NaPoWriMo 2025 (part VIII)

Days 26-30 of NaPoWriMo

Sonnet

In soft refrain, these syllables fall

From gasping mouths, and in between the pants

Of husky breath, whispered words will call

And urge the other in this sensuous dance.

Astride and unashamed, your body moves

To unheard music playing in our minds,

While in my chest, my beating heart approves

The grand legato of your limbs entwined.

With teeth and tongues and arching spine, and now

The bold staccato of your fingernails

Embedded in my flesh, I think I know

How symphonies your every sense enthral.

Here in the dark, the colours of our song

Illuminate the love that now has grown.

The Great Red Dragon

If only they knew of the hell we have become,

And all the varied sins that overrun.

Where here, that evil takes its faceless form,

His stance is wide, his muscled legs are strong.

Leathered wings about him are outspread,

And fire rings a halo on his head.

Though monstrous large, his agile tread is light,

He steps upon the crescent of the night.

In the clutches of his sinewed tail,

A lady lies prostrate; her face is pale,

Her hands are raised entreatingly in prayer,

All around her flows her golden hair.

The dragon is the essence of her fear,

His beauty and brutality is clear,

And though his darkness o'er the scene is flung,

The woman is still clothed with the sun. 

Love is a Sin

How can love be a sin?

That flutter in your stomach

When they walk into the room, and it's like

Sunrise

A soft, warm glow.

How can love be a sin?

The feeling of bravery

As you stand up, finally, and declare

"This is me"

And always has been.

How can love be a sin?

The slow, deliberate dedication

Of nurturing yourself, for every tomorrow.

Peeling oranges

And the tang of cheese.

How can love be a sin?

The comfortable satisfaction of knowing

That your family, by blood or bond,

Will fight

Beside you

Eclipse

I step quietly against the tide,

The hubbub of the waking world behind me,

And all around is blue and green.

The shadow of the moon wavers

On the ebb and flow, night within day.

Seaweed tendrils wrap around my ankles

And just for a moment, here in the sweet still calm

I surrender to the idea of eternity. 

But the moon shifts

And the clouds drift across the sky

And the waves grow cold against my skin.

The sharp cry of the gull is echoed

By a foghorn from a ship on the horizon.

I return to this waking world,

But try to hold within me

That moment 

NaPoWriMo 2025 (part VII)

Days 22-24 of NaPoWriMo

Muchness

When they say "You are too much"
They mean "You are too much... for me"

Find those people who will celebrate your muchness,

And encourage you to celebrate theirs.

Cheers, it's Thursday.

Let's go to the beach - when - right now.

Barbeque smoke and the strum of a ukelele.

Crap films and cinnamon buns and laughter.

The hugs that last just a second longer

And "I'm bored at work, send memes" messages.

"I heard about your dad"

"This postcard reminded me of you"

"Your favourite biscuits were on sale

    so I bought three packets"

Philosophy over laundry

And let's get drunk at 4pm in my living room.

You are never too much for me,

You are community

Family

Dawn Chorus

In peaceful early morning moments of

Dusky blue, before the sun is full

Awake, there comes glorious from above

An opus of orchestral bird call.

The cheery chaffinch chirrups in the trees,

His pink throat undulating with his song;

A restless wren is flirting with the breeze,

And trills his tune above the growing throng;

Within the hedge a pair of blackbirds play,

Bold and bright, their voices carry far;

And dainty-footed, dances there a crow,

Who joins in with a loud and laughing caw.

As the sun is brightening the morn,

Each one is the essence of the dawn.

DIY

The slip-skid of stony substrate,

Metal tines ting, and fling

With force coarse sand and cement.

I grit my teeth, and grit is underneath

My fingernails, the gloves improper for this use.

I think back to the silent sweep 

I knew, plumb planes of plaster.

But this nasty noise, this schwing and clink,

The itch and fizz within my ears

That grows and grates; my hands abate

And pleading, pass the trowel to my

Waiting husband, his ears less tender than mine.

Forgotten memories

The thing they don't tell you about grief is that you forget. And I don't mean those brief moments of silence before you open your eyes in the morning and reality comes flooding back.

I'm talking about how that person wasn't part of your day-to-day life anymore so you're used to their absence, until one day you see their name in your phone and you realise you haven't messaged them in a while, and it takes a second to remember why.

My sister died four months ago. I mourned her. I don't know if I miss her. She still exists within me. I will forget what her voice sounds like. She is one third of my childhood and no more of my future. I still cry for her. 

NaPoWriMo 2025 (part VI)

Days 18-21 of NaPoWriMo

Northbound

The passenger seat is my stage

And the blurred tail lights my captive audience

The rain beats a gentle staccato

While the wiper blades are the strings.

This automative orchestra is out of time

And out of key to the melody,

But music has never been my strong point,

So I sing on anyway,

Your baritone is strong in the seat beside mine

And I am un-self-conscious of the notes I miss,

For the joy and the meaning are purer

Than a perfect harmony.

Day 19- nothing

Statuesque

Alabaster limbs, recumbent and refined

And veins of marble carry beauty and truth

Where blood is ugly.

Hear the hollow ringing where her heart should be

In perfect pale repose she beckons you

To sit and stare.

