Showing posts with label Short Story Slam 11. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Story Slam 11. Show all posts

Saturday, 21 January 2012

The Call



Walking through the woodlands, now suburbia's lost sight
Was the last place that she should have gone, under sapphire skies that night


A rose thorn picked her previously, blood ignites the past
Led her to her messy wardrobe, dress all crushed and stained with grass


Her life had crumbled overnight, her mind kept folding stairs
Recalled that evening's tragedy, no more times to call theirs


They halted at this very spot, in silent sounds of life
His destiny decided by the edging on that knife

They ran off with no money, no valuables to steal
Breathed in love and honesty, the main part of their deal.


A quick but painful passing, his eyes pleading to her.
His last vision was her terror as his sight began to blur.


Months had past and so it seemed, she conquered over pain
Never shall she take love to this deep level again


So while standing on the very spot, she knew what she should do
Join him in eternity, red penetrating blue


The drop was sharp and very deep, the river ran below
A few brave steps and up she'll fly, all pretty for her beau


But the second that she closed her eyes, she felt a nippy peck
Her scarlet scarf was firmly tugged and flew straight from her neck

Four calling birds took to the silk, and rested on the branch
The scarf that still held Peter's blood, that doubled as a stanch


The birds were loud, despite the night, a ruckus round the red
And watermarks in tears now spilling down that fateful dress


A calling bird alone did sing, in vague familiar tune
Similar to that that Peter hummed up to the moon


Quietly she rose and started slowly walking back
To the home they'd built together,  with it's little flaws and cracks


At the gate she smiled and slid the scarf quite easy overhead
The knot, as ever, far too tight - a Calling Bird  in stead.

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Thursday, 29 September 2011

Sweet Trouble With The Bubble.......



Out they come in tubes of colours, from the pockets of the mothers
 - seeking solice in the afternoon
Bubbles for fauteur de troubles, well fed up with muck and puddles -
willing now to quietly attune

All it takes you understand, is puffy cheeks and wand in hand,
dipped so deeply down into the lotion
A steady blow until the air, takes it into it's own care,
have you ever see such globular devotion...??

As they delicate the sky, focus on one with keen eye,
and watch the rainbow ripples circle round
Coloured oils swirl into rivers, that gives one delightful shivers,
as it settles on a leaf or on the ground.

Soak the plastic till it's thicker, blowing harder and much quicker,
 -  watch a hundred baby bubbles fight for space
Or run into them arms out wide, oozing soapy-suddy pride,
and feel the magic of the POP! against your face.

Now skillfulness is what is needed,  if previously you succeeded,
to blow the biggest bubble that departed
You must recapture it again, the rule is simple and it's plain -
 back on the very wand from where it rightly started!

No matter what a child desires,  essential things that life requires,
the humble bubble is the captor of our peace.
That every single generation, will always find a true elation,
from that gulp of air, their lips then first release.