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.

Thursday, 19 December 2013

"Disco Beat Death" (Entry 496)

1 - 2 - 3 - 4
The disco beat bounced through his head.
BeeGees with sledge hammers.
That infernal tune on internal loop.

That bloody adverts fault,
meant to save lives.
First aid,
CPR,
chest compressions to the rhythm of ‘Stayin’ Alive.’

Ironic,
now the victim was Forever Dead.

He’d been there, willing them along,
counting his breaths, 
trusting they would keep the patient going,
as they attempted to stop the blood from literally 

Going down the drain.

He didn’t see the car hit,
but from what he was looking at now,
it must have been a head-on.
Over the bonnet and thrown into the gutter,

Like the rest of the unwanted discarded detritus.

He stared at the body,it looked empty.
A shell, some call it,
like you could hold it to your ear and
still listen to its past life, like

The distant roar of the ocean.

No, that mass of meat was nothing but compost, or ash, now.
He should know,
it was his body he viewed through
non-existant non-corporeal eyes.

He knew he should be reviewing his life,
or regretting what he should or shouldn’t have down.
Trouble was, he couldn’t stop thinking about that fucking tune,
“Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Stayin’ Alive!”

He prayed it wouldn’t last into eternity.

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