Writing Daily or Writing Crazy

I type this post with a dog sitting on my feet in the comfort of my post-workday living room. I’m just missing a cup of tea and a slice of toast (a habit I have regretfully picked up from my mother, the queen of toast-eating). I decided a little while ago that I wanted to publish some kind of post every day, but finding something interesting enough to share about my standard work, home, feed dogs, cook, eat, wash up, watch TV and go to bed life proved rather tricky. The only update I really have to give at this stage is that I am totally bogged down by the gruelling process of a house purchase (wouldn’t recommend), but once that’s done I should (haha) have more time to write!

Anyway, after that meaningless ramble, the point I was getting at is that I’ve decided to write and publish on my site (as well as Twitter, Instragram and Facebook – please check those out too for extra content) a poem every day. The majority of these are syllabic, meaning that I am quite restricted, which is great because anyone who has read my poetry on this site will notice that I don’t know when to stop.

I’ve already almost forgotten on some days, and while I have the privilege of scheduled posts on here, there is no such thing for the rest of the accounts I try to keep up to date. Still, here we are, I have committed myself and for once I am determined to stick this one out and not fall behind on it. I’ve always loved writing and this is something I can look forward to doing each day, from my sofa, with my feet up, with my dog.

I hope you enjoy reading the daily poems, or spam, depending on your perspective.

Remember to surpass those expectations and eat the lemons life throws at you this week. You can do it.

Baby in Arms

I carry with me the first time I saw you,
the apprehension on your face
that gradually melted away.

I carry the sounds of your painful cries
the terrors you encountered at night
and the stories of your past.

I carry our first shopping trip
and all the things you chose,
things that helped my house become your home.

I carry the times you fell and scuffed your knees
when you tried to climb to twice your height upon a frame,
and when you bumped your head and ran to me for the first time.

I carry the intensity of the uncertainty
waiting to hear for sure that you would be coming home with me,

I carried you for months on end, before I saw your face,
not through womb but in a much more important place.

The Plea of a Rescue Dog

If you knew what happened before I met you
maybe you’d understand.
If you saw the torment I was subjected to
by a stranger’s hand.

I eat from bins, it’s all I know
and toilets? I don’t know where to go.
Because, you see, the world, to me,
was once my only home.

I don’t like it when hands fly towards my face
and I hate it when strangers say hello.
Because, you see, the world, to me,
was full of fear and sorrow.

I have scars under my fur your eyes can’t see,
and worse than those are the memories.
Because, you see, the world, to me,
Was a flurry of anxiety and worries.

If you knew what happened before I met you
you might start to see
the reasons why I react so much
to someone looking at me.

I’m not a bad dog, and I love you so
but fight or flight is all I know.
So be patient, my human, and give me time
I promise to be better, and soon you’ll find
I’ll be the most loyal soul, your very own
rescue dog, to whom you gave a home.

Departure

“They’re nice to me really,” the same lie every day
to those who notice, or care to question.
But dragged through time by the grip of a hand
that will only let go to grab the crop
and those around face what they perceive
as abandonment from a companion, when in need,
because the real truth is too hard to face
so the bruises, the silence, the poorly cloaked flinch
are merely a choice, from a circle to one.

Months, years, decades go by,
locked in a room with no door to even try
to break out and run, and even if so,
the darkness would follow, wherever to go.
Then something changes, usually when
someone steps in, an unexpected
stranger,
usually.
Descriptions rewind and the time in the room
is re-lived in words spoken true
to a stranger’s badge.

Torment takes over in a downward spiral
as thoughts change their tune and personal views
of who is to blame for a perpetrator’s choice
are brutally swirled, into a
dough before kneading.

Time crawls by with
no regard for the storms that don’t pass
and the feelings of the time they last
spoke or touched, with a tongue of fire
and hands ablaze, leaving souvenirs
of the third degree.

The driftwood of justice swims further away,
the message in a bottle also on its way
out of reach as years press on
and memories half healed become harder to re-run.
Waves become rough, and whispered in the
crash of the foam rising high
“boys will be boys”, and that is why
the chances of catching the singular piece
of driftwood at sea
becomes second to none, “leave it be,”

they say,
from their priority seats
but the advice is useless,
like a graft
using damaged skin
it can’t be fixed
though denial
or a healthy meal
and the final decision
that lays out of hand.
Questions of why
how
and when,
and for what did you allow this never to end.

With answers so complex, and no reason why
because in hindsight leaving with head held high
would have been the solution when the skies
turned grey, before the downpour and thunder
and strike of light
but the promise of an umbrella
not seen as a conductor
from that generous topi
antelope.