The Chilli Plot

I drop the lid back on the pot.
A satisfying clang cut off the steam.
I pause to listen for gran’s trot.
Afraid of her discovering my scheme.

I turn around a smug smiled face
And freeze in place as does my sass.
You lean against the door with grace,
And notice the traitorous chilli glass.

Understanding dawns in steel blue eyes
Mischief and panic in fast succession.
“How often have you used the spice?”
You sheepishly ask a vital question.

I stare at my feet and can’t remember.
“About five times.” —I am sincere.
Your shoulders slump in mute surrender.
“Me, too.” Your eyes meet mine with fear.

Gran’s face bright red; she wipes off sweat,
And raises her brows at you and me.
We share the stare of maternal threat.
I’m shrugging at you, and you grin at me.

Luck has it that this threat was never fatal.
And ever since, chilli is a table-stable.

Footfalls

Your footfalls echo through the dark.
Somewhere the owl hoots
swift wings gliding.
She lays awake waiting,
night after night, moon after moon.
Lest she misses your ghostly attendance.
Bringing both,
solace and pain
to tortured grief.
The foxes’ sinister bark breaks through the night.
You pause in one another’s presence,
Two restless spirits,
one spectre, one flesh.

Unstructured Thoughts

I have been thinking about you all day.
The day after.
It began the moment I passed the robin.
An almost spring morning.
Life assuring song on top of his lungs.
Witch hazel blooming.

The first day after death.
When you are faced with the facts that:

  • the barista keeps working,
  • the milk is delivered,
  • the sun has risen,
  • the world is still spinning.

And you, you are left behind.

Not quite at the same pace with everyone else.
Not quite in the same space with everyone else.

Still with the one who left.
Yet utterly bereft.

Hot air created foam in rich milk.
You can’t taste the pain au chocolate.
All noise is behind a thick glass wall.
One foot in front of the other going no where.
Ice cold wind slashed your face unbeknownst.
The last roar of winter passes you by.

And you, you are left behind.

Where the Garden Begins

I had another go at the “Where the sidewalk ends” interpretation …

fox snoozing in the garden

There is a place where the sidewalk ends,
the meadow spreads, and garden begins.
And there the dunnock bops her head,
And there the rhubarb bursts his bed,
And there the fox sniffs around the shed,
to hunt a mouse or two.

Let us leave this place where the cars honk loudly,
And the sea of people shove us stoutly.
Let’s rest where the birch stands proudly,
Where we dance and sing and snooze,
Walk slow, run fast, jump high without shoes,
In that place where the sidewalk ends.

We will snooze in the sun with Mr Fox,
And cuddle neighbour’s cat who wears white socks.
And read a book, and give you a hug,
And be as happy as a bug in a rug.

Where the bedframe ends

There is a place where the bedframe ends
And before the rest of the world begins,
And there my queendom’s shelter and light,
And there my pillowy throne room’s might,
And there snacks, books, and art supply,
Are my world—a reality out of print.

Let me stay in this place of eternal snacks
And during the dark I can Zoom my friends.
Pots on the windowsill where my house plants grow
Where the outside ledge feeds a friendly crow.
And I watch there the chalk-white chemtrails go
To a place where the sun burns hot.

Yes I will keep feeding my friendly crow
And will worry about burning too much CO(2).
For I am scared for the rest of the world to know
Of my place where the bedframe ends.

Well you may have guessed: a rejiggling of Shel Silverstein's "Where the sidewalk ends" with a lot of his words incorporated.
a super cosy (with slightly too furry pillows) bed surrounded by a bedframe with fairy lights and a milky glass wall in the back with green palm trees behind it
Photo by Tan Danh on Pexels.com

The Knife

You hold the knife then.
Pointed at my stomach then.
Don’t run with scissors again.
I don’t know why I think then,
about this phrase again.

You have this strange look, ghost.
Weird little smile almost,
glee in your eyes almost.
Don’t hold a knife thus then.
So I am not spooked again.

