WHAT'S THIS?

Having been immersed in memoir writing for many months, I decided to write a small poem every day for a year to keep my poetic hand in. I've posted them to Instagram and facebook as written – where, to my amazement, people love them – but on this blog they are sometimes subject to later rewriting.
Comments are moderated. If they take time to appear, don't panic. Please add your name if Google forces you to comment as Anonymous.

Sunday 31 December 2023

And so ...

 

And so, on the final day of the year,

a few ‘American sentences’ –

broken into several lines, as

seems to suit:



Numerology – 

seven, a challenging year,

moves to eight: balance.


*


So many dying

around me now – 

rude, popping off 

when they’re younger!


*


Tonight with my TV –

best seat in the house

for the new year fireworks. 


(For ‘house’ read ‘country.’)


*


I explore zuihitsu, 

decide not to get caught 

in that form (yet).


*

 

In a garden corner, 

the splash of 

red poinsettia’s 

big flat leaves.















Saturday 30 December 2023

Year's end ...

 


Year’s end. My daily verses,

what have they shown? Mostly, just

love with small cat. It’s enough.





















Friday 29 December 2023

This week ...


This week between Christmas and New Year

I’ve been in retreat – at home, doors and windows,

curtains and blinds closed against the heat;

neglecting the marketing I should be doing

for my new books, and the dusting and ironing.

‘Next week,’ I tell one who phones to meet. ‘Now

I have appointments.’ (I don’t say they’re with me.)


I’m dabbling in some of my old books of magic,

trying out new spells and rituals, toying with

lapsed meditations and manifestation techniques.

I’m preparing idiosyncratic but tasty tidbits to eat;

deferring the exercise routine; catching up with 

the new Doctor Who, and of course the yacht race.

‘I might never emerge,’ I whisper to myself, and giggle.



Thursday 28 December 2023

I'm looking at ...

 

I’m looking at a picture of penguins

standing stiffly upright, wings/flippers

clasped to their sides. They are covered

in fluffy white fur; perhaps they are

youngsters? The ground and the air

enclose them in unrelieved white. 

What must it be like, surrounded 

by cold like that, knowing nothing 

different ever? A whole world of cold. 

I am sprawled in sarong and thongs 

in front of a large electric fan. And

I’d rather. I never want to experience 

unchanging, immersive, monotonous,

all day and every day, paralysing cold. 




Heat and thunder ...


Heat and thunder. 

Fire and flood. 


I live in a small oasis

of little damage so far. 


My astrologer friend 

predicts worse in future.


I tell her, ‘Probably, we

won’t still be here by then.’


‘That’s a rather strange 

kind of comfort,’ she says.