555 Days... The Continuation

Welcome to 555 Days as a Poet by The Crafty Scribe

Back in 2010, I challenged myself to write a poem or a short verse a day, and post it to a blog. 555 Days as a Poet by The Crafty Scribe is the continuation of the experiment.

I gave myself 18 months to recover from the original daily blog postings, and now, I am ready to start it all over again. Although as I was beginning in the middle of the year, I thought 6 months was too short a time after my last experience.

"If I could complete a year of poems, how about 18 months?" I thought. I worked out that would be 549 days. I could have rounded it up to 550 to included New Years Day 2014, but then I thought I'd go 5 better... to 555 days.

Why 555? According to many spiritual teachers, the number 555 is a sign of change and the flow of energy. I thought it related to the blog. I spent a year writing a poem every day, then rested for 18 months. Now the tide has turned. It's time to begin the flow of words in my life again.

I'm not a trained poet, just an enthusiastic scribe wanting to create something new each day. I don't truly know my stanza from my meter, but I hope to improve and get my poetic license someday! Expect the weird, the strange and the inner workings of the Crafty Scribe's mind. Let's ride the waves once more.

Please pass on the blog address to all your verse and lyrical loving friends. I hope you will join me, and read my daily scribbling.

Tuesday, 30 April 2013

"They're Not For Everyone" (Entry 304)

Sigh rasping,
internal overwhelmed,
displaced thoughts.

Colours drained
a long time ago.

Not again!

Dull eyes,
at fogged greyness
which suffocated
more efficiently
than any hangman's noose.

A glance
at stiffened cards.
On the front,
ugly cats doing something adorable.

A wince.
What was coming next.
A swallow,
and another sigh
pushed into the cave where
hope and dreams and goals and desires rot.
The stagnant putrid part of the soul.

Raise of head.
Bare of white - millimetre by millimetre -
in a semblance of a smile.
Jaw clenched to stifle
Banshee's wail of despair.

There they were.
Expectant faces,
ruddy of cheek,
sparkling of eye,
overdone of tan, false lashes and sequin.
A clag of a multitude of sickly scent
invaded space.
The whole thing stank.

A shudder,
as gathered mob
raised voices and glasses.
"Happy Birthday!"

Monday, 29 April 2013

"Impress and Make the Grade" (Entry 303)

Before the guests arrived...
There were tears.
Lots of them.
First celebration.
With in-laws, no less!

Lists were made.
Crossed off
and rewritten.
Again and again and,
still he had strayed!

Yes, his fault!
He hadn't helped.
Wrong wine.
Went 'off-list'.
Only his 'rents, he said.
This is such a mess!

Just his parents?
Just his eagle-eyed mother.
Spotting dust at 90 paces,
and her pecky way of eating.
Less trouble if royalty stayed.

Cushions were plumped.
Table cloth et al, ready.
Glasses gleaming,
free from finger marks, no less!

Ruby and emerald baubles
hung balanced throughout
the real Christmas tree.
Then she noticed,
on the lights, just one,
its glow - gone out.
Right by where the table was laid.

Enough to cause panic,
a torrent of snot-ridden tears.
He held her, and calmed her.
Then shoved the offending bulb
behind glittering balls and
plenty of needles.
An action to deflect all of this stress.

Finally, everything perfect.
The aroma of the seasons lingered
in the air, as pots bubbled in the kitchen.
A moment of joy,
before the guests arrived.
As the anxiety began to fade.

The door bell rang,
soon the house was full.
Of noises, and presents,
boots, coats and old folk.
It seemed such a good start,
even a success.

All smiles and movement
into the lounge.
Where Queen-in-law devoured
the image in a single glance.
"You've got a bulb out, did you know?"
sniffed the old maid.

They'd tried to impress.
But with one line conveyed,
contained such negativity assess.
Caused celebration downgrade.
Depress and Dismayed!

