Love is a place. The place where I belong. Safe in your arms, the warmth of your smile. The place that I call home.
Love is a home. The home we make together Our memories, our joys, our lows. The journey we go on.
Love is a journey. The journey of body and mind. Our coming together. Making love. The love that we share.
The love that we share. The journey we go on. The place that I call home. A place to love and be loved.
The (optional) task for Day 10 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) is to write a love poem. It is very plain and so not saucy, but I was in a hurry. And shy.
Halved How can love be so difficult and so simple all at once? Life is sickness and health. To be frank, love is both a comfort and a chore. Our troth, our trove, til just a fraction remains. Halved.
Dear readers, some of you may know that my True Love has been in hospital a couple of times recently. He has been discharged again with confusing and conflicting advice, and limited information on a new, very restrictive diet, until … surgery? It remains stressful, particularly in the light of increased demand for hospital services combined with significant staff shortages. Hence, the poem is rather maudlin. Not to worry, we shall persevere.
The (optional) task for Day 9 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) is to write a a nonet. A nonet has nine lines. The first line has nine syllables, the second has eight, and so on until you get to the last line, which has just one syllable.
Welcome to my regular Friday song/tune day, ladies and gentlemen, where I pick a piece of music that reflects my mood or the times, to share with you. But first, a poem.
In Your Likeness What do you see when you look into your soul? Bloodshed, torture and depravity? Is this your version of humanity? Not fit unless made in your likeness.
Today I’ve chosen Pan’s Labyrinth Lullaby, composed by Javier Navarrete for Guillermo del Toro’s film.
In Australia, there are whispers of a murderous cabal of people-eating koalas. Known colloquially as “drop bears”, their location is known only to Aussies, who avoid them for dear life. The modus operandi of the drop bear is to drop down from the trees onto unsuspecting visitors. That’s when things get gruesome. But times are a-changing, ladies and gentlemen. Survival of our respective species, of the planet, means we will all need to reduce our meat consumption. Let’s see how that goes. Gather round.
Blood red eyes, dagger claws, give lie to that sweet furry body and button nose. “To our sacrifice and to yours!” The leader of the Drop Bears includes the captive in her hypnotic gaze. Then, in a booming bark, she projects to the crowd, “One last time. For tomorrow we turn vegan.” The crowd blanches, then tentatively at first, begins to chant,“Flu-ffy. Flu-ffy.” “But tonight. Tonight, Sisters. Tonight, Brothers. Tonight, there will be feasting on more meaty prey.” “Flu-ffy. Flu-ffy.” Silence falls – or maybe drops – as the throng gathers to feast. Finally, a shout rings out. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow, we dine on the Infidel.” The crowd roars. “Flu-ffy. Flu-ffy.”
A Vegetable’s Nightmare The silence ripples. Beyond the shadows, beyond the adulation, in gardens across the country, the infidels quiver in their beds.
If you are a visitor to Australia and plan on visiting koala habitat, best do that during the day. Koalas and their kin, the drop bears, are nocturnal and feed at night. There’s no telling if the drop bears will honour their resolution.
Day 5 of the NaPoWriMo challenge was to write a poem about a mythical person or creature (drop bears are more secretive than mythical) doing something unusual – or at least something that seems unusual in relation to that person/creature. I made a slight deviation from the brief, but near enough is good enough.
Stay safe, everyone. Kind Regards. Tracy.
PS. I had rather too much fun setting up the photos. I’ve had the koala toy since I was a baby.
Hurts. History repeats. Overwhelmed (even more) hospital staff. Important details omitted. Seniors. ie. not. Bedded down in the geriatric ward. Also, still short staffed. Pan. ie. bed. Plan B. Also, patients. Way too many (not their fault). Investment. To fix this health care crisis. Also incomplete medical notes. Toilet. Plan A. Please god, plan A. Also tired, ie. everyone, and stop the tax cuts. Accidents & Errors. Inevitable when staff exhausted. Investment, not tax cuts. Love. Not for love or money. Burnout. Get out. Real life “Survivor“.
Aussies, give your vote to the person that shows they care by putting their money where their mouth is. Our health, public health. In Australia, public hospital costs are shared between the national and state/territory governments.
Unfortunately my TL is back in hospital, ladies and gentlemen. I may need to take another blogging break. I’ll let you know or fail to show. How poetic!
Today three strange cars pulled up out front. One was white, one was green, one a colour in between. We scratched our heads, we gave a shrug, because we had no clue what this could mean.
Perhaps their intent was simply to admire the view bucolicus of our newest creation botanicus. Spiky grasses, delicate daisies, a blossoming shrub or three. Look, not even that sap sucking gum tree can stop ’em deadius!
[It gets worse.]
But maybe the onlookers’ intent was far more nefarious. Salacious desires for substances slightly more licentious. Or perhaps they were merely lost all three, but we really find that very hard to believe.
Or just maybe they were salivating over our male buxus. Told all their sketchy friends to come check it outus. So maybe we ought to charge a fee to prevent a stampede? Kid-free, adults a buck, carpooling receives a discount-ious. 😉
Oh my, oh my. That is truly awful. It didn’t exactly go where I expected it to go. The NaPoWriMo optional prompt today was to write a poem in the form of a “glosa”, utilising a quatrain from another poem of our choosing. Since I am a complete newbie to the formal aspects of poetry and poetic forms (not to mention proper English), I didn’t even know what a quatrain was, so I thought I would try to write one of those, ie. a quatrain, instead. I fear I got slightly distracted in the process. As you do.
Cockcrow to brownout, iron melts. Fruitful and fruitless is the product of labour under blast furnace sky. Golden age of man built on seeping pile of manure and metallurgic sands.
Cronos has finger on the pulses, his finger in the pies – a polyphagic appetite, polydipsic thirst, promises profligate. Hollow god of fortune in guise of sovereign man.
Staccato beats the seconds, the minutes, the hours, the dread. In messianic masterstroke, sickle wielding in parlous miscalculation, sunders creator from his balls, heaven from this earth.
Eulogise, pathologise, mythologise to light a conflagration. Killing time, past consuming future, til darkness slowly dies from his seed of destruction. Only to be condemned equally by those drunk on his poisoned chalice and by those whose freedoms he trampled.
I started this poem a couple of weeks ago, ditching it when I advised myself not to go there. Anyway, I decided to revive it for Napowrimo. I understand that Napowrimo stands for National Poetry Writing Month. I’m a Napowrimo virgin. I can’t imagine what possessed me to join in this time. I’m afraid, ladies and gentlemen, that as far as my poetry goes, it is all downhill from here.
Welcome to my regular Friday song/tune day, ladies and gentlemen, where I pick a piece of music that reflects my mood or the times, to share with you. How about a poem first?
Reflections of An Untidy Mind 