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

"The Summons" (Entry 375)

Metal-tipped stiletto heels echo on marble floor. 
Reverberate in smoke-like tendrils to somber dome above. 
Nervous unrhythmic tapping,
As an ancient typewriter hitting and leaving its mark. 
Repetition rebound around the rotunda atrium melding into next. 

It wasn't fair!
She had been summoned. 
There was no refusal. 
She arrived on time,
But had been kept waiting. 
Sweat her out!
Why was she made to feel guilty?

She jolted as sight met with uniformed guard, 
And held. 
Steely blue ex-service beneath peaked cap to 
Brown and teary, fighting fear, to point of sending mascara flowing in inky ribbons over alabaster cheeks,
As pale as any statue that graced this hallowed hall. 
He sat as judge, jury and executioner 
Behind raised and ruling oak desk. 
Her gaze fazed first. 

Desperate to find new eye line. 
Hard, dark, wood bench. 
New project.
She sat tentatively on the same spot as 
Rumps by the multiple had polished before. 
A grey suited identikit drone loomed and slithered from behind a heavy ornate door.

Her fingers gripped and well-worn edge as she screamed inside. 
Why her? 
What was she doing here?
It wasn't her fault? Wasn't her desire?
Who truly wants to work here?
Not her!
Why go through all this when she didn't want the job!
She rose to go. 
But the drone approached. 
He lifted his chin a little higher to peer down her nose to her. 
Nostrils quivering as he sniffed,
"Miss Cavendish. Your father will see you now."

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