Sunday, 28 April 2013

"Cat's Night Patrol" (Entry 302)

Darkness drapes her sharp shoulders,
only to be lifted by spotlit circles from overhead lamps.
These pavements, her stage.
The cold seeps through cushioned pads
hardened by time and life.
She take in her circuit,
her territory,
to notice new invading sights and
telling scents of unknown beings,
friend or foe.

The wind lifts,
sending a torrent of leaves to
tear from the branches and
swoop, as seagulls, around her.
With the gust, a cry is carried.
She flinches to a pause.
To hold as still as unmossed stone,
as silent and unmoved as
that lonely naked rock.
Eyes widen,
pinpointing any scuttle or scamper.
Ears rotate,
senses performing better than
any radar.

All is fine.
All is quiet.
As it should be.
Satisfied, she turns,
jumps the wooden fence
at the spot she knows
is easiest.
Across damp lawn to
enter through her own private door.

She shakes the night from her fur to
curl up,
content in the knowledge that
her solitary streets stay safe.

Saturday, 27 April 2013

"At the Last Moment" (Entry 301)

He heard the rattle,
cloaked by blooded choke,
as distant as the rumbling of the rail road tracks
as the 9:36 train passed.
The last way outta here.
End of the line.
Destination nowhere.
Please tell me it's not over?

He knew it was his sound.
His last breath.
His time. This time.
The last beat of his heart shuddered
as the air escaped from ruptured lungs.

Screaming. A woman.
His woman screamed.
The same woman that nagged him
to get away from 'them damn people!'
She said they'd be the death of him.
She was right, of course.

The bullet struck fast,
no warning - no argument.
It wasn't even his shit,
that caused this.
One of his had taken one of theirs.
It was only right they took it back.
Wasn't it?

An eye for an eye.
Fight the gang fight.
The code - for those without morality.
His life for their honour.
Over what?

He couldn't even remember.
All becoming a dream.
His life the nightmare.
Something about territory
and white powder.
Lots of it.
All seems stupid now.
Doesn't it?

Something a man with a wife and a
shouldn't be messed up with.
His baby.
He would never hold his son in his arms again.
Never see him grow.
Never stop him from making the mistakes he made.
That's what a dad was meant to do.
Wasn't it?

In that moment between the last heartbeat and what's next.
He cried.
He cried for a change to change his ways,
to be a better father and husband.
A chance to be a good man.
Then... the moment ended.
He was gone.
A shame.
Isn't it?

Friday, 26 April 2013

"The Prize Upon Green Baize Cloth" (Entry 300)

It squats,
On green baize cloth,
In a dusty forgotten corner
Of the antique shop.
No-one ventures to this
Part of store.
No-one ever,
Well, not before.
Weave past bookshelves
Housing many-a nick-knack.
Once treasured possessions
Now pushed to the back.
Limbo and curve around
China and glass piled high,
And gazing at taxidermy bird,
With squinting beaded eye.
Hack through forests of
Cobwebs hung messy,
Causing their creators
To scuttle to recesses.
On beyond chandeliers
And cascades of widow’s jets.
Slap away dusty brass birdcage
And paste jewellery sets.
In a flash, there! See it.
On the green baize cloth,
The closed prized possession,
The Unadorned Box!

Thursday, 25 April 2013

"I. Always." (Entry 299)

I exist,
Amongst the stars,
Soaring through bright blaze of nebula
Secret pockets of folded space.
Beyond the sight of telescope.

I am,
Within the earth.
Unseen fingers wriggle in claggy cold clay.
Invisible toes stretch in mossy peat,
Where the wild world grows.
Caress Earth's surface and feel her breathe.
Go deeper and entwine within her heartbeat.

I live,
In oceans,
in the deep to dwell,
then ride upon the blustered swell,
To land as dew upon a daisy petal
Kissed by fleeting butterfly’s hush.

I survive,
In the air,
Hear my choral rhapsody within the wind,
be carried as dust wherever it blows.

I am there,
Part of The Universe - my home.

