Pursed lips and tongues of pearl
Whispered us existence
On the radars of strangers
Who exercising no prudence
Haunted rattlesnake rivers
Spitting pebbles
Legends gushing at the tip
Of blackberry bushes
Swinging us stringed up in cats cradle
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Mr Grief Crow & Golden Joinery
Like a bull in a China shop
Mr Grief Crow dashed to and fro
Sentimental values perched in our throats
Do not take from us we begged
But Mr Grief Crow croaked, ‘break what ya mend, sew what ya broke’
And with golden joinery
we bend what we know.
This was inspired by this prompt
I Cried For A Crow
I cried for a crow
I hardly even know
Sometimes I wish I could harden my heart
But everytime I try
Somethin’ always gives me a start
And I’m back to cryin’
For a crow
That I hardly know!
Surplus to requirments
I’m a frazzle of lion’s tooth
blow me away and ya find flotsam growin’ roots
me thumbs trapped betwixt me braces
as I play chicken by nobody’s rules
careenin’ as I mean to run
round sharpest corners
stragglin’ offshoots on the stems of me breath
a rattle of nettles and neurosis
I’ve become the urbans wilds
no doubt I’ll be soon be eaten
by the jaws of machines
at the behest of the councils’ wiles
after runnin’ feral, labeled ‘surplus to requirements.’
Authors note:
This is written inspired by today’s prompt.
This is an offshoot; this poem could be said of a growing manic neurosis, the parts that remain wild at the edges, too anxious to tame.
It relates to the themes in that it’s ultimately about belonging or lack thereof and becoming excluded, yet remaining at the edges.
Haibun Monday on a Tuesday night.
Highways of buttercups and daisy chains yellowed the green earth, the sun scorched upon us a new dawn and sunflowers raised and turned their heads with worship, eating its fill of rays.
Ice cream vans sing their siren call, we chase it beneath treacled air like pavlov’s dogs our tongues lolling out from our mouths.
The benches were stocked
full of couples, purchasing
a kiss from the sun
belated post based on the prompt here
Sunday whirl: lions tooth
Seeds of dawn sit on the horizon
Peace become our island
A wisp o’ old lions tooth
we breathe our blunders go
A stream of space to take root
on the breeze we row
Words of the day prompt: Convivial, hotch
Is it per’aps your convivial nature that ‘as us swingin’ from the chandelier
With delightful intent
To light up the room
As we grace uselves in’t presence of yorn?
I’ve not much fit for a king
I can’t dance an’ I certainly can’t sing
So’s supposin’ I don’t quite get the hotch outta me step
An’ I quibble at me face with me ‘ands
Would ya (sorry you, Sir) still measure me jests
With a clap and a laugh
Mebe a hoot if fancy teks you to such place?
And incase in you forgot me name, It’s Wilbert Walter
Gorbert
You may ‘ave ‘eard me called Gorbet Sideburns
In reference to the ‘air on me face.
Britain’s absences speak louder than we ever could
A pregnant silence perched itself a hawk
we lumbered cheek by jowl
a birds eye view of us screeched and squawked
our eyes intent, we prowled
seeking comfort in anything that remained
but parched our tongues twist, dried
words hurt what’s left
what we don’t hear is yet said
we sought the wilderness
but all we found was…
dead.
I was born
larvae
on this island
a carcass
This is Britain.
The UK is one of the most nature-depleted countries in the world.
It is said we’re a nation of nature lovers, no.
We call our teams ‘Lions.’ But we’re liars
there is no lion heart on these isles
just picturesque places people stop by and say, ‘Isn’t it beautiful.’
A snapshot of something green, and people reckon their hearts have been filled
but all I see and feel is absence.
Fabric Of Time
Time threaded pinks and greys
the carillon surmised
Eras weaved fabric
thrashing and whipping on the washing line
Hours Cloaked as raptors
turning the seasons in their wings
An eloquent ballet
Collecting the frayed ends of generations
Since called into apparitions.
A peculiar comedy
There is a peculiar comedy to rubbish
Drawing from us capital
A rat race to refusal
Of extinction
We are all here, criminal
Making trenches to hide the nuance
That folds us into animal
We are all here, origami children
Hemmed in at the edges
Becoming nuisance
All bring crushing impact
With a grudge to hammer home with.
Needing no rehearsal to contradict
As we lay inside this labyrinth, the matrix
Bourne by identities.
In short, we are addicts
Living at the tip.
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