One Poem Every Day, Poetry

Take Your Boughs – 12/8/18 (A Month of Poems)

I wish I had a violin

So in winter I could stand beneath the empty trees

And whistle up a song to fill their boughs



One Poem Every Day, Poetry

Gale force – 11/8/18 (A Month of Poems)

I was woken by the wind today,

It was rattling the wall away,

Everything is bending half,

Giant trees and that giraffe.

It could blow me off the earth,

And drop me back down in Perth.

Twigs tossed hard against the tin,

When the the wind eats the leaves with a grin.



Yesterday’s poems here and here.

One Poem Every Day, Poetry

Tangent – 10/8/18 (A Month of Poems)

It started with a raindrop and ended in a tangle of mud and unconquerable trees pushed over, their leaves green and dripping, shaken and thrown down. The mud slicked across the mountain face, connected with yards and yards of forest. Even in the caves of Killarney they feel a tremble in the ground, it is the fallen, and it is the sleep of giants.


After the tremble the wind in the Killarney caves brushes softly over faces, hand and leaves. Like a father, gentle with his first babe, afraid to use his strength, her fingers are like the tiny shells that she will later pick up off the sea shore and leave in the back of the car. When she has forgotten them her brothers will crush them when they stomp into the car, and she will learn how sand is made. She will find the destruction just as beautiful as the unbroken beginning. The sand will never come out of the carpet no matter how her mother vacuums and Dad will take her hand and say that’s just how life goes. His fingers are still so big and rough compared to hers.


When they sell the car, the young couple that buys it won’t even notice the stray sand caught in the grey carpet fibres in the back, they’re too busy holding hands in the front. She takes the wheel and steers around the corner while he takes his jumper off from under the seatbelt and drives at a slow 60 kilometres. Watching the road is their favourite time of day, a grey-blue snake overhung by grey-green trees, they never worry about what’s coming further. When they can see 100 meters down the road, it’s enough to make them feel at home. They don’t think about the fire that they’ve heard of from passers-by, little grey haired ladies standing beside an orange selling cart weeping as they think of the ashes, old men with large noses in white singlet tops grouching about choking in the thick smoke, and artists in splotched aprons, painting the echoes of a landslide that no one else could see.


The road tells none of that of course, it is selfish and content to be safe and restful. It doesn’t know where it is leading to, no signposts. You can travel the grey tarmac for years before you notice it start to fray around the edges. Then eventually some trees show up a little ragged round the edges where the wind blows. That is your first warning to stop, turn back or take another route. But you probably haven’t noticed yet, you’ve become complacent with the perfect. The next clue is charcoal, you kick a piece off the road and it leaves a smudge on your shoe. The next piece you will pick up and start to mark the trees softly. There is no rhythm to your strokes at first, till you notice the torn leaves of some of the trees so you start to mark the perfect ones. Soon you’re marking none, and the charcoal falls from your sooted hand. Eventually you see your first fallen tree.


Standing beside its carcass, tears fall and you wonder how long you’ve been alone. You’ve been cast down here by the side of the fallen giant and you have to mourn for a while. This is your first sight of death and the mourning lasts longer here than it will later. But you’ll cry again before this journeys out. This is where the decision needs to happen. There are three paths you could take on this straight road. Listen to the trees whispering if you like, they know the answers, and the grey sky is a fitting background. Your knees are wet with dirt. Your fist leaves a hard imprint on the ground as you look up at the sky kneeling. You know there is really only one choice and after many hours you stand and take one step forward, looking a little grubbier than this morning. The shine’s worn off, but the grime suits you. And in the distance a faint crash unsettles the birds. You think it might be drums.


A bit of a long one, apologies! But following tangents will do that to you… Many thanks to any who got through it all! 

Linked to dVerse open link

One Poem Every Day, Poetry

Alien -10/8/18 (A Month of Poems)

Dark grass eats the edges of the steet,

Walking beneath the night requires steady feet.

I caught a glance of an old husband and wife,

Crossing the road, they looked scared for their life.

As if this was the first town they’d ever seen,

And they didn’t know what the traffic signs mean.

But the corners are peaceful, they hold you still,

And if you examine the sky you will see what is real.

Because the sun is confettied with feathers and fallacies,

Clouds tossing backwards into a shell or a sea.



Posting two poems today because I missed yesterday, it slipped straight out of my mind! 

One Poem Every Day, Poetry

Unseen – 8/8/18 (A Month of Poems, dVerse prompt)

The speck of dust floating bravely in an open sunny room is derailed by sudden movement in the air currents and lurches sideways, landing some 5 inches from its destination, it was aiming for your hair and ended up in your tea instead.


You are standing by a stop, there’s a bus or a train due, hear the bustle, like a heartbeat, or footsteps… It’s damp and in a flash, a moment, of unavoidable cliche, a yellow taxi leaves you drenched, your umbrella was no protection.


At breakfast a berry rolls out of your bowl, raspberry deep, it ran by your foot and over the honey hardwood floor, popped over the step of the front door, rolled down the tangled path to end up in someone else’s story


Now you are sitting on a park bench maybe, or standing in line at the grocery store, or hovering over the enveloping warmth of your heater at twilight, or perhaps it actually happens when you are running, on a trail near your house, the soft bushes melt in the sunset, you have one of those armbands to hold your phone in, bright pink tank top, joggers of course, and the wind is following you, when it catches you it is pale green and it twists itself around your head and whispers.


A wonderful prompt from Jilly over at dVerse, what would something that we can’t see, like thoughts, the wind or radio waves, look like if we could see it. I decided to explore ideas, or more specifically, how ideas come to us. Sometimes unexpected, sometimes unintentionally, sometimes they miss us, sometimes they come as pure inspiration.

This is day 5 in my month of poems, yesterday’s poem here

One Poem Every Day, Poetry

Word Talk – 7/8/18 (A Month of Poems)

“How that purple suits your eyes dear,
Makes them cloudy and sincere.”


“I think that cat is looking at you,
It’s jealous of your eyes of blue.”


We play with our words though our mothers said to eat them,
Let’s step outside of our sentences to meet mayhem,


I say “insane”, you say “sane”. I say “why?”, you say “why not?”
I say “INsane, inSANE, iNsAnE”. You reply, “tot tot!”
I think I’ll try out our accents, “That’s al’rit then innit?”
“Aye lass, and ye can be sure we’ll win it!”


We toss words like volleyballs, unmeaning
“I’m not sure which way I’m leaning”
“To the right dear, to the right.”
“And will I be ok?” “I can say you might.”
“When dear?” “No one can say for sure dear,
The moon’s never shone so bravely, and it’s all so wonderfully unclear.”


Yesterday’s poem here
One Poem Every Day, Poetry

Cracks – 5/8/18 (A Month of Poems)

These hands have scrubbed a bathroom all morning,

Battered by the bleach,

Wash them and you will notice that cleaning makes the skin dry.

These hands have turned the earth without a spade and have been

Stabbed by prickles, trying to hitch a ride

And grow, while these hands are trying to wrestle them

Out of the ground.

The mud cakes on, and it’s satisfying to the worker of

Freshly turned and planted earth,

To blast her hands with the hose and watch the water turn clear.

These hands are happy when they paint.

She makes frivolous prettiness,

No one needs another galaxy, but she paints one anyway,

And the colours fill up the dry cracks on rough skin,

Tiny riverlets of blue and seaweed green.



Om second thoughts this morning, I think I’ll do this for a month, one poem a day. Follow along to see 31 more poems like this one. See yesterday’s here