"To Gaze, but Not See" (Entry 298)

Gaze at surroundings.
Clear eyes, like crystal balls,
To view another’s life.
Although it’s mine.
I see the oak rocking chair
With broken lattice that digs into my ribs
As I seesaw.
I see the purple hand-knitted cushion,
With many a pull caused by
Wedged into the space to stop the sharp swing dig.
The pack of tarot cards,
Worn soft by pleading hands
wringing love or riches from them.
A china cup on mismatched chipped saucer
Roses and Polka Dots.
These are the stuff of a life,
That’s mine,
But I cannot quite see as I
Gaze at surroundings.

"Taste of Summer" (Entry 297)

Citrus scent wafted through
The warm summer morn.
To stretch and reach the ripening fruit.

"Snail" (Entry 296)

The snail crunched under her stiff shop-new sandals.
The girl picked up her foot slowly,
To star at the squashed grey gel
Oozing and spreading around the splinted shell.
A broken bad egg.

She turned to watch her mother who,
Through open french doors,
Sand along to the radio as 
She washed the blue and white striped breakfast crockery.
Her eye-lashes fluttered, as she looked up,
Feeling her daughter’s gaze upon her.
She smiled and waved a soap-sudsed hand
And returned to her task.

The girl gently rolled her foot over the murder
And cracked the shell further,
Satisfied in the smash and the sound,
She went in search of another snail.

Sunday, 21 April 2013

"Listless Lists" (Entry 295)

I make a note.
Lines on page.
Ideas for life
Yet to come.
Or just lists
for the listless.
and other humdrum.

Saturday, 20 April 2013

"Let It Begin" (Entry 294)

Energy organic.
No panic.
Let it flow.
Enjoy. Let go.
Be at one.
More to come.
Inhale it in.
Let it begin.

"Wake Up" (Entry 293)

I woke.
Can't smoke.
More rain to soak.
Enough to provoke
Just normal folk.
You know - a bloke.
Wear invisible yoke.
A stab than a poke.
Feels like a joke.
Hidden beneath the cloak,
Truth unspoke'.
Law invoke.
Rights revoke?
We're choked!

Thursday, 18 April 2013

"You are the Centre of the Universe" (Entry 292)

You are an angel from brilliant height.
Pushed positive energy,
you radiate what's right.
We drift to hover in your light.
Catching concentric ripples around the bright,
which is your soul,
which is your might.
From centre waved a pure white,
out further and beyond our sight.
No fight,
or plight.
Just diffraction delight.

Wednesday, 17 April 2013

"The Mettle of Metal" (Entry 291)

'The Iron Lady' today laid to rest.
In time, it happens to all and the best.
The winners of the bronze, silver and gold.
The military honours of brass medal bold.
Those who are sneaky with mercurial skin.
Those who are Coppers, or Bankers working for 'tin'.
Those who live a precious platinum life,
those who are lead - of many, thought rife!
But each one of us, with rare mettle, all must go
to where we will rust, forever, as it is so.


Margaret Hilda Thatcher, Baroness Thatcher of Kesteven (1925 - 2013)

"The Sun!" (Entry 290)

Lift your face and breathe,
Take in the warmth of the sun.
It's here at last. Smile!

"Murder Changes Everthing" (Entry 289)

Murder changes the universe.
An added Numbness to the rhythm.
Language alters.
Becomes lackadaisical
in the word and world.
after the fact.

The act of killing changes everything.
No going back.
A shift in consciousness.
Don't belittle it,
by saying,
It's part of life's unknown dance.


In memory of all those lost, and those effected by that loss, due to murder at anytime, anywhere.

Our love and thoughts go out to those today in Boston.

"Warm the Clinic" (Entry 288)

Health is pinnacle.
(Be fit. Quotas and targets to hit.)

A kind touch.
Medic, it that too much?
(...to ask. Please smile and lift the mask.)

You're never going to kill with kindness, are you.

