Writing 101, Day 3: One-word inspiration

Sometimes, a single word is all you need to get your mind’s wheels turning.

The word I chose was ‘home’. I must still be in the mindset of last month’s Poetry 201 Challenge since I decided to write in the form of a poem. I have never seen myself as a poet, yet I do hope you enjoy my take on ‘home’.

Tell me, where is home?
Is it the place that one has always known?
Or the place where time is spent the most
In between travelling from coast to coast?

And tell me, am I alone,
That I should not identify with home?
Those familiar scents of toast and wood,
Reviving memories of all things good.

And please Sir, what of home,
If you should spend your days there all alone?
No callers since your family has flown.
Would this remain your safe, sacred home?

What say you? What is home?
For should I settle and no longer roam,
I shall coin a bosom to safely lay
A fine home of heart to see out my days.

Mourning Dove

Poetry, Day 10: Pleasure, Sonnet, Apostrophe


To know you, to hold you; is a blessing;
Forgo you I shall not, be mine to keep.
And although there are times I am stressing,
you hold me close should I grow tired and weep.

You bring with you the scent of morning dew,
Your dewy droplets rain upon my face.
Washing away my weariness and blues;
Showering me with your love and your grace.

Bequeathed to me your boundless wells of love;
A gift I cannot keep for only me,
But how to awaken this mourning dove,
When her wings remain folded at her feet?

Lift these shrouds so she might fly
you are her wind, her stars and sky.


Poetry Day 8: Flavour, Elegy, Enumeratio

waiting at the gate

Eager feet are stretched on tiny tiptoes at the gate,

Her faced is pressed against the slats, she waits.

Occasionally she retreats to make a daisy chain or two,

She’s been waiting there since lunch, waiting just for you.

And never was there a time that you should arrive late,

But for a child unbound by time, it is best to wait all day.

Picking at the grass a little and humming her idle tune,

She climbs atop the lower slat to steal a better view.

And there, as night does follow day, at the foot of the hill she see’s

Your jet black hair and smiling face; “He’s here he’s here!” she squeals.

And whirling with delight and joy she watches as you near

The best feeling in her world is when she has you here.

Your weekly visits are her joy, her sweet chocolate-raisin treat;

Her walnut whip, her Beano mag, her dance upon your feet;

Her bear hugs and her tickles and her favorite matchbox cars;

Her message in a bottle, purple rain and air guitars.

Those days, though gone, they do live on forever in her heart.

But never has it been the same since the day you had to part.

Chocolate raisins now taste bittersweet upon her tongue,

And as the days turn into years she wonders if she’s waited long.

Eager feet are stretched on tiny tiptoes at the gate,

Her faced is pressed against the slats – she waits.


Poetry, Day 7: Neighborhood, Ballad, Assonance


The streets are decorated there
In dirty paper hues.
The beauty seems to disappear
Beneath the litter strewn.

The whole town seems to wear a shroud
A deeper shade of grey.
The sun is masked behind the clouds
And rarely comes to play.

As people walk their faces bent
Against the bitter rain,
Those souls who leave wish to repent;
those who stay refuse to change.

Red bricked houses line the pavements
Like tightly packed sardines.
Inside, souls yearn for the day when
One can fulfill life’s dreams.

My Father’s Face

Poetry Day 6: Faces, Found Poetry, Chiasmus

I took a photo of the books on my fire-place and used them to create my ‘found poem’. Needless to say – I struggled to put Gangsta Granny in there 😉 I have emboldened the words I managed to use both in the list of books at the end, and within the poem itself.


A story of lost childhood, shattered sweet shop dreams
Of playground attraction’s unlike what they seem.
With her guardian, and immediate protection long flown
Her soul became a prisoner in a heart carved from stone.
Half empty and pained she cried: ‘Hallow thy-
Jesus name!’ And begged He restore order to her life again.

Be patient, dear child, you mustn’t run before you can walk,
Nor walk before you can run; not all is deathly and undone.
In the hours of the night, feel the fire in your blood,
And when daylight breaks
Should your tender heart ache
Deep within its very chambers; remember the face of your father.

Feel there the very warmth of your stolen Prince, healing you
with timeless tales of truth. With me before you,
Guiding you home, there are no secrets unknown. His love
for you shall always be shown. And so, as a philosophers phoenix
rising like the bright Northern star; Your father’s love will shine upon you,
And all that you are.

Books I used (and didn’t): The Hours of the night, Me Before You, Gangsta Granny, The English Patient, Sweet Shop Dreams, The Story of Childhood, The Life of Jesus, Run Baby Run, Philosophers Stone, Chamber of Secrets, Prisoner of Azkaban, Goblet of Fire, Order of the Phoenix, Half Blood Prince, Deathly Hallow, Attraction (Perfume), Immediate protection (sun cream bottle)

Travelling Heart

Poetry Day 5: Map, Ode, Metaphor

In keeping with the Ode form, I attempted to inject the use of archaic language. Please excuse any errors (and point them out if there are any!) I wanted to add another verse to this before bed – but my housemate is having an extremely loud conversation which is penetrating my creativity levels (and one must eat) : /


Sustaining tender life of mine from deep within
my Mother’s womb; long ere all knowledge of my own existence.
Bearing gifts of renewal; O, a new life to begin.

More than a mere muscle beating; with quickened pace
Your unguarded wishes race to thy heavenly skies
Conveying to it every which place we traverse in time and space.

O, heart – O compass guiding – where to from here?
Must I travel with no sense of home each passing year?

Thee not ‘the’

Poetry, Day 4: Imperfect, Limerick, Enjambment

(so this may only be the case in England – but if you have any English friends, note how they pronounce ‘the’ as thee whenever they are choosing from a menu – it really is quite funny) 

Menu & Cutlery on A Restaurant Table

For some time it’s been a great puzzle to me

why, when ordering food the word ‘the’ becomes thee.

‘I’ll have thee… boneless chicken thighs, please

With a side of mustard and peas!

And, waiter? Did you notice how I used thee just for thee?’

Thorny Kisses

Poetry, Day 3: Skin, Prose Poetry, Internal Rhyme


So painfully obvious from the pale shade of your skin was the recognition of your absence. And as you slept, your familiar form did lay motionless before me, unable to console me as it once did. Many tears I cried for the absence of goodbye, and so it was I wept. I longed to feel your warm embrace, but still the hue of your familiar face, grey and bruised from whence you did lay, was a cheerless reminder of your cold absence. So intense the urge to hold you, yet, even greater the desire to recall your last touch; the touch of your skin warm against mine. Rejecting the cold, I opted to hold a single rose taken from your resting place. A gentle kiss I did give it, and pressing the flower to each of your cheeks, I continued to weep. I repeated the gesture, tears rolling like raindrops to drench you with my love. Kissing the rose once more, I rested it upon your mouth, sealing your lips with a farewell kiss. And then to your eyes, eyes which were closed so tight that I might not see the absence of your smile. Holding on to the memory of your warm embrace, I pressed the rose upon your face. And there I remained, showering you with my warm thorny kisses.


Poetry Day 2: Gift, Acrostic, Simile

(I omitted the simile as it felt a little forced with this one)


Given – yet never promised to last,

Infinitely eternal once existence has passed.

Forever, it seems, may simply cease to exist

Treasure life’s brevity, for it is truly a…

First Steps

Day 1: Screen, Haiku, Alliteration 

For today’s Poetry 201 prompt, I thought I’d have a go at the ‘tanka’, which follows a syllabic pattern of 5-7-5-7-7.


His first steps taken;
And not a soul who has seen.
Mum’s in the next room
peering at her screen. She types;
‘At what age can infants walk?’