Peanuts are a Deal breaker

I love how you lock my eyes when we talk

I love when you laugh with me

I love your fingers tickling my spine

I love how you pull me closer and breath in the scent of my hair

I love the way you kiss my neck

I love your sculptured muscles

I love how your beard scratches my cheeks

I love to wake up next to you and watch you still sleeping

I love when you make me coffee and then drink half of it

and I can taste it in your kiss

I love when you cook dinner

and we never quite manage to sit down and eat it

I love your notes around my place

I love the marks you leave on my flat

I love the marks you leave on me

I love you

But peanuts are a deal breaker

Landscape

Theoretical Laboratory

Brilliant of pathetic? Neither? Both?

Humans, just figures in headlights and rear-view mirrors:

targets, possessions, poisons.

Trading familiarity for quantity,

no purpose, no own route,

no added aroma.

Weighted down, heave and hard as metal.

…….

Design the new cycle –

Job? Serve, embrace, listen.

___

This is what I call fun! Although I ended up with a rather dystopian poem.

I would love to do this in the proper cut-words-our-of-newspapars way but I don’t have any at hand. Instead I used a book (no scissors were called into action). I bought this book about three years ago and is still pristine as the day it came home with me. It is called ‘Periodic Tales: The Curious Lives of the Elements‘ by Hugh Aldersay-Williams. And I have no idea why I haven’t read it yet. I don’t have an explanation.

Writing 201: Landscape

Drawer

I dream about you at night –

about your secrets and treasures and lies

I spy on you, I plan.

The day I touched you,

caressed you, probed you the very first time –

the overwhelming desire to posses you

has consumed my mined.

You act as nothing happened, unmoved

hiding behind walls and locks.

Your silence mocking my efforts –

no squeak, no creak, not even whine

to my desperate break-in tries.

My knees are chaffed, my fingers bleed

Oh how I wish to know where is your key.

––––

Phew…I was really struggling with this one.

Writing 201: Drawer

Fingers

The earth is soft, dark and damp

ants clim over my mountainous fingers

I feel a bite – I’m trespassing. 

I brush the soil, gently first,

but I can’t resist the urge.

My fist intrudes the cradle of life –

cold, kissed by the morning dew,

dirt hides behind my fingernails.

I dig deeper but the earth is fighting back

my fingers sting and burn and

I can’t stand the pain anymore.

I withdraw. 

My hand is red and black, the hand

that disturbs the earth. 

Earth is fighting back.

___

I was very torn whether or not to include a comment on this poem or not. Especially because instead of talking about the environmental crisis we are in and which I’ve tried to express in my poem – I actually wanted to mention fingers as tools for communication. I did a writing course few year back and there was a girl (whose name I don’t remember and it is driving me absolutely crazy) who was and I guess still is a puppeteer. She also was and I hope still is an amazingly talented poet. I loved her poems. I will never forget a line she wrote ‘my hand is a naked puppet’ and it was the first thing that popped in my head when I read the assignment for today. I’m sure you know someone who ‘talks with their hands’, use them to emphasise emotion and when you are in different country and don’t speak the language – how many times have you used the pointing technique? Fingers have their own voice – whether it is the official sign language or one that we use without even realising.

Writing: Fingers

I am a Hero!

I jumped on the busy train to Brighton
Gatwick airport – finally got seat
Mildly lost my way to hostel
But not too lost to hurt my feet
The bunk bed squeaked with every turn  
Scared to move, just wished for sleep
My bed fellow’s and mine ears burned
Both nervous about  - BEEP BEEP BEEP
I was up at six, pretty ready if you ask
Changed into my running gear
Mind focussed to task
Made my porridge and my tea
The morning was frosty but sunny
And the Brighton beach serene
Crowds started to gather quickly
Soon the pens resembled sardines
Ten, nine, eight and so on till start
The elite sprinted - we not so much
Four minutes when we finally crossed the start
Off we went with James, our 2hours pacers lad
First mile, damn it’s crowded - 
kept following the purple flag
Mile two and the ascend started
And didn’t finish till 4 and half
Narrow routes and elbows fights
Everyone wanted to go downhill fast
I said good bye to the pacer group
found a gap and zigzagged past
I chose my pace and stuck to it
Mile five, the gel was out
Mile six – almost half way there
Seventh came and went
I chose my pace and stuck to it
Except when the cold wind bit
My wind jacket's bound too tight
Round my waist, had to stop to clear the mess
Mile eight I felt bit bored
Water station after ninth
Sipped and sucked another gel 
Blackcurrant! What was I thinking?
Mile ten, just three too go
Mile eleven, almost home
Mile twelve when I saw the purple flag
So I sped up
Mile thirteen and my lugs now hurt
I could see the finish line
Few more steps and I’ll have my medal
Here I go - my first sub 2 half!

