"Excitement by the Plateful" (Entry 92)

Beans in the centre bowl.

Chips surround in straight succession - rank and file.

Carefully structured turned to watch the main meat.

The Big Sausage! 

He's here!

Look at his tan!

Watch him sizzle!

Beans fall over themselves to be near.

The fries look on from their raised positions, 

and crackle and crisp at the behaviour,

but sigh, and wonder why, the beans got in their first.

"Eden Eliminated" (Entry 91)

The birds stopped singing.
A sudden silence,
driven by madness,
hidden away beneath a cryptic cave - a secret bunker.
Begun by a button depress - depressing.
Over idiotic land dispute.
A-fence-on-my-boundary sort of bicker.
Foolhardy senselessness - that obliterated 'the fence'
and the whole garden with it.
They blew up the Earth.
Eden no more.

"Deeper Hued Jealousy" (Entry 90)

She is SHE.
The female who lives with jealousy.

When he leaves and says one place.
It is true, or a Janus two-face?

She wonders if she dwells in lies?
Does he go elsewhere for highs?

Her intuition stirs these stories.
An emerald-eyed woman wrapped in mores.

"A Sad Loss" (Entry 89)

Distant memory.
I know it's there,
beyond my grasp,
out of my control.
I know it's there.
That point in time,
when energy lifted
and
I laughed.
But, in my gloom gouges,
those arcaned recesses of my mind,
I can't remember
what
made me
laugh.

"Rain Like Forever" (Entry 88)

Once again.
It seemed like forever.
Rain.
And more.
Rain, heavy on the windows.
And in the gutters.
Lakes, to burst in overflow.
On the streets and roads,
oil slick dangerous.
Rain.
Colour washed skies,
tumble dyed to hide somewhere in those clouds.
Wanting to part.
To move on with their lives.
Except for now.
Rain, heavy on windows,
and weighing down their hearts.

"Met. For the first time." (Entry 87)

Eyes met. A smile across reception desk.
Shy hello. Blush of cheek for a handsome fellow.
Keys passed. A shock of hand, a love to last.

"Goodbye" (Entry 86)

Saying goodbye
as sun departs.
Access denied at summer's end.
Stolen childhood.
Separated hearts.
Darkened days with mourning to tend.

"Dream Catcher Lost" (Entry 85)

Missed it.
Again.
Late nights lost a brilliance.
Cast out into mortal realm,
found on saliva soaked pillow,
indented and creased across the forehead.
Idea erased.
Glowing green digits emblazoned into retinas.
Missed it.
Inspiration fantasy lost in the morning.
To live another day without the glimpse of early genius.
Divine dream dazed and departed.

"Cloaked and Winged" (Entry 84)

Wearing a cloak of darkness,
You live in the shadows.
Sleeker, smarter, stronger
than your daytime gadabout nemesis.
Who is truly the negative?
You may not reflect the sunlight -
YOU absorb the Universe.
Attracted to the silver slither moonlight,
to bathe in its caresses
beneath the starry canopy,
you perform your life story.
Black batting of wings,
it's your moment - moth.

"Sink into Sunday" (Entry 83)

There was a lull,
as often was, upon the lunch
aboard the ship.
Sated by exquisite food
led to dullness
in wit and behaviour.

Morning worship duties completed,
full in soul of spiritual provisions,
as were the stomachs of food.

A Sunday afternoon like any other
to mull over the task of nothing much.
Lazy meander on promenade with
a quell of stilted polite chatter.

To only know then before
what lay ahead on the evening
to pull thoughts forward,
maybe that Sunday afternoon
aboard
the Titanic
would have been different.

"Perfect Night - Stars Align" (Entry 82)

A perfect night of Universal delight.

180 degrees of clear, 

devoid of clouds and fear.

Jupiter and Venus dance in line,

facing Mars - glowing red Divine.

Aldebaran takes its place, 

above turn its twinkling face.

'Tis a spectacle - a special time.

Turn to the heavens, when stars align.

"Dank Driving Darkness" (Entry 81)

Hard to focus on road in front.
Radio blares to staunch the effect of hypnotic wipers.
Try to peer beyond.
Concentrate on surroundings,
on the traffic,
pounding forward in this dank tube,
like being stuck in a water pipe,
rushing forward.
Difficult to drive as darkness descends
in the afternoon.
Lorry on inside land swerves and recovers.
Discover, still in control, as wheels slide
and hands grip steering.
That woke the world up!

