The Boding

    T  h
      e 
        B
          o
            d
           ing
         Rattling
       with quivers
     of   chill   the 
    snake of my breath 
   slithers free. Hands
     slice  downwards
     into the base of
        my pockets.
         Shoulders
          hunch, neck 
           scrunched 
            I hunker on
              through Winter’s                 lucent bones,
                carrying the weight         of unease within my
                  constricting skin. Unable to contradict my own
                   oviparous nature I incubate        anxiety and 
                          doubt.  I  take            refuge from 
                                                    a cavernous
                                                   wasteland 
                                                  existence
                                                 hiding 
                                                deep in  
                                               the coil
                                               of your 
                                                mind.
                            The               forked 
                           nature            of your         
                           undulating      thoughts 
                            heats  the  cold of my
                              blood and feeds my

                                                            hunger!

Small Kitchen

Dancing whispered fear, she carefully choreographed

his evening meal, heart fluttering like a wounded sparrow

 

as the beat of his feet ground his presence to her consciousness.

Contrary to Pavlov’s dog, the lazy metronome of his breathing, in

 

then out, spawned a psychic desert. Her well-worn footwork

and gestures remained instinctive as he sang once again

 

his favourite song. She followed his lead, the subtle signs giving

encouragement of her subservience which she plated

 

and served to him with a side order of prayer. His appetite increased

as he feasted and though she fed him the entirety of her independence

 

he craved more. With mismatched souls at counterpoint

his swaggering presentation cowed her naked melody,

 

stilled her perfect timing. This small kitchen setting, was

stage made for a ubiquitous, repeat performance of

 

his potent unrestraint.

If Light Were A Woman

If Light Were A Woman
If light were a woman,
Her voice would fill the silence with words of colour and truth,
Quietly drowning out all others with sweet tones, both young and old.

If light were a woman,
Her warm fingers would gently caress the softness of your skin,
Her touch lingering even as the clouds passed a shadow between you.

If light were a woman,
She would dance slowly, filling your eyes with her sensual rhythms,
Displaying all her talents and beauty to your mind.

If light were a woman,
She would be generous with her wisdom, which would encompass all things,
Showing you a world of truths and then leaving you to discover your own.

If light were a woman,
Her love would be mighty, surrounding and sustaining the object of her adoration,
Blessing them with the many gifts of her bounty.

If light were a woman,
When darkness tried to step within her realm, her molten jealously would flow wildly,
A hairsbreadth chink in nocturnal defenses would become her herald.

If light were a woman,
Her impossibly roused anger would consume the world with blinding awe,
In the complete destruction of her own creation.

Please Forgive My Stutter

Todays Napowrimo prompt was to write a list poem which is actually harder than you might think. Here is my, perhaps not best, effort:

Please Forgive My Stutter

The the this is the day

The doors break on through

The clash white riot

INXS I send a message

Kiss unholy

Beastie boys sabotage

U2 I will follow

The cure just like heaven

Earth, wind & fire be ever wonderful

The who I can explain

Batman & Robin

Day two of Napowrimo. A poem I wrote a while ago, slightly rearranged.

Batman & Robin
Batman said to Robin, “Does my bum look big in this?”

“No, the tights look fine,” said Robin,
“But I have to tell you this,
That lycra top you’re wearing,
Enhances you man tits.”

“I’ll wrap my cape around me,”
Batman told his mate,
“I have to wear my lycra top,
Coz my leotard’s in a state,
My floral blouse clashes with my mask
And my boob tube is too tight,
So I’ll hide my tits inside my cloak,
I think it’ll look alright.”

“Whatever you want,” said Robin,
“Just decide and make it quick,
The bat signal is shining out,
And bat girl just called in sick.”

“I’m doing my best,” replied Batman
“Will you pass me my lippy please?
I can’t go out not looking my best
Now where did I put the keys?”

So whilst Batman and Robin searched high and low
For the Batmobile keys they’d mislaid
The Joker took over Gotham
And that’s the end of this tale I’m afraid.

Fat Pig

I recently signed up to do Napowrimo which basically means I have to write a poem every day in April. The first prompt related to a secret shame or a secret pleasure. I am afraid I had an awful lot of things I could have chosen to write about on this theme but decided to go easy on myself for this first day and pick something that wasn’t too difficult to write about although sharing it is a little harder than I initially thought it would be.

This is only a very short poem but when I tried to add to it I felt it detracted too much from what I wanted to get across.

Fat Pig

In the bottom of my handbag

lies a receipt

for a bar of chocolate.

I bought it with guilt,

I ate it alone,

It tasted of sweet emptiness.

Beginning – The Other

OK – So along with other members of my writing group I am working on poetry along the theme of ‘The Other’ which basically means anything that is not within my own normality. The topic I chose for my first effort was a model because this is definitely something other than my norm, I am most certainly anything but model material. I am not best please with the outcome but as I haven’t got anything better I thought I would share anyway.

The Model

overgrown cuckoo in the nest
with an other worldly gawkish grace
eyes focused on the beyond
upon a hammer striked features face
unpretty rhythm demands attention
outlandish uncommon her passionless pose
gliding down choreographed head empty pathways
she achieves her ambition as hanger for clothes