Nameless Storytellers

 

Nameless Storytellers

A story told and

never written, whispered in

secret, remembered.

Generations of 

women, shaping the world, one

story at a time.

GloPoWriMo Day 29

The Silent Procession

 

The Silent Procession

The orchestra couldn’t come because it was too cold.

The only music – the crunching of the snow

as the procession moved on.

That, and someone’s fitful coughing.

As if they were going to die too.

At one point, the coughing stopped.

I hope that person went somewhere warm.

After that, everything grew quiet.

Those who cried did so voicelessly.

No one wanted to disturb this pristine silence.

Surely it was more natural without music.

The snow kept falling and covered our tracks.

And soon it was 

as if nothing had happened here.

GloPoWriMo Day 28

Caller Herring

 

Caller Herring

There is a painting I once saw.

A girl sitting under a tree.

A basket of herrings by her side.

Her dreamy eyes staring into the distance.

The art critic commented on her shoes.

They were good shoes he said.

And he wondered why she stared so longingly into the distance 

with those shoes on.

And I could never decide

 what sort of shoes you should have 

to stare longingly into the distance in.

And whether there are any rules about that.

The painting is called Caller Herring.

So we know the girl was a fishwife.

She went from door to door to sell herrings.

In the meantime, she could be whoever she liked,

a princess, or a pirate, or a fish.

She could grow gills or a pair of wings.

And I wonder if the art critic would agree,

but I think those herrings are a decoy.

For no one must know that she is not a fishwife,

but someone different all together,

a pirate or a princess or a fish.

Someone with gills or a pair of wings,

ready to take off any moment now.

GloPoWriMo Day 27

Maleficent

 

Maleficent 

I have never liked children.

They walk in here, clumsy and loud,

their fat fingers all over my work.

This girl was no exception.

She wanted me to teach her how to spin,

as if I was willing to share my secrets with any stranger.

She had no talent for art.

She was beautiful, even I could see that,

but not very smart.

Spoiled little brat, used to having it her way.

She should have kept her little fingers to herself

and then we wouldn’t be in this mess.

Everybody blames me now, but how is this my fault?

How was I to know that she would go straight for the needle?

Yes, it is true. I know nothing about children.

I never had or wanted any myself.

My art is all that matters to me.

GloPoWriMo Day 26

A Piano Concert

 

A Piano Concert

I dreamt of my friend again last night.

In my dream, she was playing Bach,

Wearing a white dress, black shoes

and a large blue ribbon in her hair.

In my dream she was 12 again.

In my dream she played flawlessly, 

as she always had.

This time around, I don’t let her skill distract me.

This time around, I know better.

So I watch her face and realise,

with my adult brain,

that she is terrified.

She is biting her lip, nervously.

Her body is rigid on that chair.

And then, here it is.

A tiny mistake.

She stops, briefly, takes a sharp breath,

then quickly continues, beautifully,

like a true pro.

But it is too late now.

I see her father get up from his chair.

and our piano teacher sees him too.

She steps in and tries

to position her pregnant body

between my friend and the audience.

Her arms are spread and with her hands

she is trying to hold the room steady

as it starts to move and shake.

And in my dream, I wonder what she knows

as my friend continues playing

faster and faster,

And suddenly we are on a merry-go-round

as the room starts spinning,

and everything becomes a blur.  

GloPoWriMo Day 25

Let me sell this pen to you

 

Let me sell this pen to you

This pen rebelled against me.

This pen spoke filthy words.

This pen could speak.

This pen cheated on me.

This pen never said it was sorry.

This pen played tricks on me.

I was tricked into using this pen.

I fed this pen my blood.

This pen spilled my secrets.

GloPoWriMo Day 24

A Duet of Owls

 

A Duet of Owls

There might be birds with a song sweeter than theirs. 

Some say they sing out of tune.

Still, only her call can help him find his way home.

And only his lullaby can dispel the fear of daytime.

GloPoWriMo Day 23