Tag Archives: Frances Clarke

Chunder Guts

25 Oct

Flicker fast, little light,

            Through the gaps in the trees,

Headache pangs, twitching eyes,

            Rough motions bring unease.

Vertical becomes flat

            In the blur, whizzing through,

Focus gone, dizzy head,

            Feeling woozy, spewing soon.

Not long now, Chunder Guts,

            Three more stops, only three.

Carriage sways, to and fro,

            Fro and to, like the sea.

Glimpsing sights, blotchy shapes,

            Don’t black out, worse inside,

Organs churn in their cage,

            Stuffy guts, get outside.

Loo’s too far, paper bag,

            Saliva forms, panting quick,

Bile rises, head constricts,

            Vomit time, travel sick.

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The Battle of Beddington

2 Jul

The bombardment began, at the Battle of Beddington,

One wet weekend when weariness waned,

As cheeky couch quarrels concluded in conflict

On treacherous textile terrain.

 

The Eiderdown Infantry intercepted intelligence

Of rivals plotting landmines at lunch,

But the Bolster Battalion’s booby trapped bunker

Plotted a pulverising pillow punch.

 

Frenzied fire over the futon frontline

Triggers a teddy trench trauma,

Ammunition ambush, an armchair assault,

And a Dutch wife dugout drama.

 

Disperse and duck down behind dining room debris,

The beanbag barricade’s blown!

The illustrious incident, at the Battle of Beddington,

Where wakefulness was overthrown.

Shakespeare’s Forehead

29 Jun

 

Thou hast always been there,

And we’ve all seen the glare

Of Bill’s shiny forehead

And his sad lack of hair.

 

It is proof that genius

Always trumps beauty,

But let’s thank the lord

He found words were his duty.

 

This egg of a man

Is worshipped still

As the greatest playwright

That e’er used a quill.

 

But every time

I praise his name,

I can’t help but think

That his face is a shame.

 

Would I sacrifice looks

For a chance at his brain?

I’m not sure, but perhaps,

I’m a little too vain.

 

 

Now as for old Albert,

He’s got no excuse,

For his unkempt hair

That just needed a spruce.

 

Give me scissors, a comb,

Or maybe some shears,

And I’ll make this physicist

A style pioneer!

 

Science was his forte,

Yet he hadn’t the concept

Of products and lotions,

For alas, he’s inept.

 

A Nobel Prize

At the cost of his hair,

I mean, what real use

Is E=mc2?

 

Would I sacrifice looks

For a chance at his brain?

I’m not sure, but perhaps,

I’m a little too vain.

 

 

Wolfgang was a child

When his brain was unleashed,

He wrote ditties, symphonies

And a perfect pastiche.

 

His portraits were false,

Photoshopped with a brush,

But even with that,

He can’t make me blush.

 

That growth off his mug

Is one cracking honker,

If given his options

Just make me a plonker!

 

Every weakness has strength,

And he sure could compose,

But this talent was balanced

With his sizeable nose.

 

Would I sacrifice looks

For a chance at his brain?

I’m not sure, but perhaps,

I’m a little too vain.

Singer 1904

24 Jun

I bought myself a vintage Singer sewing machine, of the year 1904. The mechanical sounds and rhythmic workings of the machine sounded poetic to me with all its nostalgia and beauty to compliment this. So I wrote a poem about it. What else could a writer do?

Singer 1904

Wind wool with

Tugging cog-work,

Seize silk in

Quick footed jerks.

Wheel churns,

Cranked to top height,

White thread

Tacks tatters tight.

Hinges worn

To creak and clank,

Whirring whinge

Of a rickety crank.

Tension springs,

Mechanical tackle,

Wrench the yarn

Into its shackle.

Whizzing stitches

Puncture cut cotton,

Cashmere, organza,

Don’t top our contraption.

Hundred years wear,

But bobbin won’t bawl,

Buttercup dress,

With lace and all.

Over and over again…

19 Jun

Daily Prompt: Tagline

Often, our blogs have taglines. But what if humans did, too? What would your tagline be?

