#NaPoWriMo2025 #Day5 #Attack

Attack 

Like you've been hit by
an arrow, swift and cutting,
Hymn of waves rising,
shark in the deep, silent hunt,
wicked teeth gleam in moonlit calm.

#NaPoWriMo2025 #Day4 #WorkInProgress

Mum’s art comes in kit form,  

shipped from China.  

Crystals and a wax dabber,  

Easter bunnies and eggs.  

Sian has led my mother astray,  

with acrylic gems and designs to fill.  

Each shiny finds its place,  

a quiet world of colour and light.  

Like paint-by-numbers or vajazzling,  

 the spaces occupied with care.  

A simple task, but it keeps her busy,  

turning small pieces into something bright.

#NaPoWriMo2025 #Day 3, #WhyIAmNotAPainter

Oh honey, let me tell you, I am NOT a painter. I am a poet. And why? Because, darling, I’d love to be a painter. I really would. But let’s face it—I’m just not.

Take the young people, for instance. They’re starting a painting, and I just happen to drop in. “Sit down, have a latte,” they say. So, naturally, I sit down, we sip our lattes—just a little social chat, you know? But I have too much coffee, and soon I’m feeling that jittery buzz, like I might just float away. I glance up, and I swear to you, I see a red-billed chough in the painting. I mean, really? A red-billed chough? "You’ve got a red-billed chough in there," I say. They look at me like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah, needed something,” they say. Uh-huh. Okay.

Days pass. I keep dropping by. The painting is coming along, and I’m just casually sipping my latte—never too much, you know?—and watching this masterpiece unfold. Then one day, it’s finished. I walk in, expecting some sort of red-billed chough miracle. But all that’s left is just... letters. “Where’s the red-billed chough?” I ask. They just shrug. “It was too much,” they say. Well, wasn’t that helpful.

But me? Oh, darling, let me tell you how a poet works. One day, I get a thought about a color—red. Just a thought. Simple enough, right? I write a line about red. And then... it’s like I can’t stop. A page of words. Another page. The whole thing gets out of hand—red turns into more than red, it’s life, it’s terrible, it’s poetic! Days go by. Now we’re in prose territory, honey, I’m a real poet. And after all that, guess what? Not a single mention of red in the end. It’s twelve poems, and I call it REDS

And the best part? One day, I walk into a gallery, and there’s the young people’s painting, hanging proudly. RED-BILLED CHOUGH. And I just laugh to myself. Bless their hearts.

#NaPoWriMo #Day2 #OrpheusLastLook

Orpheus' Last Look

How could you not have trust me?  

The counter melody of your song,  

douward uncertainty, dogged your heels.

You turned back. 

Did you think I had slip from your grasp,  

needing to see to believe,
ranking sighted vision over hearts own truth.

Now I am left here,  

a ghost of what might have been,  

forever reaching,  

but never touching - Twilight Zoned.

because you let doubt decide.

#NaPoWriMo2025 #Day01 #Bewegt

Swift steps, hurried breath,

rhythms push the pulse ahead—

motion never still.

#NaPoWriMo2024 #day30 #medusaatthesalon

Medusa at the salon

The debate raged

on social media

would you rather

your daughter

was alone in the woods

with a man or bear?

 

In the salon

they turn to me

no-one looks me

in the eye of course,

but my advice to women

be more terrifying…

 

then either.

 

#napowrimo2024 #day29 #albatross

More likely to ask

does it come with waifers? 

It's not that I diss Swift,

I'm just more metal than pop,

I prefer dropping rhymes 

with cursed mariners.

A Coleridge Cutie - 

rather than Sweetheart Swiftie.