365 Day Writing Challenge 53: Tear-Jerker

365 Day Writing Challenge

53. Tear-Jerker: Watch a movie that makes you cry. Write a poem about that scene in the movie.

Inspired by (and some lines taken from) the last scene of The Truman Show

I could never do this beautiful, many-layered film justice but I tried to write about what Truman might be thinking, or what I would think if I was him.

***

Now I have touched the sky

where do I go?

 

Now that I know that the world is but a painting,

that someone was paid one day to sit and paint my sky –

(and went home and had his dinner like any other day)

He had created a world with his fingertips

not thinking that I would look upon his creation

every day of my life

sunrise to sunset

(God nestling among the clouds)

 

And the water too,

my fear, my enemy,

that woke me up at night,

choking,

with the taste of salt in my throat

is now passive,

weak,

while I walk

(I am walking on water)

upon it,

how can this be what took my father from me?

 

my father…

was he even –

and my mother?

Are they sad now?

Do they miss me?

Or are they already thinking about their next job?

Their redundancy pay?

 

My mind hurts

 

Maybe I’ll wake up in hospital

and this will all be the dream of a sick mind…

***

You can’t leave, Truman.

You belong here.

With me.

***

A voice came to me from the clouds

and it wanted me to stay with it.

I said no.

***

 

 

 

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365 Day Writing Challenge 52: Memory Lane

365 Day Writing Challenge

52. Memory Lane: What’s it look like? How do you get there?

White light through clear windows

Green leaves glowing in the sun.

Large and austere, but not cold –

full of little details, little nuances

that make it perfect for me.

 

It always hurts my head to think

That a house can be a home to so many people

Be special to so many people

Belong to so many people.

Having someone else paint your home a different colour

And it call it theirs feels so

Violating

jarring, driving past and knowing that it is no longer yours but theirs,

(they,them)

it’s… hard.

 

 

 

365 Day Writing Challenge 51: Sunrise/Sunset

365 Day Writing Challenge

51: Sunrise/Sunset: It goes round and round.
The sun rises and the sun sets.
No matter what you do, the world will carry on without you.

But that doesn’t mean that you don’t matter.

The Earth is like an old man, walking the same path he has walked many times before. You are a small thing to him, even smaller to the galaxy, the universe.

But you are still important. The more you do, the more you create, the more you give, the more alive you are, more human.

We may be small in the eyes of the universe, but we can be giants in our own eyes.

365 Day Writing Challenge 50: Just Say No

365 Day Writing Challenge

50. Just Say No: Write about the power you felt when you told someone no.

We say no for a reason.

We say no to tell the other person that

our minds are our own,

that we don’t want to share ourselves with another.

More than just a refusal,

it is a statement.

an act of war,

but mostly an assertion of ourselves

separate from the other.

 

 

365 Day Writing Challenge 49: Joke Poem

365 Day Writing Challenge

49. Joke Poem: What did the wall say to the other wall? Meet ya at the corner! Hahaha.


 

I don’t normally write comic poetry or in rhyme…so forgive me!


Oh it’s such a laugh

To watch another gaffe

Another nudge, another wink –

There’s never any chink

In the armour of fools.

 

Bumbling red faces,

Untied laces,

 

I’m afraid it’s all nothing

But clever marketing.

 

One day we’ll wake up and we’ll see

They’re not who they claim to be

One day we’ll wake up and know

That there’s nowhere left to go

 

When it’s all too late we’ll see

That the clowns have hung up their red noses

 

And the joke is on us.