I heard somewhere that Albert Einstein said, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results.” While this may be a fictitious legend, born from post mortem exaggerations, I still quite like the saying. It sounds like a good sweeping statement with very little hard substance, just like a good proverb should be. It says that I must be insane, because just this morning I put on my new shoes that gave me a blister yesterday, and guess what? I will be limping around all day. Again.

I prefer to redefine myself as an optimist. I hope tomorrow will be different, that my feet will have toughened or the shoes will have softened. Perhaps this does hint at madness, but what else have we got?

Blogs are for people who plough on every day, forcing themselves to sit down and write. Although nothing has changed since yesterday, we still hope that every day that we force ourselves into this ritual, we will have miraculously improved. Insane optimism is all that we have, all that we can hope to have, because only then will we have the stamina and willpower to continue writing every day, even on those days when the blank page puts up its hardest fight.

This is why my tagline would be,

“Success comes from a little bit of insanity…”

Check out some of these other bloggers’ responses to the “tagline” prompt:

  1. Daily Prompt: Tagline « Mama Bear Musings
  2. Madder than the Hatter | Daily Prompt: Tagline | likereadingontrains
  3. Taglines : Me by them | Geek Ergo Sum
  4. Daily Prompt: Tagline | Mindful Splatter
  5. My Tag Line | Right Down My Alley
  6. Live, laugh, love… | Relax…
  7. Tag, I’m it | Nanuschka’s Blog
  8. Raging Bull [Daily Prompt: Tagline] | unknowinglee
  9. Daily Prompt: Tagline | Books, Music and Movies : my best friends
  10. Phoneography Weekly: The light in dining halls |
  11. Blogging Is Like A Flea Market | The Jittery Goat
  12. Tagging me | 2 times pink
  13. Tagline: It’s All About Me | Mary Angelini Photography
  14. Daily Prompt – “All Humans Need Their Oil Changed” | Create & Motivate!
  15. Tagline: It’s All About Me | Mary Angelini Photography
  16. The Gray Zone | meanderedwanderings
  17. I’ll stick to what I’ve got. For now, thanks. | thoughtsofrkh
  18. The Grown up Kid | Daily Prompt : Tagline | Thoughts
  19. If I Were a Tagline | New Visions
  20. Daily Prompt: Tagline | The Blogging Path
  21. Daily Prompt: Tagline | I Work for a Jerk
  22. Catherine B.’s Blog | My Opinion Not Yours | Daily Prompt: Taglines

One

19 Jun

I am me, a single entity. My own will, and my life is my own. A thousand humans swarm your streets, scavenging for their daily bread, while I stand still amid the racket. They’re herded into booths like cattle, milked of all their dignity while force fed shit that makes their breath an infectious poison to the rest that’s left. All they wanted was to be suited and booted, and locked in your offices to do your dirty work, but the cream wasn’t rich enough for you, you greedy cowards. Face me, I am alone.  Alone is safer than within the packs of rabid code; one bite, one death, no one will know. I am unnoticeable until I do not bow to your regimes of farming humans through a system. Numbers don’t frighten me, because I am one.

Failing Poet

18 Jun

Globular blobs of tacky black ink stink up the pure page with words that inflect their infection of diction so it loses the perfection of simple silence as the implement of creation gives physicality to the notions that float in fiction amid the synaptic snaps of the thoughts of the author whose hands twitchy motions scratch scars of excretion on the paper nappy that catches the crap with the hope of extraction of some golden nugget of enlightened quotation, caesuras don’t feature as she waffles in metre and trips where her tongue would be eloquent teacher to her scribbling fingers that smear and distort every effort to reason with clunky retorts that fall short of Wordsworth’s lonely walk and Owen’s heart wrenching trench report. Her timing, her rhyming, there’s no use denying she’d be gifted at miming rather than trying to articulate and shape the shadowy crates that infiltrate her slowly numbing cranium to fumble over jumbled mumbles of clumsy catastrophic couplets that cut off her flow like a wine bottle’s cork but here’s a thought, that if she drank a dram the barrier would collapse perhaps that is the gap between the scraps of fragmented yaps coming out of her trap to cement her sketchy schemes together but whether this could ever be, it remains for me and you to see.