I still think then,
it’s coincidence then.
Until it happens again
and I begin to see then.
And wake up from that dream then.

It turns out it was a delusion.
You were just an illusion,
of a husband unproven.
I was so alone then,
fearing there won’t be atonement.

Absolution in healing then,
as I walk down the street then.
With my backpack neat again.
And I can breathe again.
Leaving behind the foile à deux man.

The Cure for Anything

This poem (maybe a villanelle-ish?) was inspired by the following quote:

This is literally a white tile with the following quote: The cure of anything is salt water —sweat, tears, or the sea. Isak Dinesen

The cure for anything is salt water
—sweat, tears, or the sea.*
Never forget this when the times turn darker. 

This is what I tell you daughter! 
Embracing your pain is key. 
Let your tears be healing water.

Worship at the Goddesses’ altar
She will listen to your plea.
Don’t forget her when times turn darker.

Oh how I wish I’d wade through water!
Barefoot along the ice cold sea.
Flowing tears, feet in saltwater.

Oh how I wish I could be other,
than just painfully be me! 
Especially when days turn darker!  

Feel my pain dissolve some faster. 
Tears along the stormy sea. 
The cure for anything is holy water
Remember this when the times turn darker. 

And you walk weeping by the sea.

Let your Soul Unwind

Just breathe and let your soul unwind.
Granddad’s advice holds steady.
Pause is important for the mind.

It keeps the soul and body aligned
Forfeiting pause is deadly.
Just breathe and let your soul unwind.

Be gentle with yourself. Be kind.
And now just let your breath be.
Pause is important for the mind.

Body, soul, and heart entwined.
In rest you find their beauty.
Just breathe and let your soul unwind.

Let sorrow go, leave it behind.
It often weighs too heavy.
Pause is important for the mind.

Embrace yourself. Embrace your light.
And learn to love your body.
Just breathe and let your soul unwind.
Pause is important for the mind.

My first villanelle (maybe?)! Poetry helped me learn English more, and get a better handle on the intricacies of this language, but writing poems based on very particular rules is pushing me way more out of my comfort zone. 
So please let me know what works and what doesn't work. 
And how the rhymes go ...

A bit of a rant

—probably driven by the green eyed monster

Why are some so successful peddling pedagogy
with advice that is like Instagram poetry?

A mix of truisms, oldies, and basic tips,
is this really what we are going to be stuck with?

The same things, over and over and over,
I crash from idealism to stone cold sober.

Where is the challenge?
Does this rhyme with orange?

Never mind, back to basics,
just make it a bloody remix.

What is my purpose, moving this role,
into which I pour heart, mind and soul?

I am frustrated being stuck
in a structure that sucks
the lifeblood out of excitement,
as long as we can prove fucking constructive alignment!

Mid Semester Slump

First draft

Existential threat is brewing in my cup.
The fumes of despair gently wafting up.

Don’t judge!

Naught but a mild case of impending doom,
a pile of marking and various deadlines loom.

I am fine, just fine. Fine.
Nothing to worry.

No one showed up to the webinar room.
Apparently, I didn’t send the link for Zoom.

Also I forgot to check the Moodle forums.
Gotta run to a meeting now so they have a quorum.

No, no I still don’t know what that means.
Can I just have a sip of my coffee please.

My fountain pen leaked all over my backpack.
I stress clenched and another tooth cracked.

Brain the size of a galaxy—and teeny tiny office space.
Oh wait, we are hotdesking now—I make a sour face.

Did I press ‘send’ on that email?
Yup I am living a fairy tale!

Our Article was published last week!
I am on a roll with my output streak!

Don’t judge me by my horrible rhyme!
I am writing this way past my bedtime.

Did I tell? My tbr* pile fell!
I think it registered on the Richter scale.

Still not as heavy as the guilt about all the unticked ‘To Dos’.
Don’t worry I am just having the Monday evening blues.

The plumes of despair gently wafting by.
As I stare into my cup and not so gently cry.

I am fine, just fine. Fine.
Nothing to worry.

*to be read (tbr)