Non Prompt Poem Tea Love

Today I am taking time with the rituals of tea. I make a body scrub to slough off winter of green and jasmine bags ripped open and salt and oil and then to drink. This isn’t the bag dunked in hot water in the dubious borrowed mug from the cupboard at work however important that cup is and the gesture it makes when handed to you by someone else. This cup of tea shows I am loved. My mother bought me this deliciously thick red mug because she said it looked like a writer’s mug. Large and solid enough to not be knocked over during late night scribbling. I take the loose green tea from the tin we always kept the tea in and put it in the silicone strawberry diffuser my friend bought me. This kind of love is knowing the value of small luxuries of knowing you will be remembered in the everyday routine of life.

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Another Non Prompt Poem

The white blossom which feels late but more in tune with the blossom of my childhood a sudden thought and nose rush of the large tree by the gate that shook over us the late not late blossom has started to fall polkadotting the pavement spring has made even tarmac perfect. Tomorrow I will wear a dress polka dotted with white spots to match to meet the some of the most fierce and tender women I know.

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Another Non Prompt Poem

My love for you is still large and misplaced there is nothing you can give me but I still stole a daffodil from under one of the trees on the street near my house just for you. I can only hope you would love me. I can only hope I am worthy of love. I can only hope I have managed to embody your values. My love runs deep my love is vast my love is spread far and wide. I try to be charitable that word has been manipulated since your life time. I am made to believe I am not charitable enough despite giving what I have. I can only hope by keeping writing I am doing what you never had the full courage to do. I will keep writing because you wanted to because stolen daffodils are the most beautiful

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Non Prompt Poem

Today walking my beautiful decrepit two toned flat tyred bike to my friend in the sun shine to replace the inner tube and as he always does to note all the quirks of a bike older than both of us hoping he will not find out I am the cause of the too frequent punctures with my lack of care and haphazard cycling I made a boy smile at my mermaid hair as he rode past and saw several men hastily throwing up Vote Labour signs all the way down the street like desperate for sale signs. Dozens more than the large local conservative’s posters on the sides of the greengrocers they are out of place in this neighbourhood I hope. I am still confused about who to vote for and if it will make a difference this time.

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Poem From Day Fifteen Prompt

Today’s poem was from this prompt where you address part of the poem:

dear poem last night I dyed my fringe blue I look like a mermaid

but had to don a cling film hairband to do it, have a clean forehead

dear poem I haven’t written about daffodils or death this month

there is still an allocation for both, daffodils have been on time this year

dear poem I am frustrated with wordpress and can’t manipulate your lines

this blog is intolerant of experimental poetry and I have not the skills to combat it

dear poem I only made it out of the house once today and I noticed how light

it was at that late hour and how white and uncrumpled the blossom was

dear poem this spring has come later than last year after a muddled winter

which confused the leaves on the trees the grubby dappled foxes and myself

dear poem I am sad that I have not found a new novel to draw me in so utterly

I wake with the book near my hand and as I open my eyes I return to the page

dear poem you were written with my heavy handed typing on the laptop

not my preferred medium of coloured ink and a fountain pen today was not an ink day

dear poem I am marking the run up to my twenty ninth birthday by dressing like a cartoon

last Saturday I was Minnie mouse in a polka dot dress, two buns for ears and red lipstick

dear poem I am not going to berate you for being frivolous or lacking assonance

this poem is a thunder storm its lightning strike will break the high pressure of doubt

dear poem I will not expect too much you are a first draft I should be kind to you

I will be as kind to you as kind as I am in workshops with others newly formed poems

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In Conversation Napowrimo Prompt

Today’s poem is a conversation piece. I was talking the other day about how I was feeling really good about writing during a workshop things were flowing I was feeling confident and I was feeling like I had quelled that voice in my head which says I can;t or shouldn’t write. Sadly that voice has crept back in and nearly foiled me yesterday so today I slay the beast by bringing it out in a poem.

Today’s prompt was to write a dialogue or conversation poem so I have written a poem about myself talking myself into/out of writing a poem.

In conversation with myself before starting a poem

you’ve written lots of poems you wrote a good one yesterday the last line was great

it was hackneyed you are always banging on about ghosts and dreams everyone hates that

you are doing some really interesting things with rhythms these days keep that thing going

you can’t do rhyme schemes and everyone knows it this is just a cop out

small is beautiful some people adore cameo poems

you couldn’t even write a sonnet length poem yesterday and its not like you follow the rules

poets have recurring themes its ok to rhapsodise about starlight and cowparsley in several pieces

It is like you just write the same stunted incoherent poem again and again what’s the point?

Art doesn’t have to make sense it just has to evoke enjoy where the poem take you

why do you have to be so bloody obscure?

just keep writing not every poem works each one is part of the process

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Napowrimo Day 8 Prompt

So day eight’s prompt was to write a Palinode which is a poem which retracts a statement made by the author in an earlier poem. To make this relevant to Napowrimo I have decided to use my poem from day one

Today’s poem:

Its not too late to live on a farm

yesterday the city was at its greyest

in the rain and the gale blowing

newspapers and litter skyward

concrete crowds out the clouds

all the desperation and noise

causes me to dream of a farm

a small plot hedgerow bordered

beauty of fallow fields wildflowers

high in the summer attract butterflies

longing makes me forget I am impractical

I am desirous of the almost silence of trees

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