Category Archives: StaPoWriMo 2016

On encountering the pearly gates

 

On encountering the pearly gates

Goodbye is unexpected.
If the gatekeeper isn’t St Peter it must be her,
my first mother.

She smiles a weird smile which I think
means welcome.

Goodbye I say, smiling back and she grabs hold
of the gates and lifts them up,
then lifts them higher.

I remember my birth certificate with crane driver
inked under Mother’s Occupation.

I duck under and we stand there
not knowing what should happen next
and wondering if we’ll end up

doing whatever it is together.

House of the Rising Sun

House of the Rising Sun

That’s all for this week, see you
next week.

That’s how he always signs off,
good ol’boy Brian Matthew,
radio DJ extraordinaire.
His unmistakable tones
celebrating the music of my era,
sunrise on Saturdays since time began.
Sounds of the Sixties and before that
in the glorious decade itself
never-to -be-forgotten Saturday Club.
The music will always live on:
Beatles, Rolling Stones, Kinks, Animals etc.
But what of Brian… and me?

That’s all for this life, see you
in Strawberry Fields Forever.

 

PS: If this is the end of StaPoWriMo2016, as Robbie has hinted,
I’d like to thank her and Martin for such thought-provoking prompts.
Breakfast will not be the same!

Day 30

The Last…?:   Well, here we are at the end of another 30-day poetic marathon! (Methinks Martin doesn’t know there are 31 days in October. Will there be a final prompt tomorrow? [RMB])

Think of something you couldn’t possibly do without. Now, consider having to face up to savouring it one more time before it vanishes forever.

The last book? The last cake? The last elephant?

Write on!

 

 

Coming ready or not

Coming ready or not

ten, nine…

You’ve run off to hide.
I wonder where?
When the countdown
comes to an end
I’ll be free
to seek you out.

eight, seven…

This counting has
gone on far to long.
We are too old
to be playing games.
Let’s get serious
before it’s too late.

six, five…

My eyes are shut
as I count but
I can see you
in my mind’s eye.
You are always there.
I must find you.

four, three…

Is your hiding place
untraceable or have you
left me a sign?
I’m counting on
finding you. Are you
counting on being found?

two, one… ZERO.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Over-egged

Over-egged

I’ve always had a sweet tooth,
not least as a child.
It was a big ask one year when
Miss Smart our Sunday School teacher
suggested we all gave up sweets for Lent,
keeping carefully those given to us and
bringing them in to her on Easter Sunday.
She would send them to poor kids
whose parents couldn’t afford any.

Must have had a crush on Miss Smart
because I was very keen to please her.
Not a single sweet passed my lips
for the duration and I collected them
in a large tin under my bed.

Awoke early on Easter Sunday and
took the lid off the tin, full to the brim.
Festive eggs, toffees, peppermints, licorice,
nougat, fudge, the odd gob-stopper or two.
Popped a fruit pastille into my mouth,
lay back in bed savouring the moment.
Couldn’t resist trying a chocolate,
rather a scrumptious strawberry cup.
In no time at all the tin was empty,
bedroom floor scattered with wrappers.

Suddenly felt queasy and only
made it to the bathroom just in time.
Even worse was the thought of facing
Miss Smart later that morning.

At breakfast eyed warily the man-eating
monster of a milk chocolate egg
presented to me by dear old Mum and Dad
with my name on it in sugary icing.