My encasement has shattered.
The ice shower sprinkle
doesn’t register at first,
merely tickling my eardrums with fairy sparkle.
But then millions of shards dagger the ground
exploding, pounding the back of my eyeballs
as the pressure wave roils and rolls towards me –
My protective, self-mandated tomb is shattered
and my soul bleeds, splattering the earth
as fat raindrops in the tail-end of a summer storm.
I have been breached.
A deceptively tough write this week on dVerse Poetics, hosted by Walt… what does love sound like? It can be any kind of love, but the sound? Wow! I’m in reflective mood (so often the case!), and am thinking about my dad, as time continues to pass and I see him in a different light.
This is a little informed by the tidal wave of feelings that washed over me during his short illness and funeral, and the immediate aftermath. I can write differently now. I can confess to the depths of my feelings, without bitterness. It’s a release.
Please do head on over to dVerse to read other entries – there is bound to be a cacophony!
What does your day sound like?
The groan that escapes through a mildly bitten lip as you haul your carcass out of bed.
The muted shuffle of slippers on laminate floor and the rasp of terry towelling against skin as you multi-task your way to the bathroom.
The squeak of naked foot against the bath as you slip into the shower – quite literally.
A sigh this time as the soft, warm water- needles pummel your skin,
and the voice of your thoughts, your thoughts, your need to stay just there, just there forever
(or at least for as long as the hot water lasts).
But it’s a work-day, or a shopping-day, or a car-washing-day, or a take-the-kids-to-the movies day
and you have to desert your naked haven and get-damn-dressed.
One day, you promise yourself,
your day will sound like ripe cherries squeaking against your teeth as you bite into their shiny skin and the juice runs down your chin.
One day, your day will sound like your daughter’s gleeful chuckle when she found the Easter eggs hiding in the crook of the branches of the old plum tree.
One day, you promise yourself, your day will taste of freedom.
On my way home, I was listening to an interview on the Radio 4 Woman’s Hour podcast, with Felicity Ford who is a sonic artist (and knitter). She was talking about a project she engaged on to encapsulate the knitting history of the women of the Shetland Islands. This made me think about what a day would sound like (and then I I slipped into taste).
Can anyone identify with my poem?
creeds and genders, all life
is here, we are blessed
relish in the new, welcome
all, open your heart
Another week has whizzed by, and here we are again, prompted by our Francophile Antipodean friend, TJ, to pen another haiku! This week, he has offered us the word vibrant, or a lovely image of some flowers to whet our appetite. I went for the word, inspired (I’m not sure if that’s really the correct word) by the political wranglings that we have seen here in the UK, post shock Brexit vote.
I was brought up in a multi-cultural Birmingham, loved the variety, the sights and sounds, the smells of a city where vibrant colours could be seen and (to me) mystery tongues could be heard on every street corner. Of course, there were struggles, of course there were differences, but I have no doubt that I benefited from meeting and learning from others from different cultures from such an early age.
In my heart, and my mind, everyone is welcome. I don’t care who you are, or where you come from, as long as there is respect, as long as there are open hearts and minds, as long as there is love.