"A Creative Fight" (Entry 287)

Battle forward.
On and on.
Creativity - gone?
Do you believe that?
Is that truth's reality?
Surely it's not what's meant to be.
Buzz on.
Increase energy.
Live for life,
And, as they say,
Art for heart's sake.

"Life in Letters" (Entry 286)

Letters found
in an attic.
Written by hand unknown.
A century ago.
To fresh-faced feline-graced
A maiden fare,
who would flush a cheek
at the chaste kisses
The brazen beau seeks.
And yet,
months and time go on
and kisses turn to caresses.
Embolden by replies
and flitted flirting flick of an inky rise.
The courting "if I may"
turns to a fiancée's "I would like"
and on to a solider husband's saucy "I will take."
Then gone,
Letters stop.
As war wins this game.

"The Supermarket Blues" (Entry 285)

Pop to the shops.
A lot.
My life in queues.
It's the supermarket blues.

M&S and Waitrose
for those what pose.
Morrisons and Sainsbury's,
for them in a big hurries.
Asda and Tesco,
is where the rest go.

There's many more,
Is it too much choice?
Big places to buy,
but please hear my voice.

What about the old High Street?
With grocers, butchers, bakers and all.
Bring back quality and community,
Break down the corporate control mall.

We pop to the shops.
Us lot.
Our life in queues.
Got the supermarket blues.

Saturday, 13 April 2013

"Soaked" (Entry 284)

Rain. It falls too much.
Wet on wet to soak the folk.
Soggy messy now.

"Manners Matter" (Entry 283)

For world doff its moon at passing meteor,
As distant suns release their heat to warm the unknown.
Universe of manners for it's how we all must turn.
For go against the energy of how it's meant to be.
Chaos ensues with all what's due ending in no matter.

Friday, 12 April 2013

"A meeting. Hey, Lady!" (Entry 282)

"Hey, Lady! Got any change?"
"Change. Have you got any? To spare, like."

Lady glances at the grubby girl in the doorway.
Just another dropout, but there was something about the eyes.

What is it about eyes?

Grubby can't be more than 15,
a child really.
A child.

Lady rubs her swollen belly protectively,
then digs into her bag,
pulls out a £5 note, pushing into the outstretched hand.
"Wow! Thanks, Lady!"

Grubby jumps to her feet and
lays her hand on her donor's stomach.


"You and your child are truly blessed."

Startled by the statement,
as the voice that occupies Grubby is much older, deeper almost a host of sound that resonates.
Chants and praises.
Raises and rides an ocean wave of emotion.

A moment.
It seems that the 33 week load she carries becomes weightless, like a helium filled balloon.
Relief. Warmth. Release.
Love. Support. Peace.
Grubby got it right - a blessing.
Truly, a blessing.

Lady turns to question Grubby.
Off to spend the money on booze or drugs or some such thing.
With that thought,
The pain returns.
Lady sighs.
And sighs again.

"Spring Clean. Be Proud!" (Entry 281)

Fold away the past
and wanton despair.
Return it to the attic
along with those who do not care.
Give away destruction
and unhappy times.
Throw negativity in the dump
include all hate and lies.
Make room for love, excitement and dreams,
Open up your heart to the right stuff and all that it means.
Live life to its fullest and laugh out loud.
Think big, act great. Be happy. Be proud!

Wednesday, 10 April 2013

"Angry Birds - now and then" (Entry 280)

Angry birds - a game collecting stars.
In the 70s, they were burning bras.

"Better Memories" (Entry 279)

Forget the hate and the screaming matches.
Forget the tears and face in redden patches.
Forget the blame and the increasing list of regret.
Remember the love and, the negative rest? Forget.

"Out of Sync" (Entry 278) *** plus a special note ***

Dark wing skim
water's edge.
Quivering fin on
window ledge.
Grasping claw in
wildest hedge.
Slitted eyes dim
at thin wedge.

I've done it! Well, half of it. Over the mid-point hump.

Thank you so much for reading my posts, whether you follow me daily or dip in and out. I hope you enjoy what you find.