365 Day Writing Challenge 47: Light Switch

365 Day Writing Challenge

47. Light Switch: Write about coming out of the dark and seeing the light.

He sat up in bed and watched her sleep below him. He looked at the face he had known so long, the face he knew better than any other. He remembered the first time he met her, the smooth skin, the flawless smile. Now it was as if someone had taken the youthful oval he knew so well and traced over it – skilfully sketching wrinkles and lines until it had changed in its entirety. The woman lying next to him now was someone completely different.
As he watched he remembered the first time he had seen her face contort in anger. How her plump lips, that he had stolen kisses from so many times, had curled round her teeth. He hadn’t been quite able to believe at the time how he hadn’t noticed how sharp those little teeth were. For days afterwards he had watched them slyly, while she was eating, while she was talking, while she was eating, watching the little incisors cut through meat. Eventually she had dropped her knife and fork with a clatter and asked him if he could please tell her exactly WHAT was so interesting about the way she ate. He had stopped watching after that.
Now his gaze fell over her eyebrows, neatly plucked as ever. He noticed there was a stray hair in the middle, above her nose. She wouldn’t like that. She always maintained her eyebrows herself, (that was her word – “maintained” – as if they were hedges she was pruning) ever since the girl who normally did her brows at the salon had called in sick, and her brows had been done by someone else. The way this mew girl had done it, apparently, was not up to scratch. This was exactly why, she had told him in the car as he drove her home, she didn’t trust people. They let you down, and they messed up even the simplest of things. Her eyebrows had looked fine to him, and he had told her so. She had fallen silent at this, and stared out the window, her face unreadable behind her large sunglasses. He watched his knuckles go white as he gripped the steering wheel. He knew what was coming next, it was just a matter of waiting… It came, as it always did. The long, drawn out sigh, the one that let him know just how infinitely disappointed she was with him, with their marriage, with their life together. It was the same sigh after they slept together, the same tight, painful little smile. And he would ask her what was wrong, so many times, try so many different things, and yet always the same result: nothing was wrong, she was fine, and then that sigh, saying the complete opposite.
He sighed himself now, as he watched her. She never moved in her sleep. No snores, no twitching. Like those statues you lying on top of crypts in churches. Perfect repose. It had seriously made him panic the first couple of times they had slept together. He had fallen asleep with his hand on her heart, the steady heartbeat the only thing reassuring him that she was alive. She had woken up once with his hand still on her breast, her eyebrows raised, not, he thought, in an entirely annoyed way. He grew to hate the way she raised her eyebrows at him, more than anything else. As well as the little sardonic smile that always accompanied them. When he showed her the ship in the bottle he had made, painstakingly, over months. When he finally introduced her, after months of her pointed suggestions, to his small, talkative, overly eager friend Bert from the office. Whenever he came up with a stupid idea – no, whenever he came up with an idea that she found stupid. Because he was stupid, in her eyes. Stupid, useless, disappointing. Ineffectual. An afterthought. He was always there, bumbling after her, getting in the way. He looked down at his hands. Big, lumbering, clumsy hands. He looked them over, flexing his fingers. No. These were strong, skillful hands. Ones that could create things. Kind ones, ones that could stroke and caress. Ones that could love. Ones that could love the right woman.
He sat up, suddenly, like a bolt. He glanced at her quickly, fearfully. Still she was silent. He lifted himself from the bed, carefully and quickly. He eased his suitcase, the one that hadn’t been used since that disastrous holiday to Majorca. He shuddered at the memory even now. He piled his clothes into the suitcase, marvelling at how many he actually had. For some reason he had always thought he had hardly any. His brain was rushing now. Did he have his passport? Driving licence? Car keys? Thank God the car was in his name. Legal papers. Bank statements. There was a bonfire roaring in his head, all of his important documents blackening and curling. He made a mental checklist. Did he have everything? He thought so. He double, triple checked, because he knew that once he left anything he would never see it again.

The sun shone over the quiet suburban street. No one was awake yet. It was a Sunday, even the maniacal car polishers and busy housewives weren’t up yet. The only person awake was a man in a suit and hat, overly formal, as if he were on his way to church. He lifted a heavy suitcase into the boot of his car. He looked, for all intents and purposes, like he was going on a business trip. Except for a small, subtle smile that was slowly dawning across his face. Like the red fingers of sunlight at the start of a glorious day.

365 Day Writing Challenge 46: Dirty

365 Day Writing Challenge

46. Dirty: Write a poem about getting covered in mud.

I loved

jumping in

and feeling the squelch under my wellies

I would find the muddiest, dirtiest part

and dig my feet in, over and over, and feel the earth move beneath me

every step was a joy

just to feel

 

365 Day Writing Challenge 44: Insult

365 Day Writing Challenge

44. Insult: Write about being insulted.

The worst part is when you can feel your face going red, and you’re begging internally for it to go away, for it to cool down, but the burning just continues to grow and grow. You try to screw yourself up into a tiny ball, so that no one can see you, to stare at your screen and revert into yourself. But it’s no good, all the laughter keeps hitting you like a hundred baseballs, small and hard.

I’ve been trying hard to be more positive, to hate people less, but this makes me feel like I was right to begin with, that I should retreat back into my castle and bring up the drawbridge.

365 Day Writing Challenge 43: The Sound of Silence

365 Day Writing Challenge

43. The Sound of Silence: Write about staying quiet when you feel like shouting.

This is about a number of different people. Not really a poem or anything, just an elongated shout really.


Stop trying to squash me

Stop trying to make me fit in your narrow definition of who I am

Stop trying to initiate me into your cult of fucked up views

Stop making me feel different!

Stop making me feel weird and out of place and awkward

I am a valid human being too.

With valid opinions and valid feelings!

Stop thinking it’s OK to talk to me like that

because you know that I’m paid not to say anything back.

Stop being disgusting.

Learn to eat quietly!

Learn to admit that you are wrong!

Learn some fucking manners!

I’m sick of all of you.

I want to find people who are intelligent and understanding and not full of crap.

They seem to be very hard to find.

{Featured image from ISORepublic)