Writers Niggle

I’m lost with days
I just don’t know
If I should come
Or I should go
It’s been three days
Since I last slept
It’s clear my brain
Now seems inept
It’s floating now
a caffeine haze
Neurons firing
Thoughts ablaze
Letters jumbled
Words in fog
Lips are twitching
Eyes agog
Something stirring
Feeling near
Try to focus
All that fear
I know it’s stuck
Inside my head
But please I need
To go to bed.

SoCS: The late edition

So it may have been slightly late last night when I decided to write, and my brain may not have been firing on all cylinders but I’m still going to use my SOC: even though it’s a prompt from the wrong week oops.

In my defence, I was catching up and this is the post that caught my sleepy attention

Linda G Hill

So I began to write using this prompt – SOC Jan 14th

But we’reΒ not Datist here *grins*

Pencil v potato

This is how it all began, the start of it all, the very first move in the writers war. It was a mild day on the south bank that started as easily as any other day should yet it should be noted that Linda was there first. For days she had walked by that very spot in the soft dappled grass that lay under the old apple tree. For almost a week she had yearned to sit in the gentle breeze and feel free as she edited her manuscript, if she could only find the time. So when opportunity struck early Friday morning and a meeting was cancelled Linda made the lengthy journey towards her workplace yet instead managed to divert the destination to that desired spot overlooking the lake.

Taking out her pencil and red pen she set about with her soon to be most read novel and began the daunting task of editing. She had managed about five whole minutes of peace and pencil biting (well editing is indeed a stressful business) before she heard the nasal tones of her future nemesis.

Oh no that’s not how you want to do it

I’m sorry? Linda looked up moving a hand upwards to block the sunlight

The markings, you’re doing them all wrong…

Excuse me?

The woman plonked herself down in Linda’s blanket and began opening a large bag of cheese and onion crisps.

I can help you if you like, I’m a writer you know


The woman didn’t wait for a reply before popping a crisp into her mouth and crunching very loudly near Linda’s ear as she leaned in for a closer look at the book.

Yes you may know me, I had my picture printed in gardeners weekly just last week and commended on my letter about how to properly sow daffodils. I also won star writer of the week for three weeks in a row for the church ezine. So you see I can help show you the best way to write as I am a writer.

Flecks of potato flew from fingertips as she gesticulated the emphasis on the last word.

Linda opened her mouth to reply and then paused.

The First Villanelle

Oh. how to write a villanelle?

I need to be in the right mood

Perhaps a glass of Zinfandel

Would make my words seem rather swell

Or would it make them far too lewd?

Oh. how to write a villanelle?

Set up a template on Excel

And write until my flair renewed

Perhaps a glass of Zinfandel

To help fill in each empty cell

Or is this method far too crude?

Oh. how to write a villanelle?

My head becomes an empty shell

This page is just some words accrued

Perhaps a glass of Zinfandel

Ease my failure, not to dwell

Without the poem, then I’m screwed

Oh. how to write a villanelle?

Perhaps a glass of Zinfandel?

A-Z Challenge: Peeling back P

Potato sprouts

They are dangerous you know
If you swallow them, they grow

I raise my tired eyebrows in despair
Feebly give that knowing stare

Of course they do silly
just you, wait and see
as I silently pray
for Hades to take me

Her blood pressure rising
she spouts her tirade
about Maris Pipers,
the whole farming trade

How disgusted she is to see lots of dirt
Around her potatoes, and though it won’t hurt
She continues to prattle: it’s so disconcert-
ing. Watching me peel: she’s on high alert

And, try as I might to duel her with fact
I can’t hide the sprouts, can’t make her retract
the ridiculous notions she starts to enact
her worry of growths, her over react-

ion, to me peeling veg
Not even for her
Who knew, she was now
a spud connoisseur

Check out the A-Z challenge HERE

A-Z Challenge & NaPoWriMo – J.11


Thought I would combine my A-Z Challenge with the NaPoWriMo prompt for today: hope this goes down the right way πŸ˜‰


New Jesus

Nothing like the old one
Gone are the ragged locks,
the disheveled robe
His weathered, withered skin.
In place of bones
There hang, jewels of sweat
Clinging to suntanned pecs

I like how he makes me feel
As I watch him pour life into beings
that hang, fragile and frightened.
They way he encourages them
Helps them fulfill their potential
in a way that only he can.

