My Kingdom

 

My Kingdom

A math lesson on a hot day.

Thirty children, their eyes

eager, their hands

raised and I on my throne at the back,

a fairy queen, observing

my kingdom, while my subjects

suspect nothing. 

GloPoWriMo Day 2

The Key

 

The Key

 

The key did not fit

in the lock, at night someone

had changed all locks and

now I stood outside, the key,

a flightless bird on my palm.

I waited for the 

dream to find the lock that my

key fit in. Somewhere

an old memory opened

and beckoned me to walk inside.

GloPoWriMo Day 1 - a tanka

A silly idea my friend had

 

A silly idea my friend had

When we were in Stratford-upon-Avon, a friend of mine sat

on Shakespeare’s bed. He wanted, he said, the spirit of Shakespeare

to enter him and help him write. I want that too.

In Stratford, there were tourists everywhere.

They filled the little room, they stood in the doorway.

How did he manage to sit on the bed without anyone noticing?

He was brave, I am not.

I want to be brave too.

I want to go to people’s homes

and sit on their beds

and later, I want to write

about the experience.

Was the bed soft?

Was the pillow fluffy?

How many blankets did the person need?

I want a bed that turns into a magic carpet

as I dream. 

I want magic quills and parchments

that write on their own.

I want magic ink smudges

that form themselves into landscapes and trees. 

I want this poem to grow like a tree, organically.

Now, I am not implying Shakespeare had a magic carpet,

a magic pen, a magic parchment, 

magic ink or magic trees.

That was just a silly idea my friend had

as he sat on Shakespeare’s bed

back when we were in Stratford-upon-Avon

that one time.

GloPoWriMo - GloPoWriMo Eve

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