Watercolour-blue, paper carded sky, marked on crisp white labels, starry seeds. Black wells of pooling ink,
The waiting crocodiles yawn, illuminated in cool moonlight. Silk strands curling off corn heads writher till white herons set off
Across the coarse brown sand.
The desk is clear, dark,
One defined yellow square, post-it note,
Stuck there. Leaning down, I tear it sharply,
Pencil scribbles, just made out,
Says “Call back the dentist.”
I toss it and it floats curving,
A yellow square on the floor, two centimetres from the bin.
Prompt from Poetic Asides to write an information poem, remembering that not all information is created equal.
Summer takes a sigh
Lungs collapsing in the sun
Birds fly on up-draft
A prompt from dVerse, to explore why we write in the style we do, with a traditional haiku at the end. I’m not sure my response made my why any clearer, but I didn’t realise before I thought about it that this is definitely my style, at least at the moment. I haven’t put in any line breaks as I usually do so you can see it as it is raw. I still and probably always will be growing in the way I write, so this is a snapshot of me now, I guess.
I was gunna use this for Sanaa’s prompt at Real Toads but it doesn’t really count because I didn’t go out to write it, I was in my room looking at my granny square rug on my bed. It does fulfil the idea of just letting the idea come naturally, as the prompt says, ‘as Francis Bacon wisely states; “Write down the thoughts of the moment. Those that come unsought for are commonly the most valuable.”‘ This is a great prompt though, and I’d like to try it again sometime, actually going out next time!
The painter philosophical,
Tubby fleeced and rovers boots,
Sermonising, gesturing, he’s a preacher,
Half a Russian dancer,
Half wry smiles and shrugs.
Back to work I guess.
A metaphor challenge today from dVerse. I think I still have a lot to learn about metaphors. 😊
Also this is based on an honest-to-goodness real person I met today, who probably never woke up this morning thinking he would be made into a poem by evening and probably will never know that he was.