I admire the warm glow of his presence.
The smile he brings to my lips when near.
Miraculous tricks, yielding better results
– than the old Jesus.

Though I can’t understand
Why my husband doesn’t like the new gardener




NaPoWriMo: Day 4

My take on the prompt given by NaPoWriMo

The Month Without Him

The cruellest month is upon us,
we have to see it through,
every day from start to end
without a word from you

I told you I could cope with it
I said I would be strong
You laughed at my reaction
and said a month’s not long

The first week saw me pine for you
The second I was sad
The third week, I was coping
It didn’t seem too bad

A week to go, I’d found a niche
Enjoyed our time apart
The bed was mine, the house was clean
And that was just a start

I’d lost a stone, and bought new clothes
caught up with all my friends
The milk was never left to spoil
I went out on weekends

The bins they still got emptied
The broken shelf got fixed
Tins still got recycled
Laundry stayed unmixed

That forth week, flew
right on by,
without me feeling blue
And now I’m counting
down the days,
to next month without you


A-Z Challenge: Corny C

So today I thought I would take some actual ‘Stolen Words’ to go with my A-Z Challenge.

It’s not a poem but I honestly couldn’t have made this conversation up and wondered if anyone else had to deal with this kind of stuff from aging relatives, and if so does it make you laugh? or just cringe like me :/


Uncanny Conversation


Oh you can stick your cans from Brazil too


The cans, that come from Brazil, they’re no good


It gets stuck, the keys break off and then you have to put a knife around…

You mean the..

You know, the Corned beef you got me, I don’t want them ones again

But it’s the brand you always have

The tins are rusted, they are useless, I don’t want them. Now the ones from France, they’re perfect ,nothing wrong with those, but this Brazilian tin <scoffs>, Β Β they are no good.

Well you know I can’t choose where its packaged right?

You could get the French ones

No, I order the ones in the brand you ask for, online

Well ask for the French tins

They don’t let you choose which country you want the stuff packaged in.


What do you expect, its tinned meat. If they are faulty I can try and complain but…

No don’t complain

Well then there’s nothing else I can do


You OK?

Ok – just get the French ones next time



The stakes are getting high..

“I see your grin and raise you a giggle ”

It always starts out this way
Just a bit of a giggle
A bit of a laugh
Then high spirits kick in
And the party gets out of hand
Everything is fine
Until someone gets hurt

β€œWho left the box on the stairs, anyway?”

Thanks for the inspiration today Jane πŸ™‚

Check out her blog here – Moonworld

Her Monopoly on Luck

She will sashay around the houses
Glide over Park Lane and Mayfair
Yet grumble about her time spent
On Old Kent Road
Where she had to talk
To a man, that was a dog
Trying to chase a top hat
in the wind

If she finds herself
behind bars
Flush with cash
She will still roll the die
And grumble at the double
Thrown on the third try
Instead of the first
She’s so unlucky

When she takes a chance
on life, on the game
She gets a trip to Pall Mall
That’s declared a waste
She never had to pass go
Never mind the opportunity
to buy, arose from this
The deed quietly tucked away

She catches a train
Two in fact
Yet complains
About sharing the connection

Pouts at not winning
The beauty competition
The grey note scrunched
In her hand
As the banker glares

It’s not fair
When she gets hit for street repairs
Those ten hotels make a dent
If only she had none
Like the iron
So unjust

Life was just not fair
To a girl like her