Fox-red rabbit with snowdrop paws
peeping through the sodden grass.
Unaware that black cat ears
are just a whisker away.
A car backfires, shotgun loud.
Hind legs jerk, and rabbit’s gone.
Black cat sits, back straight, searching
reveals his sinister intent.
Whiskers tweak, he stalks away.
The floor board creaked
but no-one was there.
I heard a foot step
on the winding stair.
The fierce wind whistled
through the broken pane,
and a tree branch tapped
on the weather vane.
He said he’d meet me,
but I stood alone.
A spirit loomed.
Blank eyes met my own.
Why were we meeting
in a lonely place?
I saw a shadow
of a twisted face.
I ran to exit
through the open door,
aware my one love
wanted me no more.
At the moment I’m taking an art course, which has made it difficult to keep up with my writing, however I do intend to do something for November, even though this is not the year for me to do the wonderful NaNoWriMo.
I’m going to try to write a poem every day in November and each week I’ll pick one and publish on this website. Can’t guarantee to keep it up but I’ll give it a go.
What are your plans for November?
This week I went on a ‘Relax and Write’ writer’s weekend at Gladstone’s library, where Alison Chisholm gave us writing tasks. For one task she dealt out a pack of cards and each of us took one card. I had the three of hearts and this is the light-hearted (sorry about the pun) poem I wrote from that prompt.
She loved him with her simpering heart,
and sent him gifts and money.
She phoned him in the dark small hours,
and called him, ‘dear, sweet honey’.
He loved the man who made his suits;
the gentle voice entranced.
He loved the skill the man displayed
and even how he danced.
The tailor loved his Labrador,
and gave his heart completely.
She was his life, his everything.
She begged for food so sweetly.
This triangle of hoping hearts
fluttered on throughout the year.
Love flowed and ebbed its complex path,
showing neither favour or fear.
There she sat, straight backed, serene,
on her way to Camelot.
Weary of her shadow world,
once she’d seen Sir Lancelot.
So many years she’d sat there sewing,
in her cold and barren tower.
Recording life around the river
stitching fabric hour by hour.
What had she done to be so cursed?
Not to love and laugh and live.
In her heart her passions rose
and she longed, her love to give.
Inhaling sweet scent of grass;
mesmerised by water’s flow.
For just one moment with her knight,
the rest of life, she would forgo.
Wrapped in her woven tapestry;
her every sense alive, alert.
Proud to defy the cruel curse.
she would suffer no more hurt.
Her life now part of history,
sung in songs of Camelot.
She never met the man she loved,
but gave her life for Lancelot.
This is the picture that inspired me.
This is the original poem.
How I love my dearest Grub.
I will remember you always.
Your gentle nature; your silky fur.
You welcomed me when I came home
and sat alongside me each morning.
You explored the garden
with one brother and then the other,
enjoying and needing their company;
rolling in soft earth with relish.
Finding spots of sun to rest in.
Food and cuddles were your delight.
Your purr brightened every day.
I listen for your little noises.
I look for your warm blackness.
You are in my heart and thoughts,
We had three beautiful cats. They were brothers. We called them Cuthbert (Bertie), Dibble and Grub. A few years ago we lost our lovely Dibble and two weeks ago we lost our beautiful Grub. Our hearts are sad, but we’ve been so lucky to have them in our lives. We treasure our last cat. He is missing Grub as much as we are.
‘Empty your pockets,’ commanded the Goblin.
So she shoved her hands into them deep;
then she turned the bright sunlight that shone in his eyes,
into a long, icy night’s sleep.
She took out a humbug, made of rats’ tails,
to sooth her sore cackling throat;
then in his dreams she showed him her spell book
and her best moth-wing long coat.
Her boomerang star she threw to the sky,
and caressed her spare twigs for her broom.
Sneezing the magic dust into the air;
her light globe lit up the room.
‘My pockets are deep for my cloak is so long.
How much more would you like to see?
I could show you an eye-ball or a child’s smile
or could wake you, to ladybird tea.’
A star bumps his head and the Goblin awakes.
Laughing eyes stare into his own.
He blows out the globe and flies to the moon
to ponder the sights he’s been shown.
This was a writing task set by Liz Picken: to write a poem based on a list.- things you might find in a witch’s pocket.