Inspiration

SoCS – My Precious

OK so my stream of consciousness Saturday became a stream of consciousness Sunday but I think it still works πŸ˜€

If you want to check out the rules or read some other great blogs turn please check the link to see Linda G Hill

…………….

‘My precious, my precious.’

His bony fingers turned the gold band over and over as he rocked back and forth happy in the knowledge that his true love was back in his hands once again.

I always felt that Smeagol or Gollum whichever face you choose to bestow upon him received a bad rap for his outwardly creepy exterior. Perhaps if he were the handsome hero and the ring had been his female counterpart then being so blindly obsessed would have been considered sweet or endearing for his persistence. If he were the guy who fought for his true love and never gave up, the one in the film that had been deserted, rebuffed yet got himself back together to fight for the girl. If he had been the knight in shining armour, fighting through wild forests and battling the dragon to get that princess back in his arms again then they would have all loved him unconditionally.

Yet because the source of affection is just a placid lump of metal the whole passions of the creature becomes trivial and humorous. So funny in fact that in a cinema when the scene between Smeagol and Gollum came on and he had an argument with himself over his precious, a huge wave of laughter began and made everyone turn and stare.

Except myself who was too busy shrinking down in my seat trying to pretend I wasn’t with that date!

Timing is so precious!

Advertisements

Remnants

It bubbles beneath the skin,
Small ripples emanating from the core of a wounded heart.
Tiny lingering flecks of closeted anxiety,
Compressed with age and hidden by tenacity.
Living fossils that once roamed freely within her soul,
Tearing through the ages and spreading corruption,
Flavoring her every passing thought – her actions.
An excruciating monologue jammed into a loop
– and stuck fast.
What was once a whole sea of anger, now lingers a quiet resignation.
Yet I feel it. Simmering, festering, a silent volcano,

Waiting to submerge.

……………

This poem was written using inspiration supplied by Sammie Cox and the Weekend Writing Prompt was ‘submerge with a word count of 86.

If you want to join in you can check out her blog over atΒ sammiscribbles

 

SoCS – The Card

It lay there – relentless.

It’s wide open face trying to lure me in with fake promises of innocence and plausible deniability. Yet I could sense the danger; see the evil glint in it’s googly eye.

Every so often I came across it, usually in the big grand clear out of hoarded cupboards, of drawers, of boxes, of past lives. Yet every year it survives. The single birthday card destined to be sent out yet never quite reaching it’s full potential.Β  Instead it lingers, ticking away at my mind and forcing me to recall memories of things past and left unsaid.

Oh, I know I could throw it in the dustbin or send it off to someone else to save the waste yet I just can’t bring myself to do it. The stupid humour on it was perfect for our little ‘in jokes’ that nobody else could understand and I knew you would appreciate the line of the poem I’d picked out and inserted especially for you – nobody else would have made the connection.

And yet I can’t send it now either.

Instead I clear it away, packed back into a shoebox, left to fester amongst the half burned candles and dried out roses. Left in the box of memories that mean the whole world and yet nothing at all.

……..

 

This piece was written using the ‘card’ prompt by Linda G Hill as inspiration. If you want to join in or just check out some inspired writing then please check out her blog for rules and more.

lindaghill.com

How to catch a Judge’s eye?

There must be something in it

Some method – some madness

Some sacrificial ritual to evoke

To claim their eyes and ears

Sew them to my words

And raise my vision

From the grave of poet tears

In July I will write,

I shall carve out my heart

Paint only by the light

Of a weeping orange candle

I will relinquish all ink

To glean admiration

Soak parchment in hope

With this incantation

By the waxing fingernail

Of an August moon

I will pray to all Gods

For answers back soon

I will bake lots of cookies

Bare all of my secrets

Stitch buttons on poppets

Post each judge to keep it

I could stalk them on twitter

Devour their heroes

Smuggle a cheque

With several zeros

Bribe them with candy

Kidnap their cat
Sneak in some Semtex
And that would be that

Oh what am I thinking
Oh where has this led
I can’t share this poem
That’s stuck in my head!

 

My Muse

 

It’s as if you make my fingers type somehow
Lure thoughts from my lips, staining the paper
– with inspiration
There are days when you tire me
Incessantly driving my mind forward
Creating strings of words ,that take form
Just a line or two at first
Then suddenly a whole cacophony
Of symphonies: the muse in triumph
And unbeknownst to most, you sit
Perched firmly in my chest
Your voice at the forefront of my mind

Go on, you say
Write it – write it all out
Write it for me

Costa is King

Quite possibly the largest number of singletons or loners found within one group at any one time. This quaint little coffee shop, a hive of activity for writers and readers alike. They swarm from trains and buses, tumble in from the street to find themselves a lone corner or quiet table from which to write their lives on the pages. Words conjoining to find meaning within inked lines, a master watching the beauty, as they swirl into being, taking form in their growth. Gnashing and gnarling, devouring everything in proximity before their inevitable death; then a refill of espresso to help the writer’s block.

coffee-983955_1920.jpg

Image: Pixabay