The Unbelievers – dVerse Poetics

DSC_0133

Many don’t believe that I have

fears, worries, concerns,

that I panic frequently,

count the ticking of the clock

eyes wide open

in the darkest, empty, least-forgiving hours.

Many don’t believe.

 

I am a swan, so it seems

serene above

paddling like fury below

not believing in my abilities

afraid to make the mistake

when the true mistake is not trying at all.

Many don’t believe me when I share this.

Many don’t believe.

 

I go ahead and do ‘the thing’ anyway

I push myself, if diffidently

to the front of the crowd

of writers, poets, artists and illustrators,

for not to try would be worse than failing.

And I would not forgive myself for my cowardice.

 

But still, many don’t believe.


 

This week, on dVerse Poetics, our lovely host Mish asks to write about whatt we are afraid of. Mostly, and not including the overwhelmingly huge matters of politics, economey, environment and so on into consideration, mostly I am afraid of myself. But it seems that I put up a good front of calm… like the swan.

What are you afraid of? Do you want to share with us? Head on over to dVerse and enter into some poetic catharsis.

 

Refraction

When I look in the mirror

I am generally disappointed.

 

In my mind’s eye

I envisage a colourful character,

rainbow-hued, vibrant, sparkling with light.

And then my critical eyes

find the silver streaks wiring through my hair

(which I had imagined to be luxurious

but my elephantine memory reminds me that

somebody once told me was thin and fine and somewhat limp)

and I add to that let-down the bags under my eyes

and the slightly receding chin

and the crooked front teeth

and the wide hips

and the thighs too sturdy for the skin-tight jeans I would love to wear

(the kind my younger, more svelte sister suits so well)

– and I am disappointed.

 

It’s a good job I don’t own a full-length mirror

and even better that I only see the top to toe me

when in the Ladies loos at work

and really, that doesn’t count, because it is only work.

I come to life after 6pm and at weekends

when my imagination runs riot.

 

And then, then, I am not disappointed.

No, I am not disappointed at all.

oh-the-stories-she-could-tell

 

———-

Tonight, in dVerse Poetics, Grace introduces us to the juicily, vibrant art of Cheryl Kellar. Cheryl has kindly allowed us to use some of her art as inspiration for our work this evening – aren’t we lucky!Herbiography gives me heart and hope – she was a court reporter by day, her artist-soul hidden underneath the precise (and I imagine) serious demeanour required for such a responsible job. Please do rifle through her website and also her blog for joyous and uplifting art.

So, here’s my response to the glorious work above, which is actually titled ‘Oh, the stories she could tell’ – oh couldn’t we, couldn’t we all?! Please do pop along to the dVerse bar and see what the other twice-weekly drinkers (err, I mean poets!) have been up to!

 

 

 

Buccaneer – dVerse Poetics

This week’s dVerse Poetics is asking us to write about shoes.

I am a bit of a shoe-fetishist. Unfortunately, I don’t have those delicate, lady-like feet that suit any kind of shoe. Nor do I possess calves that will just disappear into this season’s knee high winter boots with ease. Much like my little-girl desire to be a prima ballerina (before I saw the light and realised that writing was the only way!), my dreams do not match the reality of muscly legs, and ankles that tend to puff up a little as soon as I get out of bed in the morning.

So, here’s my take on footwear. And dreams. Enjoy!

Please visit dVerse to read the other thoughts of my fellow poets!

– Buccaneer –

In my dreams
I stride across continents,
buckling swash
with a smile and a wink
for the ladies (and gents)
who I save from destruction,
and fates that paper
and pen cannot bear.
I take a moment
to polish my boots,
inhaling the leather
encasing my calves
like a second skin.
They are battle-scarred,
and the laces that
bind me from ankle to knee
are soiled with years
of pounding the lands.
They may be scuffed
and worn bare,
but when I ease them
over my stockinged feet,
one by one, slowly,
achingly, sensuously,
I adorn myself
with bravery, confidence,
and a suit of armour
that no metal may match.
They are my badge of honour.
They are me.