schmaltzy

I'm not happy with this poem because I don't feel I've captured my feelings about my bedside table, it feels a bit schmaltzy. But I'll post up my first draft and see if I can re-draft another time.

Smells like candles,

The darkly varnished wood.

A face scratched in at night

Keeps me company when sleeping

In my pale cold blue room.

The veneer cracks at the edges,

Show chipboard underneath.

My bedside table.

Books on top, a yellow lamp.

It doesn't creak like scary wicker.

I scratch my name in the deep brown wood,

Of my bedside table.

spider plant

Spider plant just keeps having babies.

I cut off another two and,

loathe to kill them, place them

In a terracotta pot.

Spider plant throws forth

a long umbilical cord.

More babies on the way.

But I worry about my two charges,

Limply pale in their new pot.

They're watered and fed.

And then I find a woodlouse

Climbing on the saucer.

There's more and more, tiny tiny

Baby woodlice eating at the roots.

They curl into balls.

To kill the baby woodlice would

Surely be unfair.

But I owe it to my spider plant

To care for her young.

I spray my pesticide.

There's more woodlice in the garden I suppose.

Another iambic pentameter attempt

Masculinity

The lord of self control and virtue stands,

In square on pose, well versed in fight,

For wholeness of his masculinity.

I throw a dart of love, a dart of pain.

Then run for safety of my ignorance.

haikus

Fuchsia is in bloom

Alone on the grey pavement

Purple stamens proud.

Cut sage smells strongly

In my shopping bag, lovely

Friend forgiven, hug.

Blue plastic chair, shy

Of authority, broken.

Leaves feeling control.

postcards

My words for you resemble tiny little seeds.

Big round cheeks and a purple dress.

Blooming in the foreground,

My heart is carnations.

The ducks are floating and flying round the overflown river.

The medieval city holds crumbling buildings together.

Tourists come and bring their money

In return for a grand hotel at night time and Disney's Poland.

A splodge of orange beer stain

En-captures a man

Small and funny legged

In shadow to me.

Will I see his truth?

My struggle is accepting my lies.

holiday

It is sunny in London

And raining at my holiday destination.

The beautiful city I am aching to see

Will be under the cover of thick grey cloud.

Photographs of the basilica will be blurred.

Photographs of me will be bedraggled.

It is sunny in London

And raining at my holiday destination.

But by the time I get there, the sun may

Peek through the blanket above,

And shine particularly on me

And my holiday.

handbag

The handbag lay

Face down

On the yellow bed.

The dirty fawn strap

Curling like the path of a

Rollercoaster carriage.

Quiet.

No passengers to scream aloud,

Help!

The handbag lay

Face down

On the yellow bed.