I attended an excellent poetry event last week, run by the Needlewriters group, based in Lewes. Their event has inspired me; I haven’t written a poem for several weeks, perhaps a couple of months, and I managed to write this today. So, here you go – a poem about my mug. Mug Comfort-satisfaction steam-feathers my mind; my mug has this aura, a soul – a presence
A slight departure from the poems of recent times. Based on a phrase that has been going round in my head for years, I finally realised I could make something from it. So, this is today’s offering. When it’s over working. When our brains’re hurting. We head through our dour-damp lanes, in evening gloom, heads down, feet pumping, guarded against the bitter cold, with thick coats and
Folk Cut, folk thrust, folk fight for a slice of life, for peace and quiet, for their health, status, safety. And folk cut you, slice you, dice you and fry you to gain relative wealth, advantage, their own ego. So where you might be prone to help, support and nurture, advantage is taken and you get shafted. Trust destroyed, isolate, life’s lonely – alone against your world,
Tea steam – I risk daze-distraction. Pot-brewed, warm. Loose leaf. Pottery pot, hand made, wood fired. Warm in my hands. Earthen mug. Tactile. Warm in my throat. Warm. In me. My plants’re waking up. Spring April day. My berries growing shoots, little leaves – greengage blossom, damson flowers. My grass is long. Doesn’t matter – beetles love long grass. Guests who’re good for the garden. Apple buds, tufty, white –
I’ve been writing bits and pieces lately, but to be honest it’s all been really negative stuff. About the environment, pollution, futlity of modern life blah…. So I’ve been trying really hard to come up with something nice, something positive – just anything but a moan! Which can be hard to do, when you’re feeling morose, as everything sounds or feels trite, saccharin or contrived. However, I’ve come up with
Thanks for taking the time to read this. I’ve not written any flash fiction for a while. This piece is not really a story or a finished article, but is an exercise for me. I’ve tried to keep the piece interesting, with rhythm and some of my own words. You might spot a deliberate debt to Dylan Thomas. Thank you Dylan! I hope you like this. Let me know.