"Weather Beyond The Wipers" (Entry 80)

Wipers slash the windscreen,
cutting through the drab droplets of repetitive rain.
Too early for headlights,
but they flash on
under the rolling relentless grey oppressive clouds
making the sky seem low enough to touch.
No landscape beyond the lanes,
just impending fog
washing colour and shape from the world.

"Sparkle in the Void" (Entry 79)

Hacked from rock,
Deep beneath in Hades caverns,
Worked where volcanos cook at the core.
The ice that knows no melting point
Except
For those that drill it it for
The circulatory of blood money.
Black ice,
Diamonds rare,
At the pressured end.

Mined the other mines,
Still full of danger,
To discover stuff to burn.
Another form of black ice - Coal.
Dug by suffering hands
By those with cash to cook.

"To Change A Home" (Entry 78)

Oh, if I could - move home.
It is something I would love.
Stayed too long, want to roam.
Maybe a flat high above?
Something modern beneath a dome?
Or painted white like pure dove?
A cryptic site as dark as tomb?
That fits me like a clichéd glove!
Grab the agent, it's time to comb!

"Near The Nerve" (Entry 77)

The medicinal scent of antiseptic
hugged the sweetness of Novocain
while swimming in the clawing artificial mint mouth wash.

The drill whirled and dug deeper.
Enamel chips, caught up in saliva slicks,
whipped away in the mini-vacuum
which left no prisons.
Hell!
It even took on the tongue.

Nose breathing.
Heart thumping.
Lungs bellowed.
Eyes closed.

Anywhere but here.

For here was on the ledge of safe.
Near the nerve, on the edge.
Dentist, please don't delve and gouge.
Careful with the drill!
Ooooowwwwww!

"A Story in Whispers" (Entry 76)

'Tis the tale that's never told.
'Tis a history story of whispers.
Passed (or past) from one to other,
Remembering and celebrating what's gone before.
Pride washes o'er us and we know
Where'er that's written
By the Powerful
In books of made-up stories
To make 'em feel great.
We truly know
In a history of whispers
What's right or wrong.
We know the Truth.

"Shot by Sorrow" (Entry 75)

The bullet did not burst the heart,
nor grazed the muscle at all.
It nicked a nerve which sent
the soar of pain straight to the soul.
Thoughts to better times enflamed,
then shrunk back to reality.
Passing sorrow which is calmed,
but never healed and not to be.

"Burrowed" (Entry 74)

In the pet shop of your mind,
you will find,
caged, fed and warm,
a batch of Small Regrets.

Squealing,
Scratching,
Gnawing,
Knowing.

No one wants Them,
but every now and then
They squeak -
to remind you They're there -
and you remember.

How you remember.
Thinking of Them
BIGGER, LOUDER
and more important than
They really are.

They scrape at the surface of
real memories,
biting and burrowing Their way through,
taking the edge off achievements and optimism.

Don't feed Them,
as They expand and
eat Their way into
positive thoughts.
Leaving emptiness - only to be filled by...

...WATCH OUT!

Small Regrets breed if
YOU let Them.
Multiplying and mutating.
Give Them enough space,
They become Sorrow, Guilt,
Grief, Disappointment and
The Monster of Them All -
Failure.

In the pet shop of your mind,

you will find,

a batch of Small Regrets.

Keep them caged.

*********

Inspired by an exercise on Jani Franck's excellent course

"UnEarth Your Creative Nature".

To find out more about Jani and her creative guidance, and more.

Please click here.

"Flash to Pash" (Entry 73)

A flash of sunlight in enquiring eye blue.
A dash of a challenge between us two.
A rash decision leads to date night.
A thrash to club beats under moonlight.
A slash of perfect white - a smile to bring
A pash to end the perfect summer's fling.

"Take It Away" (Entry 72)

Leaflets out, all in a row.
Chinese, Thai, miney, mo!
Shall we choose Indian? Some pilau rice.
Hawaiian pizza? Extra ham would be nice.
Of course, there's chicken - fried deep
with tons of chips and beans in a heap.
I'll like Italian, but they don't deliver.
What shall we order? I'm all of a quiver.
Hurry up and choose, we need to be fed.
Oh, I'll get my coat. Let's eat out instead!

