NaPoWriMo#17

the honest trill
of a contented weiro.
a kookaburra's morning call
laughing in the sunshine.
crashing ocean on the sandy shore.
children's merriment
unbridled and so full of joy.
the opening notes of a
favourite or well loved song.
the breath taken away
at a concert alone, amongst thousands.
voices raised harmoniously.

NaPoWriMo#16

tumbling down
over and
over
warm in the
sun and the
sand
somehow
comforting
and safe
even with eyes
closed and
no idea
where is up
when i'll stop

NaPoWriMo#15

hopes
and dreams
can't always see
the light of day
sometimes
they need to be
buried
now and then
they've not grown
fast enough
or in time
to spread their wings
and fly to the stars
so they wither
return to ether

NaPoWriMo#14

The ache
is constant
my eyes
lose focus
the knot in my neck
continues to throb
nausea
rises
muscles ache
relief seems beyond reach.

NaPoWriMo#13

rain sounds on the roof
like a 4 year old
at her first tap lesson.
eases to a slow typist
on an old Hermes.
almost peters out.
then roars back to life
as a drum solo
of massive proportion.
it's only autumn,
what has winter to bring?

NaPoWriMo#12

auto-save
in case my life
fails or
becomes corrupted.
temp the files
as sometimes
I change my mind.
and some days
life could really use
a restore point.

NaPoWriMo#11

water falls gently
soaking all that lays beneath.
soon refreshing sleep

NaPoWriMo#10

Falling in-front,
little by little.
I'm not behind,
my path is off-beat.
When I reach the target,
who cares how I got there?
My course may be hairy,
but I'll overcome defeat.
Still distance to cover,
just keep plodding on,
in my own way,
soon enough will be done.

NaPoWriMo#9

Some days
it seems I am
slowly
pedalling
backwards.
Logic can say
what needs
to be done,
brain-ruts
still keep me from
choosing
a new path.
Act, repeat, again.
A hard task,
I must continue
to try,
until eventually I build
a new rut.
One that I want.
Need.

NaPoWriMo#8

I've been holding off on this one, as I am still writing/re-writing #7, but I'm not sure how long it needs, so for now I'll skip it and keep publishing.

The little things
never seem
appreciated
or seen.
Moving towards
belief
in ability to
complete
surely requires
some little victories?
So hard to rejoice
in a job
well done, when it
continues daily, weekly,
monthly.
Increasingly
difficult
to do a job
well done, instead
I just do.
And some days,
when our dysfunction
plunges me to darkness,
impossible even to do.

NaPoWriMo#7

10 April 2010
This post (poem) was delayed as it challenged me, and I struggled with it.
Had I allowed longer, I may perhaps have improved on the rougher changes and passages.
Publishing now helps continue my fight with perfectionism.

shoulds
(so many. too many)
shouldy
(ancient, mouldy)
scouldy
(always your words seem)
scauldy
(and meant to burn?)
cloudy's
(the weight that bears down)
cloud is
(damp, dreary, life giving)
is clout
(when already down on myself)
cut ails
(perseverance whipped)
curtail
(hostility hinders, positivity promotes)
clarity
(sought in deed and in mind)

NaPoWriMo#6

Baby bird, you are
in our hearts. Such a
ratbag, you've wormed your way.
Rule the roost (you think),
Entrance and annoy, but
New family we've gained.


For our little one, who is approaching 2 months of age, and in memory of the tiny sibling who only survived 3 days.
Hand reared after the death of the male around 1 week after hatching.
A real character, who currently has free reign of the house.
(Though a solution needs to be found to the cage he hates)

Birren is a Noongar (local aboriginal) word meaning "small grey bird".

NaPoWriMo#5

I wake in the dark
contained on all sides.
I feel the dampness
and the cold as it surrounds me.
I draw in these sensations
and feel that I have grown
just a little.
As I lay here
I begin to feel warmth.
I crack though my covers
and extend myself
towards the heat
uncurling myself
and always looking for more.
As I lengthen
I weave through the maze
to find light
and my world awakens
only to be rudely
plunged
back to dim grayness
as I am sprayed, soaked.
I am not perturbed
as destiny fills
my being and
I continue to reach out.
I swell from within
seeming to grow taller
as I reach for the brightness
that has returned.
I break from my pod
leaving its skin behind
as I grasp for the sun and the sky.
I don't even notice
the roots forming below
tying me down but
ensuring my chance
at survival.
I blast outwards
with the energy stored
and display
my first set of leaves.
I announce myself
to the world
with all that I know.
I am
dicotyledon.

NaPoWriMo#4

The gum is drying,
leaves turning
to pale brown,
thinning
from the tree
to the ground.

The bark
lifts
from the trunk,
separated by
the loss
of moisture,
eye-catching,
but not in a
deliberate way,
like a push-up bra.

The mites have
terminated
the stately eucalypt.
What will they choose
to feast on
next?

I feel a
quiet
terror.

NaPoWriMo#3

On the whole, I haven't written any poetry for yeeeaaaars.
This is thus my apology to anyone underwhelmed by anything they read on my blog.

I am going to write a poem everyday for NaPoWriMo, although I may not post each day, as some may require more editing and thought (I know, who'd have thought it, considering the poor quality of what HAS been posted?).

Anyway, back to it.

NaPoWriMo#3

Planting seeds
hoping
they grow
I guess a
little effort
is required on
my behalf
nurture
not quite but
tend
believe in the
power
of quantity
and the wild
celebrate
the small success

NaPoWriMo#2

Caged. Yet
the door is
closed,
not locked.
Is it strength
planning,
perhaps compromise;
need to
find
joined freedom.

NaPoWriMo#1

So tired

weary

washed out

spaced out

drawn in

clenched

trapped

no light

blindfold

hiding hope

blocking strength

despair

not complete.

Due to insanity ...

and the ill-advised encouragement of MCM (http://1889.ca/), well, perhaps not personally, but at least in an off-hand, addressing all of his readers manner, I am creating my first blog post.

Angering the Duchess, Archimedes was shocked,
To be threatened with filleting by Duke Arrington, half-cocked.
Outside the party, shrill cries were twice heard,
Then the party resumed, 'til hung was the bird.
The police cornered their suspect, then a clue he entrusted,
Which led Darling next door, where Lord Likely de-lusted.
The suspect took flight, and a police chase ensued,
There was twisting and turning, too little of it nude.
Red herrings abound with many a surprise,
The mystery deepens,and my god, who dies?
To enjoy the full story, I shouldn't need to beg,
Just peruse The Man With The Improbable Leg.
And if indeed you have money to spare,
purchase you may, to encourage the affair,
Of the literary minds of the contributing authors,
MCM, Andy Fanton, lest they become paupers.

And in closing, I would like to apologise to all who have endured this attempt.