poetry, word doodles and other writing stuff
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.
Starting a new series called: Moments
Touch wood, knock wood.
Ask for permission.
Respect the guardians.
Old maple, new friend,
He doesn’t warn
Of my presence.
So I sit on exposed roots
When the squirrels show.
Red, and black,
And blended kittens.
Free-soloing lesson.
The smallest kit flounders,
Frozen to the trunk.
Dad to the rescue.
One leg is pushed,
Then a paw.
And slowly the youngest,
Conquers her stasis.
Maple radiates love.
He housed them,
In his heart—Save, warm, snug.
Ms Phillipps hated me, that much was clear.
Unfortunately, she changed into the same school.
English grades plummeted from glorious heights.
Belay rope adjusting between C and D
As she became our class teacher again.*
She didn’t mind bullies as long as she liked them.
Mum went to school to argue.
Dad taught me how to box.
So I did. One of them landed in the roses.
Summer clothes make for sauntering scratches.
My loathing of this concrete box grew with each year.
Home was better.
The book selection was better.
The people knew more.
I didn’t have to mask.
Yet, each morning, gran made sure
I wasn’t truant—again.
The loathed smell of lino and disinfectant.
Teachers oblivious to teenage grief.
Reading before school a saving grace.
The shadow of past injustice.
Somewhat righted by mum.
‘Guess who I met in town?‘
Cristal clear glee amplified through headphones.
‘She was walking with her mother.‘
I knew then, in the building of the story
That today had been a reckoning.
‘She asked after you, of course.
I had the pleasure to tell her that not only
Did you do a masters, but also successfully completed a PhD …
All written in English.‘
I am still trying to get the hang of story poems and struggling with them so bear with me while I am experimenting.
*And this my friends is one of the many reasons why I am now an educator, and I do neither trust nor believe in the power of grade marks as a reasonable measure of a child’s abilities or knowledge.
I used the first line of Carol Ann Duffy’s poem “Litany” shared in her poetry course on BBC Maestro as a starter for this experimentation:
“The soundtrack then” were silences,
Where urges to shush in company.
There were two lives lived:
One public—government approved,
One private—with a hint of danger.
Critical thought was prudent.
Animadversion was foolish;
Subject to the listener.
I was planning suicide,
At the age of ten.
Wonder why?
Our teacher said the whole class is planned for.
We are to spend the rest of our lives
At the conveyor belt,
In the tire factory.
Mind, people find solace in rhythm.
The undiagnosed highly gifted ADHD brain
Planned a different career that day.
One that would end with a knife.
I remember that night,
After school,
In darkness,
Laying still,
Making arrangements,
Resolving to wait,
Until we would reach
That bridge to cross.
Luckily the Iron Curtain fell not long after.
And the knife remained a cooking utensil.
Joined a local writing group and took this one for feedback because I never liked how it turned out so will share a new version this year for Raunacht. (Nov/24)
A variation of Johann Heinrich Füsli (aka Henry Fuseli)’s painting “The Nightmare”
Gran:
She has the Kuppelchen.
The old women in the village always said.
Mum:
It’s like a brownie.
Gran:
She’s always left remains of food and drink.
Always,
without fail.
Gran:
Yeah they helped us strip feathers for down.
The old women.
Made the rounds from farm to farm.
Mind.
Gran muses.
Your granddad always had to strip the first three feathers.
Me:
How come?
Gran:
Well, I am not sure.
It’s supposed to stop the bedding from compressing.
Mum:
Yes, it’s to keep the bedding fluffy.
Me:
Strange, there is something missing.
A bit of research later.
Alp.
Old Germanic for evil spirit.
Alptraum = Nightmare.
A creature who sits on peoples’ chests.
During the night.
Also called Alpdruecken—Alp Pressure.
Me:
Listen to this it has nothing to do with the bedding.
Inherent magic of the first male.
The most senior male.
The protector.
Stops the Alp from entering the home.
Mum:
Ha isn’t this curious?
Yes.
Rituals remain.
Unbeknownst the Why.
Known only the urge.
The urge to follow the motions.
Explanations for rituals are tip-exed memories.
Yet.
Yet, the magic can’t be erased.
Scratch the white ink gently.
Until the origins emerge.
(reworked 15/02/2025)
A violent twang ripped us from a restless sleep.
The death cry of Elder Elm, like a Banshee’s shriek,
perforated the swagger of a rampageous winter storm.
We grieve for Elder Elm, awaiting daylight to survey the harm.
I was wearing a Panama hat sometimes a tropical hat,
khaki pants, or in the realm of reality they were nylon trousers my mom made.
That didn’t deter the explorer though, turning over large stones to watch all the creepy crawlies.
Krabbeltierchen in German scatter as the unexpected sunlight hits their shadowy world.
The clay of the river plain, cracked skin from the summer heat, noon flowers pastel lilac
somewhat limp amidst the dust. Longing for the thunderstorm brewing on the horizon,
as they hang onto life thirsting.
I feel the heat burning my neck; better watch it! Lest I get another sunburn and gran needs to administer the cooling gel.
I watch the wall of anthracite cotton candy threatening the silent summer day.
Only the crickets have the energy to make noise.
The skylarks rest after this morning’s efforts.
This is the moment before lightning bolts rip through the sky, and pelt the gentle flowers into submission;
before the rain sinks into the thirsty ground bringing life once more.
Poetry by Nathalie 