#NaPoWriMo2025 #Day21 #SonataOfTheHunt

Sonata of the Hunt: A Ritual of Whimsy

Presto

Before the annual performance of the hunt commences, eggs must be manifested through a vigil of grief and elbow barging – some eggs must be unobtainable and others must sob softly whilst trying to remain composed.

Forte

Those preparing to stalk will be issued a basket, a hand grabber and an undeniable urge to break into choreographed stage fighting, the eggs will gallantly attempt to dance, but will freeze if an adult looks on.

Crescendo

If two hunters reach for the same egg a rap battle must commence and if the egg cannot decide who is the winner it will crack and issue a prophecy through the medium of mime.

Scherzo

At random intervals a half rabbit half duck will materialise and slightly mock the proceedings with startled quacking.

Diminuendo

The hunt ends when either Jesus returns as a piñata, and children beat him with wooden spoons and lilac skittles rain from the heavens or Ostara appears demanding that her festival, though never stolen, is returned.

#NaPoWriMo2025 #Day20 #AllYouWannaDo

All You Wanna Do (Is Strip Trans Down)
(To the rhythm of “All You Wanna Do” - Six)

All you wanna do,
All you wanna do, baby—
Is smile while you write folx out of the law,
Implying some womens' lives are flawed.

All you wanna do,
All you wanna do, baby—
Is talk like you care, then shut the door.
You say it’s debate, but it looks like war.

You quote the woman who made her name
Writing magic but dealing blame.
You say, “It’s complex,” then walk away,
While rights get stripped, day by day.
You shout about facts, ignore how they live—
You’ve taken so much and still can’t give.

All you wanna do,
All you wanna do, baby—
Is frame trans as threat to stir up fear.
But they're still here.
They're still here.

#NaPoWriMo2025 #Day19 #TheBalladOfTontineStreet

The Ballad of Tontine Street

(Folkestone, May 25, 1917)

The queues were long on Tontine Street,
It was a market day.
No one looked twice at passing planes—
They often flew that way.

No warning came. No sirens wailed.
Just silence in the sun.
Then steel fell fast through cloudless sky—
By then, the deed was done.

The blast tore through the shopfront glass,
And blood ran with the rain.
The fire left bodies in the street—
And mothers called in vain.

Sixty-three lay dead that day,
Caught out in open air.
Ninety more were pulled alive—
Not all would heal from there.

They carried out the broken forms,
And laid them down in rows.
The numbers grew. The air went still.
Grief tighter than a noose.

There’s nothing left to see now there,
Just shops and paving stones.
But every May, the wind blows strange—
It doesn’t leave alone.

#NaPoWriMo2025 #Day18 #Detour

Detour

We missed the turn for Woodham Walter -
you laughed, said bugger it,
while Meat Loaf promised anything for love,
but not that, and we howled it too loud
to call Vic but weren’t making sense.

That summer was all good times -
boots off, feet in the grass, cider laughs,
hedgerows telling us we’re far from the smoke.
When you moved away, the road trips ended,
the signal’s thinner online, thread stretched but not snapped.

I keep that ride like a locket -
destination not as important as the journey.
you, me, Meat Loaf all agreeing that
There ain’t no Coupe de Ville
hiding at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box.

#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.

#NaPoWriMo2025 #Day16 #LayYouDown

Lay you down

They cleared the brambles—started fresh—
but nettles shot up fast,
tough, sharp, and everywhere.

I wanna lay you down in a bed of roses
played from the Bluetooth speaker.
The ground said otherwise.

“You sure this is what you want?”
he asked, not joking.
The nettles just stood there.

#NaPoWriM02025 #Day15 #HookADuck

Hook-a-duck, hook-a-love.

The ducks bob on water

and the rod dips low.

You aim, you laugh, you hope.

Plastic hearts on rippling tides -

you catch one, bright as a vow.

Lucky love, come round again.