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


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


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.