Please accept my apologies for the lack of posts recently. We are sorting out these technical problems, and will be back on-line with regular daily posts soon. Along with super exciting news.

Wednesday, 3 April 2013

"Pony Plight" (Entry 277)

Daddy bought the horse I wanted,
so I joined the Pony Club.
Three months later, now I'm dancing
So 'Beauty' became my grub!

Burger, anyone?

Tuesday, 2 April 2013

"Belated but Beloved" (Entry 267)

This may get to you later than expected.
But do not feel down, unloved or rejected.
For you are the most loved beyond all others.
You are my heart, my husband, my lover.
With every moment, I spend with you.
I know my life is perfect, just us two.
Do not be disheartened that this comes at a time belated.
It's just we've had so much fun, the writing waited!


Happy Birthday, my darling!

"Butterfly Dreams" (Entry 276)

Butterfly lifts,
To flit,
from silken pyjama print
and into my dreams.
Or so it seems.
Taking kisses from elves as they stack shelves in celestial supermarkets.
Or dance between the drops of
Champagne fountain in a private castle courtyard on top of the metal mountain.
To carry me on beyond the oily gates of goblin lords who can afford all the peasants they adore.
Towards morning light, a pure delight, my escort leaves me and takes flight.
So I awake to roaring day and the butterfly sleeps once more.

"Lazy Days" (Entry 275)

The haze of new days
sends rays through glaze.
I gaze, in a daze, and give praise.
Unfazed, I laze and stays that ways.
For today's. It's just a phase.

"Too Much of a Good Thing" (Entry 274)

Chocolate! Chocolate! Chocolate!
Chocolate! Chocolate! Chocolate!
Chocolate! Chocolate! Chocolate!
Chocolate! Chocolate! Egg!
Oh, no! That's chocolate too!
Happy Easter!

"I'm a Knit for Doctor Who" (Entry 273)

I found an authentic pattern.
Matched the colours as close as I could.
I followed the details, line by line.
Easy to do, and I understood.
It was more than the Fourth's signature scarf I was making,
but a piece of British history too.
With wool and needles and plenty of time.
I wimey'd (well, I knitted) Doctor Who.


In the 50th anniversary year, the new series of Doctor Who, with Matt Smith, is back on BBC One!

If you are interested on making your own Doctor Who scarf, there are many sites on-line to check out. I found mine at: http://www.doctorwhoscarf.com/
I followed the pattern for the Fourth Doctor Original Season.

"A Vintage Life" (Entry 272)

Rebel against the newness of today.
And retrofit the future with yesterday.
Time Travelers are cyber-punking,
Riding the wave by attic trunking.
Slot in ambition with memory.
Vintage colour what has yet to be.

"Always an Innocent" (Entry 271)

Naive. Such an innocent.
In how things worked.
Expected life of light like movie-show.
Older. Maybe, still no better.
Hoping for the right result.
That's where I am. Where will I go?

"Breath Shift" (Entry 270)

Breath - the deaf's movement.
Not wimper, or grunt, or dream-filled sigh.
Unsound seen.
Shift and lift. Shift and lift.
A rise and fall of body's rhythm.
From mouth to lungs, oxygen's journey from empty to high.
In cell, in every seam.
Shift and lift. Life's gift.

"Hooked!" (Entry 269)

To pick and pull and curl and punch.
To hook and grab and slip, chain and stab.
To double up and more. I have a hunch...
That crochet knitting is more aggressive than I expected it to be!

"Crusted Eyes that Want to Sleep" (Entry 268)

Crusted eyes peel apart to wake on another dawn's break.
The memories return - the heart's broken once more.
Tears force through the dried snapped lashes, lids puff beyond the size of the pillow where he laid his head.

And so, her day.

Motions of the mundane too difficult to perform. So she stays in bed - again.
Waiting for night, for those times in between replays of dreams of when they were together, to hit the darkness and quiet of respite.