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, 25 June 2013

"Three Days after the Snow Ceased" (Entry 353)

That was six months ago. 
Half year. Continual snow. 
Never ending. 
Never thawing. 
Constant temperature,
We began to live with. 
Endless winter on
This globe of snow. 

Then the snow ceased. 
Falling no more. 
Mercury dropped
Sudden. Harsh. 
Lower and lower,
Beyond measure. 
The world froze. 
Deep cold stasis. 

First the pipes, then electricity. 
Static life. 
Static on the wind-up radio. 
Food frozen in cans, water in bottles, fruit in bowls. 
Walls and floors became glossed sheets. 
Iced surfaces, 
A skaters delight. 

No way of melting. 
Fires went out,
Wood shattered into icy shards. 
Even gas hardened. 
No flame to take. 
Nothing to burn. 
Nothing will burn, even bodies.
The dying began long before. 

Until there is only a fistful left. 
Extremities numb.
Finger snapping. 
Cold seeps into the skin. 
Crystals forming in my vision. 
It began three days ago. 
It's difficult to hold this pen. 
I don't know how much more I -

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