#NaPoWriMo2025 #Day17 #FeatheredKin

Feathered Kin

We met in the liminal

circle of stone on sand.

You followed the crows through rain,

I called the choughs from the cliff-edge.

We speak in a language of feathers—

pushing each other out of comfort zones,

laughter like the corvid’s call, four caws a warning

and our battle cry of sovereignty.

Now we walk chalk grass lands unseen,

claiming stars as sisters,

leaving charms in ash and samphire,

the door between worlds wide open.

#NaPoWriMo2024 #Day17 #allthepeoplerejoiced

ALL the people rejoiced

I saw it out of the corner of my eye.

A poster, Zadok the Priest.

Suddenly I was transported

My 15 year old self

proud member of

Havering Youth Choir.

I had sung the song

to a piano accompaniment 

I wasn’t prepared for

an orchestral arrangement 

oboes, bassoons, trumpets, strings

the subtle strings, building

to galvanising crescendo of trumpets

acoustics bounding round

St Andrew’s Church

leaving absolutely no doubts,

that ALL the people rejoiced.

 

 

#napowrimo2022 #day17 #bootdogmystery

“Boot Dog”

And the mystery of the missing rocket lolly.

I was always very smol,

this is a fact recorded in poetry elsewhere,

however, when I was even smoler,

Uncle Dave had a VERY BIG dog.

A Weimaraner, I’ve had to

Run down stairs and ask my dad

the dog’s name, he was called,

according to my father “Boot Dog”.

I remember, being at my nan’s,

sitting in the living room,

on a sultry summers day,

cooling myself with a rocket ship lolly.

This hefty grey ghost,

eyed my scrumptious frozen

treat. Squeezed his not inconsiderable

frame up onto my miniscule lap.

He was gentle, but determined,

with his lengthy rough tongue,

lapped up yellow, orange and red.

My petite little legs failed as levers.

My outraged utterances unheard

70lbs of sturdy dog makes quite good

soundproofing. Mum pops her head round

Says “You ate that fast”. Boot Dog lols.

#poetspagansandwomen #NaPoWriMo201 #day17

 

Poets, Pagans and Women

Poets, pagans and women

obsess about the moon

(men want to stomp over it

but that’s a different phenomenon

I think). 

I checked, the last

seven years of NaPowriMo,

each have seen me pen

poem after poem about

the sexy lunar rock.

They are not all

complimentary.  I recall

shaking my fist at her,

calling her stupid moon egg.

the poets, pagans and women agree.

 

Every full moon

we rage like lunatics,

charging water and terrestrial

rocks and ourselves, don’t let

your witch batteries run out.

Mama moon rules

our cycles, guides intentions,

witnesses our forgiveness,

applauds as we celebrate and

steals our sodding sleep.

 

          Poets, pagans and women,        

might protest too much.

We wouldn’t be without her

despite her larcenous leanings,

she gifts clarity with cosmic insomnia.