One Poem Every Day, Poetry, Uncategorized

Shall we meet the night? – 13/7/17

Outside our yellow boxes
Night lurks
Grinning with yellow teeth
He’s probably friendly, shall we go out and see?
I feel like my years of nights spent protected by electric lights has robbed me of being able to enjoy the velvety darkness at night. Are you a day time person or a night time person? 
One Poem Every Day, Poetic Prose, Poetry

The Planet Glok. Unnumbered.

I found this in a box of scraps of paper that I keep, it was printed out, I believe I wrote it in primary, I’m not sure. Also not sure if it was just a random thought stream or a concrete idea, but I thought it’s pretty cool. Somewhat ridiculous. It’s all the same. 😉

If I had a world of my own, there would be no unicorns. The sun would be smaller than a wonderful star and everyone would fly on the backs of swallows. The caretakers name would be Gary and he would walk slowly through the dark blue Street singing Scottish songs, and the whole world would be Irish. The corner store would sell lollipops in a rainbow whirl and the children would stare longingly as their nurses shepherd them along on the other side of the street. the nurses would b dressed in bright pink,  the children would be dressed in marbled grey and purple with grey ties and socks, and green shoes. Gary would be dressed in overalls and cary ad broom and a bucket of sops.

Everyday new flowers will bloom, and no flower will ever die until the caretaker pulls them out. Gary is fond of the flowers and only pulls out the rude ones when he has to, so the flowers are everywhere, over banisters and awnings and sidewalls and roofs and some just cascade out of thin air. if you stand still for long enough, flowers grow in your hair, and twine themselves lovingly around your neck.

In the sweet sunrise, amethysts fall from the sky, so we would wear cotton wool on their heads to catch the precious jewels. Then at night we heat them up with red fire and cook the fish that we have caught on them and then, as we lay around the fire, we devour the soft, tender, juicy fish. The next morning the amethysts will be a pale chalky pink and we pick them up and lay them under the nest of the green dawn bird. She feeds on them and when she lays her eggs they are made of transparent pink purple crystal.

During the day the men wander down through the streets to the fresh sparkling sea with their nets dragging behind them. They go to catch the fish for the night time meal. when they have caught three fat ones each, they drag the nets back o the shoe and loll on the warm rocks till the whale of the sunset rises in the deep.

The women also flock down to the sea, with their garments of purple ad red and green and blue to cleanse them in the sand. The children have all escaped from their nursemaids, and have thrown off their ties. They are a raggletaggle bunch, flowers in their hair and lollipops in their hands, but none of them have ever looked happier. Gary is keeping watch, and keeping the glassy sand clear.

Then all, except Gary, will swim in the sea, till the last fish is caught, singing the exultant hunting song triumphant with bold red flags.


Yes, it’s not perfect, I feel the need to completely rework it, but I’ve left it mostly how it was when I first wrote it. The tense does switch dramatically , but who cares? Do you? I don’t! Not today anyway, mostly because it’s raining! 😂😁

Poetic Prose, Prose, What A Fish Thinks

My other blog, What A Fish Thinks 😉

So here’s something! I also write a blog in conjunction with the Age of Fishes Museum called What A Fish Thinks.  I’m writing as a fish called Augustus who is pompous, opionated, and very outspoken, but secretly lovely under all that 😉 He can even get a little poetical sometimes, like me 😂 It’s lots of fun to write and I’m sure you’d enjoy reading it 😁 So go check it out!

I have lived in The River for my whole life. I have swum against current and with it. I have sheltered beneath tree roots as water from the sky has pelted the surface water of the river churning i…

Source: What a River is.

One Poem Every Day, Poetic Prose

No. 177 “None of this makes any sense” – 31/5/16

As I walk into the bathroom I am scared by the brown shower curtain rinsing in the abandoned bath water,

It looks like a giant sea monster, probably octopus, encased in resin,

So still and quiet, the bracken brown folds trapped in light blue water.

Later in the kitchen, my face is reflected awkwardly back from the shiny silver sauce pan,

That I have never made a sauce in.

I feel melancholy because I do not have any favourite words that bounce out of my mouth quietly fanning themselves into the world.

None of this makes sense, but maybe… when the clouds float apple green and sunshine turns to wispy marshmallow when it hits the ground.

Somewhere, sometime, this must make sense,

To have a sea monster in my bath, and a sauce pan that is used for soup.

But not here. Right here. Right now.

Here is a soft moment in the fabric of time, where it all seems to have rubbed thin,

And the universe is bottle blue, collecting momentum, as it rolls down a green hill towards a field of daisies,

Snapping the single thread,

That held this poem together.


Follow for One Poem Every Day! 

Ahem, yes, well. I seem to have given up in my idea of never posting a poem that wasn’t ‘good’. I have plenty of poems that, well, what makes a poem good anyway? This could be the best poem you’ve read all day (have you only read one poem today?) or the loudest, depending on how you read it. Art is subjective and poetry even more so (now I’m just trying to sound clever). I’m reminded of another poem, by Wendell Berry, a quote from it goes: 

Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.  

And on that note, goodnight! 

One Poem Every Day, Poetry

No. 171 “Pieces of Me” – 22/5/16

I’ve been thinking of all the people

Who have a piece of me

The guy at the cash register

Who knows I have two cats

The librarian

who says she remembers people who read good books

Apparently she thinks I am one of them

My kindergarten teacher

Who knows what I looked like when I was six

The teacher I didn’t know

Who urged me to keep swimming

When I came up gasping for air halfway through the race

She said “you’re almost done”

She was wrong

I will never be almost done

I am always changing

With each piece of me that I give away


Follow my poetic journey of one poem every day! 

Also, constructive criticism is always welcome! 😊

Our Earth, Poetic Prose

The Earth is really Big

The only time I get a sense of how truly big the earth and sky are is when I’m somewhere fairly flat and the horizon is big and flat and so far around in each direction.

The clouds covering the sky,  break before the horizon and the clear yellow light shines through.

It feels like the part of the world you are in would take a long time to travel and when you get to the edge you can slip through the gap between the earth and the clouds and keep going on and on.

The flat ground goes to the horizon and keeps on going, you’re in a bowl, the biggest bowl in the world and that ginormous bowl feels incredibly small when you think of what’s behind the horizon.

This is what I was looking at when I wrote the above. It's not a very good photo but it feels like what I felt.
This is what I was looking at when I wrote the above. It’s not a very good photo but it feels like what I felt.