#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.

#NaPoWriMo2024 #Day15 #philatelywillgetyounowhere

 Philately will get you nowhere

I see you raven!

Corvids constantly trying

to sneak into my verse.

A poetic genius?

You’re pulling my tail feathers.

#NaPoWriMo2022 #Day15 #WhyGirlsDontLikeFootball

So disinterested in my topic, I couldn’t even craft my own words, so instead I have harvested a found poem from a Guardian article comments section on why girls don’t like football. Any original contributions are in square parentheses. I’ve included a link to the guardian article.

 

“Why don’t girls like football”

I couldn’t give a monkeys about football.

[a gallant male jumps into mansplain –

on queries about why women shun the beautiful game].

It's sad to get excited about 21 men

kicking an inflated pig's gut

around a couple of times a week.

Did nobody explain the offside rule when I was 3?

Footie is dominated by the Geezers.

I'd say it’s all dahn to conditioning.

Funny ole game, life, innit?

I would rather watch paint dry

than see (or play) [or write a poem about] a football match.

https://www.theguardian.com/notesandqueries/query/0,5753,-22147,00.html

#vegressurectionist #NaPoWriMo2021 #day15

Veg Ressurectionist

I remember being read

the Ladybird book, about magic soup, that was made with a stone, 

eventually I could read it myself.

A hungry stranger comes,. 

with an empty pot and a stone.

Villagers reticent to share,

watch him just add water.

The ultimate convenience food.

Drawn by curiosity, villagers

nochalantly wander over.

It's not everyday you see a miracle.

Stranger says with a flourish.

The stone soup could use a garnish.

Quickly people rush off grabbing

a good brown onion, wilted carrot.

Herbs pulled from the verge,

end of cabage, all thrown in

as "seasonings", help the soup

reach its full flavoursome potential.

Of course there is morale

in the story, about the power of

working together and how everyone

has something to bring to the pot.

That was the theory.

The practice was watching

my mother, like a resurrectionist

bringing the near dead veg to life.

I learned how food could nuture,

soup could be a hug in mug,

be both cure and comfort.

Mum gave up peddling chicken broth.

When I went through that

awkward veggie phase

(that's lasted full 35 years).

Her leek and potato now soothes me.

Whenever I make soup.

I am reminded that I learned 

to cut veg watching her.

Mastering hand eye coordination.

More importantly listening skills

to watch my fingers

mind the knife, all of this

while balancing on a stool.

This last year, we are again making

soup together. You approve

of the soup maker a modern marvel,

how easily it manages it's alchemy.

There is always a portion, to pack up

for work, I sup a smug liquid lunch, 

My colleagues cry into their less

sovereign pot noodle.