Mabh Savage
Words and the world passing by; how it sings to me; how I clamour back.
NaPoWriMo Day 8: Cold Spring
Cold in Spring
It’s so cold
My fingers shake
Autocorrect is basically
Writing this poem
Frigidity has stolen
My literary talents
Such as they were
But the stars,
My gods, the stars…
NaPoWriMo Day 7: Do I Let The Cats?
Do I let the cats heal me?
Press their tiny beans
Into my sore muscles
Again and again
A much needed kneading.
Do I let their meowing
Cacaphony
Chase away the
Twittering birds of brain.
Do I let the earthquake rumble
Of purring
Ground me once more.
Do I let tickling whiskers
Suddenly tweak eyes and nose
Make me jump and smile.
Do I let two queens cuddle
One on either side
An uneasy truce
While they know I need
Attention.
Do I let the cats heal me?
Do I.
NaPoWriMo Day Six: Sun Happy
Sunshine splashing warm tea
Hot cross buns
Fresh baked bread
Dishwasher steam
Just ironed sheets
Across my face
I snuggle in it
And sigh.
Superstitious Villanelle
One for sorrow, two for joy
Taunts the lone magpie
That bird in the hand, shy and coy.
When we shy away from ladders
Cover mirrors, dodge bird droppings, chanting,
“One for sorrow, two for joy.”
While stars can be wished upon
And white feathers heaven sent, or from
That bird in the hand, shy and coy.
And salt is thrown, left, not right
Demons scrabble to count the grains:
One for sorrow, two for joy.
And owls spell doom, gloomy omens
Flying into storm wrecked windows,
No bird in the hand, shy and coy.
So step on cracks, pick up pins and tacks
Umbrellas explode indoors, but shoes: off the table;
One for sorrow, two for joy
This bird in the hand: shy and coy.
NaPoWriMo Day Four: Grey Sky Mood
When the sky is grey
Like fluffy grease
From the bottom
Of a chef’s shoe
Like a smear of ash
From a dead campfire
Like pencil shading
Abruptly halted
By the snapping of lead.
When the sky is grey
And looms above my garden wall
I sigh,
And fall, and fall, and fall.
NaPoWriMo Day Three: Sacred Crossroads
Wandering, feet finding their own way
Over treacherous stones
Sucking mud puddles
Velvet grass, chomped short
By sheep.
The wood, the fields, the ditches
Are my pathways
To walk without interference
From my unruly mind.
These shoes have seen a lot
Fights, nights out, outings, things
Beyond understanding
Rituals and dreams
Schemes of higher beings
These shoes have stepped into circles
And out of this world.
Through incense smoke and stones
Real life cushions, mental thrones
Mind palaces and homely hovels
Head held high while conscience grovels
Most things are hard most days,
That’s why we pray
Make covens
Light candles
Walk between the oak and the birch
My sacred crossroad, calling.
