I am not a work of historical fiction

 

I’m not a work of historical fiction

My life, a haiku.

A moment of stillness. My

bare feet on the floor.

GloPoWriMo Day 7

Honey

Honey

Its sizzly hug,

Its sibilants all buzzy,

Like velvet on your tongue.

Its taste all fuzzy.

Smoldering is its home of gold,

its inhabitants enraged.

Human or bear,

if you dare,

disturb their bed,

beware,

or you may end up with a sore head.

GloPoWriMo Day 6

 

The sound of old furniture at three o’clock in the morning

 

The sound of old furniture at three o’clock in the morning

The clock clears its throat.

It pauses dramatically.

Then, with a hint of frenzy,

it sets the tempo of a waltz,

Then grows silent.

Drip, drip, drip goes the tap, 

smugly saying ‘yeah, I’m better than you‘.

Others take over,

a choir of crazy things,

unoiled, unhinged.

They play their outlaw country classic,

with some improvisatory screaming thrown in. 

Someone rattles a rusty chain.

It is the clock again.

The time is three thirty.

Suddenly, the joy is gone.

The music fades out.

Silence falls

The party is over.

NaPoWriMo Day 5

Of shipwrecks, safe havens and wings

 

Of shipwrecks, safe havens and wings

I am not sure what the painting represents.

Maybe a shipwreck.

Or a day in the life of a seagull.

Or maybe those two rocks symbolize something.

When I was little, 

I thought it was about Robinson Crusoe.

His ship was wrecked on a day like this one.

Look, these are the rocks he held onto.

And this is the island where he later lived.

When I was small, I wanted to live inside it too.

Maybe there were mermaids and underworlds.

Or I could be a mermaid myself, or a gull.

Everything’s possible inside a painting like this one.

I could tell you more about

what I was like as a child.

Or I could tell you about the painter,

a refugee from Russia after the Revolution.

Or I could tell you about my grandmother.

This painting had been her dowry.

Later she carried it wherever she moved.

Until she came to live with us

and the canvas found its place on this wall,

where it still lives.

I guess I could tell you more about her life,

or that of the painter, or mine.

Or I could continue this metaphor

of shipwrecks, safe havens and wings,

Or I could admit that I am not sure exactly

where I am going with all this.

GloPoWriMo Day 4

I am sure the neighbours appreciate me as a poet

 

I am sure the neighbours appreciate me as a poet

While the neighbours sleep like babies,

I am here breaking the furniture

I am here singing at the top of my voice,

and I don’t even apologise in the morning.

While the neighbours suspect nothing,

I am busy plucking all their roses,

I am busy planting meat-eaters in their place

and strange little bushes that don’t have a name.

While the neighbours keep going on about

what an angel I am,

I am plotting bloody murder on their porch,

I am dancing in the moonlight with a pair of tigers,

and still I don’t say I’m sorry.

GloPoWriMo Day 3

You know who you are

 

By Klügmann Painter - Jastrow (2006), Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=668158

You know who you are

You give me riddles and pointless little trials.

You must be bored.

I tried to stay away from you,

but you keep singing out of tune,

you keep growling at me through clenched teeth,

and when I ask what you want

you pretend to be asleep.

Then you make me wake up at night,

you offer me simile as lame

as yesterday’s first drafts,

metaphors as pointless,

as they are stale.

You don’t follow rules you say,  

yet you keep dancing around the truth,

you wear this shield of platitudes,

and you hide your face in shadows.

GloPoWriMo Day 2

How Mona Lisa was painted

 

How Mona Lisa was painted

He painted her on a base of red-brown ochre.

He dressed her in iron oxide and vegetable browns.

The colours of her chest were those of red ground and bone black

The hue on her skin was lead white and Flanders yellow.

The shadows on her face – burnt amber and black ink.

GloPoWriMo Day 1

I used the following resource