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.

Wednesday 31 July 2013

"Street's Secrets" (Entry 389)

With case in hand, at the top of the street. 
She stared at the houses and shuffled her feet. 

Wrought iron fence at 47. 
Black arrows upright like
The gates to Heaven. 

The only way was life. 
Freedom! The world!
Experiences to be had 
Out of Brownton Road. 

This place was kids kicking balls. 
Mums calling them to tea. 
Dads in armchairs,
asleep in front of the TV. 

What will the neighbours think?
Street gossip. Prickle-prattle.
Dirty washing behind closed doors. 
Twitching curtains. Tittle-tattle. 

Today, where her road lay was... here. 
She looked back to the high road and life. 
She glared at Brownton Road, 
Stepped into 47 and strife. 

Each tread, a twitch of curtain thread. 
The jeers, Unheard gossip rang through her ears.

"So, she's back!"
"She's here!"
"How could she show her face!"
"You'd think she'd disappear!"

"Sacrifices her parents made"
"University's not cheap!"
"Only for that to happen!"
"Oh, I could just weep!"

"Didn't even finish her degree"
"Her poor parents, my heart goes to them."
"More fool 47 for taking her back!"
"I heard the court was absolute mayhem. "

"The jury was wrong. Dead wrong."
"Dead, just like the guy. Totally agree."
"Not guilty, they said."
"I'd have convicted her, if it had been me."

"Her poor parents."
"She'll have to go! She's caused such a fuss."
"Disgrace on the street."
"Poor Brownton Road! Poor us!"

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