poetry, word doodles and other writing stuff
I am rising from the ashes like a drunk phoenix
Unsteady feet and a chest full of fire
Ash falls from feathered appendages
I blink at this new born world in wonder
Sea harr burnt off by cleansing fire
The cold fog lifted from my thoughts
A path meanders lazily along the clifftop
Carrying me unsteadily into a new life
Love the ever burning power
Pulsating against my breastbone
Force of life stoking fire
I shake off the last ash and begin to walk
Moments 09
The moment the blanket settles
Your heat is radiating
Brushing my skin
Presence reassuring
Heavy arms around me
I start sweating
I feel my face reddening
Yet I won’t move
Out of overheated Geborgenheit*
Moments 08
I don’t like colouring inside the lines.
I don’t like forcing my voice into a tight number of syllables and verses
into enjambment and pentameter.
I rather write as it flows, the rhythm of life isn’t tidy either.
Moments 07
You flatter excitedly past my face.
And land on the fence watching me.
I lift the lid of the bird house feeder.
Showing you packs of seed and worm.
Just filling up.
I say.
You watch.
Suddenly you alight beside my feet.
Snatching dropped mealworms and seeds.
You are unbothered by the giant human.
We both work in acquiescence.
Moments 06
Don’t sever your taproot.
Drive it deeper into the ground.
Move it past the rot.
Further into the shadows.
Deeper into time.
Along the double helix.
Let it find the light.
Moments 6
The moon
The wren
The mistletoe
Pray
Protect
Defeat a foe
Moments 05
Advisory:
“I don’t want a blankie.”
She pushes it off forcefully.
“Blankies are for when you are sick.
I am not sick.“
An hour later:
“Why are you not sleeping, child?“
Reproach:
“Well, you never tugged me in with a blanket.
I cannot sleep without a blanket.”
So, blanket it is, for the four year old despot.
Moments 04
“She is such a wee fanny!”
Ach that is uncanny!
Naw, not the swearing mate.
Sitting in a glass house; not taking the bait.
It’s just that these verbose verges,
Normally suppress the more violent urges.
She is proper scunnered!
Moments 03
Parapabambam
I‘m beating my drum
January may come
Moments 02
A red rump blurred
Is cutting it tight.
My E-bike is fast.
The Bulfinch is faster.
Glorious landing
In bald branches.
Accusatory glances
Throwing shade.
My bike and I
Are steering clear.
His piping call
Brings up the rear.
Poetry by Nathalie 