Raindrops on the road
Look at the rainbow drops, aren’t they so pretty?
No they’re not my dear, just oily and scummy.
Teeth
The rotten, enamel jewel he wore
Resting on his chest like a prize
Was the result of horrific pain
A tooth that would mesmerize.
Moorland rescue
In her drunken stupour
She dropped her phone in a ditch
The border collie found it
She was a clever bitch.
Rucksack
These black and blue threads
Cross continents without slack
They haven’t worn out yet
14 years loyal to my back
Curtains
The clucking midwife pulls them noisily
The undertaker shuts them quietly
Between times, blinds are up and down
On stage
Behind the scenes
Until you’re underground.
See opportunity calling
Apply for role in the morning
Checks complete weeks later
Time given logged as data
Hands lent when you can
Helping to drive someone’s Nan.
Difference made plain to see
Rewards reaped for he and she
Is this all volunteering is?
How terribly righteous and twee
If the press is to be believed
You’ll feel virtuous but bored in this scene.
You have to dig deep to understand
Volunteering lets you explore new lands
See people fresh in your mind
Reach beyond the daily grind
Not just doing stuff for free
It’s celebrating community
I went to see some comedy last night, there was a guy who started out really well who had sadly bombed by the end, it was one of those truly cringey moments when you really want someone to do well, but they’re just too off-the-wall. However, he did have some really intelligent observations about all sorts of things and one of them was porn.
He did a sketch about voyeurism that inspired last night’s micropoem, which was a bit shabby on first submission to the world of twitter:
“Sight and memory the enemy of touch, for the addict now devoid of lust, for the one who’s love was built on trust.”
I’ve now written a longer version that hopefully conveys a bit more of what I intended:
Sight and memory, the enemy of touch
For he who’s now devoid of lust
For her who’s thrusts are built on trust.
She still believes he’s making love
Not reliving imagery that makes him erupt
He can’t get aroused from touching her up.
And it’s not her fault, his gorgeous wife
It’d be the same for any woman who entered his life
Sight’s taken over, he’s forgotten how to feel.
He pushed her towards the fire place, the coldest face in the hottest flames, the consequence of her disgrace.
I’ve flirted with poetry challenges in the past – two years of NaPoWriMo under my belt and a flurry of activity for National Poetry Day 2011. 2012 is the year to take the next step to more committed writing, so my friend James and I are writing a micropoem every day of the year and then a longer piece, specifically about volunteering on Sundays.
We’ll be tweeting our micro poems and blogging the longer pieces all as part of the One A Day project – maybe there will be some sort of fundraising element further down the line…
We’ll be choosing a different theme each day and I’ll come back to this page to add them, if you have a suggestion for a theme then please don’t hesitate to let us know!
1st January – Hungover
2nd January – Resolutions
3rd January – Three
4th January – Pets
5th January – Sleep
6th January – Late
7th January – Country life
8th January – David Bowie
9th January -Fireplace
10th January – Addiction
11th January – Chess
Lots of my one-a-day poems are now on this Tumblr.