"Raw" (Entry 71)

A joke. A childish game.
You choked. It was a shame.
On yolk. Raw. So lame!
Such a bloke! No one to blame.
At your folks. Glad we came?

"A Rainbow at Dusk" (Entry 70)

The globe lowers along a line that does not exist.
Slowly melting,
soaked up to change the colours of the sky.
Bright blue melds to violet
touching a golden centre
spraying orange and red of chewy candy.
A delicious treat of flash of green.
Gone!
Darkened night to indigo,
ready for the heavenly display delights.

"The Piano Players" (Entry 69)

If you listen hard enough,
somewhere in the world,
someone is playing a piano.

More than one.
What do you think?
A thousand? A million? More?

All playing to their own tune.
Living their life to their own rhythm.
Take a listen.

All playing.
Are they young or old?
Professional or new?
Some for fun, others for money.
Others play because they are made to.

Just think
if all these millions,
let's stick with millions,
all played the same melody
at the same time.
Would everyone on the planet hear it?

Would it reach the angels?

But the angels already hear them,
every song, all the time, everywhere.

For at this moment,
there is one angel who sits beside a girl
enveloped in thought and music.

The angel sighs, knowing that soon
this song will soon be lost.
As there will be one less piano player in the world.

So play,
play now and loud,
or softly for yourself,
but play.

Play your piano while you can.

"Small Fish" (Entry 68)

The shoal swam turning swirling in the eddies.
Jasper took a gulp and entered the sway.
Nothing at school had prepared him for
his first day at Guppy, Pilchards and Sons.
A small fish in a gigantic pond.
He already felt like he was swimming against the tide.

"Flesh" (Entry 67)

I roll the pale green grape between thumb and forefinger
and feel the slight - give - of flesh,
yielding but resisting,
at the first point of ripeness.

I concentrate as I rub
and play
with its perfect imperfect shape.

As I bring it towards my lips
light reflects causing
the sea-washed bottle green skin to fade
to almost translucency seeming to show
the veined pulsing goodness beneath.

Teeth on skin to graze and -
Bite!
Juice bursts forth to spill on tongue.
A single vine-berry's delight.

"Night's Chorus Unheard" (Entry 66)

I lift my head towards the inky darkness.
Tiny pinpricks of light glitter in the sky,
dulled by the full moon
lit large and luminous.
The spot light for the dance.

Above me, the performance had begun.
A thousand leather-like wings flap to reach the gods, and glide.
The multitude of bats in flight.

Beyond my senses, although I strain,
in hope of picking out their sonar song.

What secrets do they sing?
Oh, to be part of that chorus,
these electrifying voices of the night.

"A Brave Face" (Entry 65)

The widow's weeds hung crisply on the wardrobe door.
Starched and upright, that's how she knew she must stay.
Dower in dress and demeanour.
It was what was expected of her.

Family spoke in hushed tones the floor below.
Arranging tomorrow, remembering him, organising her.
Waiting for her to fall apart.
When she walked into the room, she expected them to be ready,
hands out ready to catch.
It was what was expected of her.

She smoothed the jacket arm,
picking off minuscule fuzz.
She wouldn't fluff up tomorrow,
she would act with decorum and respect, but
withdrawn.
It was what was expected of her.

It was what she needed to do.
To get away with his murder.

"She Lives in Shade and Shadow Street" (Entry 64)

In the shades and shadows,
almost at the end of the empty lane,
there is a woman in a window
who watches.
Her stare glares,
"I don't know you. You have no right to be here!"

For a fleeting snap, our eyes meet.
I wonder about her life, her past,
her family or lovers, her friends...
but then, she peers and jeers.
She won't let you in.

Staying at her window
than to venture into the warmth
of hello.

"Go away!" she mouths.
And we do.

"Shade and Shadow Street" (Entry 63)

Nothing but broken pavement
hugging mould on the skirt of dirty brickwall.
At empty lane's end,
the smashed street lamp on blackened pole gives no light
to slabs or curb.
A used crisp packet blows beyond
picked out in yellowed glow of
the nearest working lantern,
disappearing in the gloom between
'til gone.
Shades and shadows of a grubby past.