Ghost – day twenty

Hello hello. Three weeks in and still having fun. Today’s napowrimo prompt was to write in the voice of a family member but I found that near impossible so wrote notes about a ventriloquist . Love


When I could not give voice
To another
I read a book about ventriloquists
How the Greeks thought the stomach
Held the voices of the un-living
The dead
The never meant to be born
How temple prophets warned
Talked in belches and acid reflux
Of a world beyond men

And I think about that day
Three years, five months, twenty six minutes and seven seconds after
You went to a world beyond men
And I stood paralysed in a thunderstorm
Drenched in grief and fury
On a busy street
In the middle of the day
With traffic passing
Emitting a dreadful feral howl
That drained from the bile of my stomach
A belly cry to the sky
And I said goodbye
To your ghost

Shuttlecock volva – day nineteen

Hello hello. Today’s prompt was to write a poem from an odd list of names for sea-shells. I choose shuttlecock vulva. Enjoy. X

Shuttlecock volva

He loved me like a shuttlecock volva
Back and forth
Back and forth
more salty than the sea
His heart

Norse god
All seeing philandering prophet dog
With eyes darker that fog
More salty than the sea
My tears
Back and forth
Back and forth

He loved me like a shuttlecock volva
Not at all

The art of being a woman. Day seventeen

Hello hello, today’s prompt is to write using the senses. I’m having a lazy dressing gown day so I thought I’d write about the only thing I’ve done, other than eat copious amounts of chocolate, which was remove traces of last nights make -up. I thought I’d try a American cinquain to give it more focus. Happy Thursday and love. X

The art of being a woman

Lavender wipe removes the mask
Toner – a cool cotton-bud goodbye kiss on her cheek
Herself she applies, moisturises and cries
Taste tears

Lies to tell the moon – Day sixteen

Hello, hello lovely Napowrimo’s. Today’s prompt was to write a ten line poem of ten lies , silly or otherwise. Love.

Lies to tell the moon

Poets do not write of you
do not make you their muse
Moon, you have no particular beauty
You are simply made of cheese

I am not the sea – so ignorant to your phases
you do not affect my moods
I can do , I can do
I can do whatever I please

And the man you kindly gave a home
does not sing lullabies to soothe
But steals seeds from mother’s wombs
To use as wind-catchers on his roof

Moon, moon, I do not believe
That grief lasts only one day
one rotation – one blink of silver eye
You know nothing of love, moon
238, 855 miles away in the sky


The star tree – Day fifteen

Hello, hello. Day fifteen’s prompt is to write a terza rima. The sun is shining so I thought I’d write about a wonderful dream I once had. Enjoy the sunshine and love. X

The star tree

Last night I dreamt of a cherry orchard
With trees arranged in the symmetry
Of a single flake from snowy blizzard

And in the centre, a single tree
With a thousand boughs splayed
Filled with stars and not with cherries

I wondered what my dream book would say
To dream of a single tree of stars
Twinkling lights to show me the way


Questions for penguins – day fourteen

Hello, hello. We are two weeks in and today’s prompt was to write a poem consisting of questions. I choose penguins, but with a twist. Love, love and more love. X

Questions for Penguins

Mr Penguin
Culturally do you identify with being black or white?
Is it the stars or the economy that keeps you awake at night?
With such a small brood, do you advocate a population cap?
Isn’t it true you once stood as candidate for the Megadyptes Democrats?
Tell us about your wife’s miscarriage and how she stole another’ chick?
Where do you stand on the NHS, scrap, feather-wrap or fix?
What about the allegation that you fiddled your expenses?
To buy fences, fishes and foie grad? Mr Penguin, Mr Penguin don’t waddle away.


Feeder of ravens – Day thirteen

Hello, hello . Today’s prompt was to write a poem using a kenning, but the Vikings were very blood thirsty so I thought I’d subvert it and write a silly poem. Love. X

Feeder of the ravens

Ravens mate for life
Are symbols of luck
The raven was the first to leave the ark
On that dark and stormy morning
Creatures of mythology
Metaphors for death
I could tell you a thousand facts
A hundred hundred thousand
But the fact I like the best
Ravens do not like ketchup

I had treasured this information
Kept it hidden behind my feathered wings
Concealed beneath my bed
I felt my raven secret offered me
a peculiar sort of bird wisdom
It was on holiday in a village in Wales I can’t pronounce
When I saw a black-breasted raven ravage a bag of discarded chips
Greedily apart from those covered in red sauce
Which he spat out to a gruff, gurgling croak that sounded like a swear-word
Ravens do not like ketchup

I will confess that I was a little heart-broken
to find out that my sauce hating beauties was the Kenning word for warrior
Ravens would scavenge on the battlefield
Feast on the corpses of the cold
And defeated – feeder of the ravens

But I will not add this to my list of a thousand facts
Hide it behind my feathered wings
I keep beneath my bed
Today I will be eight years old
Blind to the beautiful cruelty of life
Know only for certain
That ravens don’t like ketchup


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