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.

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.
Respect.
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
child
shouldn't be messed up with.
Child!
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?

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