Salmon Sunrise

I’ve been feeling a little down lately… but with my muse in the sky, I’ll keep trying to #banishtheblues 🙂

Sluggish salmon dawn
Pure parallax paradise
Tease through her layers

 

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Palindrome Poem

I read a timely post yesterday by Annika Perry on the value of, and more importantly the cost of, writing for and entering competitions – https://annikaperry.com/2016/10/16/the-cost-of-competitions/. Ironically, I had been writing a poem to enter in a competition this morning, but hadn’t checked the small print… it was only open to members. Paying members. There didn’t even seem to be an option to pay to enter this one competition – it was all geared up for monthly membership, which I’m not interested in. So, their loss (!) is your gain – I’ve included it below. Completely for free. Just for you 🙂

This is a palindrome poem. It reads the same backwards as forwards. This is the first I’ve tried…

exposed wounds
numbness
feeling without love
friendship cresting
begets attraction, expectation
beguiling touch of reality
love eclipse
supernova emotions explode
JOY!
explode emotion’s supernova
eclipse love
reality of touch
beguiling expectation
attraction begets
cresting friendship
love without feeling
numbness wounds
exposed

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Picture credit: flickr.com/photos/theilr/296044754

Haiku – Compass

You may have noticed that I haven’t been blogging much lately – life and work are getting in the way. Some of my favourite blogs have shut down recently, and I have contemplated doing the same… I’ve decided not to. I don’t know how much writing I’ll get to do, and how much I can share with you (am trying to work on some longer short stories and fiction), but I’ll still be around whenever I can 🙂

This is something I wrote this morning. A little haiku for the lovers…

 

I was lost in love
Heart’s compass re-calibrates
Now points me to you

 

 

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Picture courtesy of : flickr.com/photos/chatterstone/21387614233

Signs

Trying to read the signs
Washed across your sky
Desperate for some insight:
The truth within the lie

Those wispy, wandering clouds
Reflect away your light
Conceal the burning heart of you,
Bring about your night

Fleeting touches aren’t enough
I’m always craving more
Yet every time you disappear
I end up on the floor

The pattern’s set, the dance goes on,
So here I sit and cry
Trying to read those signs
Washed across your sky

 

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Picture credit: flickr.com/photos/electricnude/188177613

Love’s Playground

Down in love’s playground
All relationships captured
In childhood amber

Here, giggling on swings
One pushing and one kicking,
Never together

Here, on climbing frame
A mad scramble to the top;
King of the castle

Here, swooshing down slides
Patiently waiting their turn
For such fleeting joy

Here, merry-go-round
Spinning faster and faster
Out of all control

Here, levered see-saw
Where, for one to touch the sky,
One must hit the ground

There, the lucky ones
Dusty knees in the sandpit
Building together

 

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Picture credit: flickr.com/photos/antonymayfield/8465049007

The Book of Love – flash fiction

This is my final contribution to my week of #SummerLovin… this may be the best thing I’ve ever written. Would love to hear your thoughts 🙂

The Book of Love is a weighty tome, bound in exquisite green leather. Within its well-worn pages are all the stories you’ll ever need to hear, although they can be difficult to follow. Narrative is rarely linear. Happy endings are rare. Expected endings rarer still.

By a quirk of fate, in an opportune fold of the book by the celestial reader’s hand, two of the pages met one day.

Page 37 was a chapter midpoint, full of florid, overblown descriptions of clouds and silver linings, and ended on an unfortunate joke about bottoms. The page was marked by a smudgy, greasy thumbprint.

Page 294 was very different. Enigmatic and alluring, fiery and passionate, but with an undercurrent of disappointment, the last sentence of the page being cut off midway through. 294 had the air of someone who was certain their car keys were down the back of the sofa, but cannot find them, no matter how many times they’d look. Not a single bottom joke graced that page. Slightly strangely, the reader had circled one word in the centre of the page, seemingly at random. “Birthday

And although one was even, and one decidedly odd, a great friendship grew, there in the margins, where the binding just – just – connected them.

37 would opine for days in his pompous prose, and 294 received it in good humour, responding in kind. They were never quite on the same page, naturally enough, but they were somewhere close to it. Each challenged the other, in spite of their own shortcomings, and something deeper than friendship emerged.

Each longed for the other, and would dream of ways to make it so.

To be a pair of facing pages.

They fantasised about watching the sun set together, without one being in the closed darkness of the book. They imagined starting their own book, free of the set narrative. They wished a fairytale of their own.

But the binding of the book was fixed, and it was never to be, and they continued their love there in the margins, where the binding just – just – connected them.

And if you look back now, within the well-worn pages of The Book of Love, and take a glance at Page 37, and at Page 294, and at all the pages in between, you will find that the words written on those pages haven’t changed at all. But their meaning has changed completely.

 

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