The force of four walls,
Magnolia strength,
Cream deliciousness,
You push the temples of your head
with firm fingertips,
Pushing, bending
your beaten head,
to an alternative end.
To free you from your to-do,
Just for a split second.
No matter which way the wind blows,
or how the snow lands on your lashes,
inside your stormy winter roads,
out here in the dust and frozen clay,
you are hell-bent on survival,
because the camera loves you.
Wishing you all a Happy 2021!
I haven’t written in a very long time, but one of my new year goals is to do writing to a set time limit and post regularly. This is a free-style poem that I wrote today (in 15 minutes).
In racy Regency,
in desert burrows,
in city streets,
impressions, expressions, curtailed like,
paper confetti,
against a misty moon,
in racy Regency.
In concrete tunnels,
on wooden seats,
impressions, expressions,
curtailed like,
wooden puppets,
with taped up mouths,
somersaulting,
to fabled tales.
If you were stood here watching my eyes, you would see a reflection of what I see before me,
Of smoking clouds punching at the forever seas, crashing waves to starry heights.
You see, there is an alluding mystery that pins me to this place,
Like a song playing on loop,
Tangled hair buffering in the breeze.
There is certainty in memories repeated.
If you were here, you’d hear me humming your biker name,
Stood in clad leather, a girl in the gang, your girl called,
Wildfire.
You would tune into the fine red threads that pass over my eyeballs like road maps.
And I know that you’d know, that they are red thread highways, carved away over time,
by my desert love.
@alittlebirdtweets2015
Sandy hair coiled coral, combing the marine; a tangled frenzy.
Barren breath like glitzy moth wings, quivering a thousand beats.
Red-raw meat humours a famished mouth,
Gone astray, hailed in the wild.
I take a turn, my feet pace
To a double beat
Down dreary street
I’m clipped of all good fortune
My lip is blue, broken
From the devil’s punch
Blood-winced, I wail,
Like a big-mouthed lion with a repressed paw
I take a turn, my head raw
Up to my latched room
Where I subsist
In pallor
©2014.alittlebirdtweets.
A mirage of a spider scales your bare back,
Peroxide bursts your plastic skin,
You cling inside a curtain, among wet tiles;
Where lime mould bleeds from bruised grout.
Mould fed the flies, now stuck in time; immobile on the ceiling from summer’s decline.
Crimson water spirals,
Drags your feet into the plug of black oblivion,
You scream to be free,
Scream not to repeat,
Repeat not; until your feet are safely entwined upon the seashell towelling bathmat.
Your mind dissipates like a phantom, like condensation,
Exhaled on a broken mirror,
You wipe your breath clear, you mutter vaguely,
Did I lock the door?
Gypsy teeth gripped black roses
Dancing to Cohen;
Goodbye soaked our blue raincoats
Crusty desert skies, behold!
Earth is fading now –
Human hands clamp helplessly
Hello Readers,
A week ago I visited the beautiful city of Lisbon, in Portugal. I found the city to be inspirational. It’s uneven rooftops, narrow cobbled streets, panoramic views and monuments were breathtaking!
When I returned to London, I knew that I wanted to capture my visions of Lisbon in words – and so I decided to write six-word-stories over a period of 18 days (nanowrimo inspired me to set this goal).
I began to write the stories a week ago on my social network pages – but now I actually want them to sit together (in the order they were written) so that they form some kind of free-style poem (any ideas what you might call a poem with six word lines over 18 lines? I have no idea!).
Lisbon
Mists rise. Castles fall. Love erodes.
Amalie sings Fado from cobbled terraces.
Funiculars climb; scrape through labrynthine Alfama.
On Belem turrets, gargoyles overhang, screaming.
Peacock Jorge, iridescently fan-tailed, stands inquisitively.
Cristo Rei, atop Almada, sunshine halo.
Hunched woman whispers, “I curse you.”
Mackerel on plate; napkin over head.
Roses, clothes, swing on iron balconies.
Pena Palace; Neo-Manueline arches, fairytale domes.
Sweet tongues succumb to Pastelaria pastries.
Handpainted Azulejo; depict florals, geometrics, history.
Tagus river spills into Atlantic Ocean.
Washed-out pastel facades need lick of paint.
Overhead tram cables streak cerulean skies.
Chilly Sintra tour beckons Lisbon hoodies.
Calcadinho de Santo Estevao; terrace dining.
Discoverers overlook Tagus; Ocean voyages ahead.
©2014.alittlebirdtweets
Analyse own life
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