__

Ok, I admit I lost the ballad-y feel pretty early on and I am very much distracted and happy about my first sub two hours half marathon – that was yesterday 1:58:42 in Brighton so please forgive me 🙂

This is happy me 🙂

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Fog

I seek the sadness in the crowd of seven faces
I'm surprised by so many.
As a child I prayed every night
I asked God for forgiveness that only I could give
- but how do you forgive fear?
I stand inside this dead house sheltering 
my heart colder than the frigid limbs hidden 
in the coffin
Maybe one day I will forgive
but not today. The dead body will not change it. 
Then I remember.
You are still alive. 

––––

I’m having so much fun attending this writing class – I’m looking forward to the weekend just to read some of the other poems and meet new people. I have only managed a fraction so far and I am impressed by the talent that is here. Well done you folks!

Writing 201: Fog

Homo (genus) H. partius (species) of Animalia (kingdom)

You make me laugh! Thursday, the new

Friday? Oh, hun that is so last centu

ry. Monday is the new Sund

ay and Tuesday is the

warm up to

the we

ek

en

d!

D

in

ne

r, glass of wine or two

_

gets you ready for the date

night – Wednesday if you

must ask – love hidden in

a cocktail bar. Thursday’s

when the real fun starts;

office meeting in a pub e

nding in the 80’s bar. Fri

day? Who cares my dear

? Friday doesn’t count.

No one remembers it

anyway!Wake up w

hen the sun goes do

wn greeting Saturd

ay’s night – and

greet it all nigh

t long! There

‘s no other w

ay! Kicked

out of the

club? S

top for

Sun

da

yr

oa

st

an

dn

ev

er

le

av

eb

ef

or

et

he game is lost. Or won. In

which case we just go on!

_

Oh sweetie, Thursday, the new Friday? That is so last century.

___

This was exhausting! I’m going to bed.

Writing 201: Animal

 

 

 

Roy, the Toxic Boy by Tim Burton

Roy the toxic boy
.
To those of us who knew him
– his friends –
we called him Roy.
To others he was known
as that horrible Toxic Boy.
.
He loved ammonia and asbestos,
and lots of cigarette smoke.
What he breathed in for air
would make most people choke!
.
His very favorite toy
was a can of aerosol spray;
he’d sit quietly and shake it,
and spray it all the day.
.
He’d stand inside of the garage
in the early-morning frost,
waiting for the car to start
and fill him with exhaust.
.
The one and only time
I ever saw Toxic Boy cry
was when some sodium chloride
got into his eye.
.
One day for fresh air
they put him in the garden.
His face went deathly pale
and his body began to harden.
.
The final gasp of his short life
was sickly with despair.
Whoever thought that you could die
from breathing outdoor air?
.
As Roy’s soul left his body,
we all said a silent prayer.
It drifted up to heaven
and left a hole in the ozone layer.
.

The search by Barbara Marsh

 

I questioned everything alive –

beetles, daddy longleg spiders,

the crayfish at the bottom of the yard

in Mr Sampson’s pond, the pond

that appeared and disappeared

with the rain and provided frogspawn

for my bucket. I kept it in the garage,

watching as it became small-tailed beings,

before the squatter bodies, their struggles

to evolve and survive without being

eaten by their own kind. The harm

lay in forgetfulness and I don’t remember

that they died; I can’t recall what I did

with them. Perhaps I put them back

in the pond, or took them to school,

poor little black dots of anxiety,

their only world red plastic, seconds wide.

 

From To The Boneyard