NaPoWriMo 2.26: Zones 1 to 5

Like a satellite, all I can see of him is a distant silver spin –

Here’s an attempt / variation on a curtal sonnet, based on an overheard quote of a while ago…

 

Zones 1 to 5

 

Like a satellite, all I can see of him

is a distant silver spin:

a storm system on his thin-

ning scalp. He echoes every single

automated place name, loudly:

Cottingley. Morley. Batley.

 

“Lidl’s profits are up.” His eyes,

unseen, are its sun-yellow signs.

“Nobody lives where they work

anymore. We spend all our time

 

moving people.”

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NaPoWriMo 26: Stories and/or Plans and/or Ideas

This became the nickname for my Mum, so my step-dad made her an actual Mothership logo - AWESOIME.

This became the nickname for my Mum, so my step-dad made her an actual Mothership logo – AWESOIME.

 

Here’s my Day 26 offering, from Jo Bell’s lovely prompt to write a sonnet (or something sonnet-like) about your parents, distributing the lines across your Mum (ABABCD on Sandy, then), then your Dad (CDEFEF on Jeremy, then) and finally, you – for the last couplet (GG on me, then).

It was a fairly quick effort – been a busy day at work! But I managed to keep to the structure – and I hope made it a positive and celebratory piece, to contrast with yesterday’s Picnic Ballad.

I hope you enjoy it and get some insight into both of my parents – and consequently, about me. (And if either of them is reading this, I hope none of it seems unjust or unkind 😉 )

 

Stories and/or Ideas and/or Plans

 

The Mothership: an endless story told

like growing hair heroic silver-grey

and given to the air. She does enfold

each waif and stray; narrates each passing day

 

in technicolour. Even through dark acts

her voice can send out parcels to lost hands.

And he, a voice of malleable facts,

whose mind is full of ideas and/or plans

 

or more the first, or half of the latter.

So given to the earth, so given to

burying in objects and a smatter-

ing of  blushed-untolds, or prides never-knew.

 

And I: am I story, plan, or idea?

I am all three: part told, unfurling, here.

Which Winter?

A snow-dome iris, cracking through the screen…

This spell of wintry weather reminded me of a poem I wrote and put on some Christmas cards some years back – which is very wintry indeed…I think it was mainly to do with playing around with the image-paraphernalia of snow and wintry landscapes; so perhaps it’s not my most successful poem – but I hope it paints interesting pictures, at least (and follows a sonnet form too – good old ABABCDCDEFEFGG – as a technical exercise!).

Still working on my second sci-poem of the week, which I’m hoping to pop up later – but in the mean time, here is my snowy sonnet, entitled:

 

Which Winter?

 

There is a blizzard in our eyes sometimes;

A snow-dome iris, cracking through the screen.

Our cabins locked within a shaking mime

As giant flakes engulf the fish-eyed scene.

 

There is ice within our smile some days;

Sharp fragments dripping from our roof top lips.

The mountains mouth an O, the silence plays

On plastic pine tree pivots where Earth tips.

 

There is a frost across our minds some nights

Which petrifies the valleys of our thought.

It hushes colour, crushes light and slights

Our source; stills the singing of the stream.

 

Yet constant is the chorus of the flame

Each cabin’s candle dances, seeks the same.