)

We find ourselves
in a Brexitarious position,
a precarious condition
where our departunion
may lead to huge chaofusion,
both in our singulosmugness
and amongst Euromainers.
Time may bring some
clarification of our isolative situation –
the UK may be OK
and wake to a bright regeneranation
or, conversely,
as the Germans might say

Day sixteen – letter

Dear NaPoWriMo

I’m halfway through the month, at last, but here’s a heartfelt plea: throw in some open options, please! I’m sure it’s not just me, but I’m such a lazy writer and I struggle to keep track, so when you throw a curveball in, it really knocks me back.

Forms are quite a challenge, longer lines as well, and I confess – sea shanties are my idea of hell! Alliteration bugs me, likewise repetition, not to mention villanelles and similar propositions.

So why do you take part each year? I almost hear you ask. Because I need to push myself and I relish every task, even if I find them difficult, at least they make me write and I get such satisfaction when I can post each night.

I’m sorry for my mithering and I’ll stick with it, whatever. I’m sure I’ll still be struggling, but we’ll see it through together. To write a poem every day is a wonderful aspiration, and the prompts are not always my cup of tea but they spark my imagination.

Yours gratefully,

Day fifteen – still only halfway there

Day fifteen and halfway through, so the task today is to write about the idea of half. Fair enough.
Gone round the houses a few times so decided to keep it short and sweet again, ;est I lose momentum.


A half sounds insufficient,
less than the whole.

A half sounds incomplete,
so far from your goal.


half of the winnings
is sharing,
twice the pleasure.

Half of a couple
is caring,
stronger together.

Day fourteen and a clerihew – yes, already!

Aha! Day fourteen’s challenge was to write a clerihew. I had already done this as it was short and sweet, so it brings me onto the same day as everyone else now.

I wrote one, was quite pleased with it, then realised it wasn’t one after all, so I duly wrote a proper one! I have included them both anyway:
Piet Mondrian thought he was hip,
Leaving his paintings quite bare.
But those in arty circles
Declared him to be rather square.
The wayward staff of Chris Packham,
Knew he was too soft to sack ‘em.
I’ve heard that his cleaner, called Beryl,
Has reverted to practically feral.

Day thirteen and no ghazal

The task for day thirteen was to write a ghazal. Frankly, I can’t face writing another form poem so soon and so I went off piste and wrote something a bit trite and random. I included rhyme and repetition to at least show willing.
Happiness is a ginger cat,
a party hat,
the welcome mat
when you’ve had a fight.

Happiness is a crescent moon,
a blue balloon,
your favourite tune,
fading candlelight.

Happiness is a furry thing,
small birds that sing,
eyes sparkling.
Peace of mind.

Happiness is your hand in mine,
a glass of wine
and love divine,
if fate is kind.

Day twelve – assonance and alliteration

Keeping this one short and sweet, as I’m on a roll.

These fascinating and unusual-looking fish used to come in with the mackerel. They look far too exotic to be caught around the British coast but were quite common when I was young, Any unfortunate enough to get caught were often cut up to use as bait.

Although I gather they are edible, their emerald-coloured bones put people off! As a long-standing veggie, I’m pleased to say I have never been tempted.

this sleek,
shallow schooler
is a sprat-stalking –
prehistoric predator.
it’s brilliant bones
gleam with
emerald green.

Day eleven – MmmBop poem…

Day eleven was to write a Bop poem and, in my usual fashion I have allowed it to hold me back as I struggled so much with it! Eventually I finished it, but it’s a bit clunky.

I have also had family visiting, so I have fallen a few days behind. Hopefully I can get back on track soon…
Bop reflection using refrain by Yevgeny Yevtushenko

I couldn’t get inspired to write a Bop,
at first I couldn’t find a good refrain.
The convoluted form just made things worse.
so round I went, in circles, once again.
If I’d just found a little inspiration,
it might have helped to spark my imagination.

Poetry is like a bird, it ignores all frontiers

Should poetry be grounded by such forms?
Must we balance iambs, make it rhyme,
pepper it with metaphors and such,
add alliteration, count the lines?
Rhyming schemes still make me yawn and twitch,
I don’t enjoy the structure they impose,
though some may find them handy to denote
the difference between poetry and prose.

Poetry is like a bird, it ignores all frontiers

The dilemma for a writer, then, it seems,
is whether to embrace the form or not.
Without set boundaries, can a poem stand
or does the art just simply go to pot?
My own beliefs just add to the confusion,
so I’ll leave you, reader, to draw your own conclusion.

Poetry is like a bird, it ignores all frontiers

Day ten – portrait poem

Day ten and we were asked to write a portrait poem, focusing on the character rather than their appearance – well, at least that’s how I interpreted it!

As I’ve said before, I’m not much of a personal poetry writer so this was tricky for me. In the end I decided to write about my nan, who died about 30 years ago, with a little bit (actually not too much) of artistic licence.

Will try and add a couple of pics tomorrow if I can.

She was a Victorian doll who grew up too soon,
a ‘good girls are seen but not heard’ child,
who quietly took her place in the Family Bible,
hoarding parma violets in a cotton hanky,
scribbling in her prayer book.

Bearing widowhood stoically,
she waved one daughter off
with the weight of a warring world
on her British-Legion-proud shoulders,
dismissed the other, mysteriously.

She was a hat-pin-prickly,
panel round the bottom and down the front,
make do and mend sort of woman,
that cursed and wrote to ‘snoopy thieves’
who daily moved and stole her things.

My patchwork nan was a hoarding nan,
a musty, fusty, out of date nan,
an orange and lemon slices every Christmas nan,
a lily of the valley scented nan,
a hard to love, but I still did, nan.