Those fragile fingers, strangely soft and scarred

Searching for the vast and simply honour

Of human touch.

But marble dust has seeped into your pores

And the gentle warmth of another human soul

Burns like fire.

Return then with your greedy eyes and vacant smile

To the bustling court of your untrue lover

On her pedestal.

A thousand men with lustful hearts return there too,

Each eager for a hurried glimpse of perfection

Shaped only in stone.

Metamorphosis

He held my skin,

The ragged edges where I burst forth
Still pink with residual heat.

I lay there, chest heaving, and watched his gaze,

That momentary panic of decision making,

Before he tucked my skin under one arm

And tucked a blanket around me with the other

Then closed the door behind him,

I listened to his steps descend

And the distant whir of the disposal

As he fed my skin to the plumbing.

In five minutes he would return

Carrying a tray of tea, and water, and biscuits,

And stroke the downy soft expanse

Of my new skin.

NaPoWriMo 2025 (part V)

Days 15-17 of NaPoWriMo

One percent 

Rise up you non-believers, you pariahs of society, 

Disheartened by democracy, downtrodden in the data,

Statistically insignificant supporters of society, 

Rise up against the only one percent that really matters,

The cold and callous constructs of those ballsy billionaires,

The unwoke, unaware.

Shanties

The setting sun paints garish colours

Across the vault of the sky

And streaks the sea with golden glitter

While overhead the seagulls fly

Towards their nests, their bellies full.

The sand is soft between my toes,

Bathed in flickering firelight

That warms my friends as they draw close.

The lapping waves are counterpoint

To our harmonious melodies

As we sing rousing songs and give

Our joyous praises to the sea.

Trans Rights and Wrongs

My blood is fire

And in the end it's only you that you're accountable to,

But in the fight and the frenzy

Let me hold your hand.

This band of brothers, 

Broken-hearted,

Sisters and siblings,

The wings in our souls will carry us through.

Their ignorance is impotent,

And sure as seasons change,

With science at the reins,

I know this too will be

A winter of a memory.

So bundle up your hearts and heads

And light the fire of self-defence,

And usher every quivering wreck

To the hearth of friendship

NaPoWriMo 2025 (part IV)

Days 12-14 of NaPoWriMo

Grief

The grave is a lonely place,

But only for the mourner

Flesh and bones are temporary,

Hold on to the memories,

A thought cannot die

And if you spy, in the far corner

Of the graveyard, an unmarked plot

Beneath an elder tree,

Know that the bones interred there

Are a wish

And the spirit of the Black Dog

Has ushered your loved one

To their eternity

Foraging Fungi

In congregated groups beneath the blackberries

And clustered heaps on silver birch and hazel trees

Enticing shades of ochre, russet, and crimson

Or muted browns and greens that hide them 'neath oak trees

Their fluted forms, bulbous sacs, and elegant gills

Microscopic spores that drop from their aging gills

Forced

In the warm, damp dark

A root becomes a shoot becomes a stem.

The creak and groan of cellulose,

Reaching for a non-existent light.

The slight flutter of juvenile leaves

And the faint pitter-patter as soil is upheaved.

Clean pink flesh, and the stress of growth

Is sugary sweet,

A snail's foot has ten thousand teeth,

Ten thousand tiny chomps to feast

And the rhubarb keeps

On growing.

NaPoWriMo 2025 (part III)

Days 8-11 of NaPoWriMo

Everyone

This world is made for you, and me, and everyone

The great, the small, the rich, the poor, and everyone

A cityscape of steel, and trees, and concrete

The comfort of a living space for everyone

Fields of wheat, and strawberries, and apple groves

A healthy, and a filling meal for everyone

Time ton cry, and time to laugh and celebrate

For joy, and love, and grief is felt by everyone

A world divided is no use to anyone

A world united is the peace of everyone

Ducks

A path runs beside the hedgerows

Down towards the river flow

And towering hawthorns grow

Delicate flowers among their thorns.

The stone steps are worn

And yet your feet are sure,

Settled in the grooves of time,

Beneath ivy vines, and a foliage roof.

A pair of ducks, aloof, glide past

And the brief flash of minnows

Shine silver in the water below.

Mushrooms

A mottled mesh of mycelium

The metabolic metronome amongst

Aging roots and amber roaches

Rousted from the rotting homes.

Heather, hyssop, hyacinth,

And singing starlings, swooping

In the sun beams. Reams of leaf litter

Lain on lice and mice and ivy shoots.

Shaded scenes of simply summers,
Thrumming with the thirst for freedom.

Thistledown and hummingbirds,

And hope sits heavy in my heart.

But here amid the ancient agaric

Grasses glint with morning dew

And mushroom gills are golden gilt

With mottled marks of mycelium.

My own Changes

They say it takes time,

It's not a matter of pride

She had in her mind how your future unfurled.

You cut off your hair,

And changed what you wear,

She's not sure if you're a boy or a girl.

But pink birthday cards

And gendered words,

I struggle to see where the effort is made.

And over the years

It's becoming clear

That this is the way she always behaved.

I've bitten my tongue

And suffered her wrongs

But family only takes you so far.

She might never know

If I'm a boy or a girl

But I am who I am when you're ready to care.