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

"The Mass of Mound" (Entry 493)

Woman slept as belly writhed. 
Attempt unconscious to manoeuvre bulk.
A grunt of discomfort before giving up.
Still mass beneath rolled and quivered.

Movement never-ending.
Surprise now, and from the beginning.
Unplanned, from one night stand.
Not unusual ‘round here.

Celebrations, congratulations.
A visit to the social.
Though no one noticed her late of medical checks,
or that bump grew at alarming rate.

Did anyone else crave sunflower oil?
Gallons and gallons, she drank.
Plastic bottles, and metal cans,
lay empty and glistening beside her bed.

No one seemed to think this strange,
or think about it at all.
A block in their vision, their processes.
She whimpered, greasy mouth wiped.

Lay a hand on undulating mound.
Movements intensified. Pushing up, fighting. 
She screamed once, as the unknown ‘un-baby’
began to eat its way out.

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