Even More Haikus

Hello, everyone. I hope you all had a great Christmas - I did! I chose not to do an advent calendar of short poems this year because I was so awful at it last year, so I wrote some random haikus for you all here. 

Soft language echoes

Across the pages of time

Writing has no age.

Gentle scribbles fall

With a murmur on paper

A writer’s creased frown.

Sticks and stones may break

My bones, but words will always

Hurt me so much more.

Shining ink trickles

Across the floodlit pages

Road to other lives.

I sigh in pain as

The book closes with a thud

Story is over.

Creamy pages shiny

As the harmony of words

Sing their melody.

Flourishing nicely

I turn over the paper

My book is now done.

The songs that will sing

Within us are the voices

Of our ancestors.

Silent companions

Are the faithful dogs who just

Comfort without words.

 

More Poems... Again!

I've been scribbling away over the past week or so, and I hope you enjoy these varied poems. I have decided not to do an Advent Calendar this year, because I was so terrible at updating it last year... But I have taken on the Wattpad #JustWriteIt challenge, so I will be releasing a short Christmas story later on in the month. You can find it on my Wattpad page - under the same name - at any time. 

Fast Lily 
As delicate as a 
Veil of frost and a rosy
Blush lightening the pale cotton.
Tall, slender, curving gracefully,
Taking life it its sultry stride.

But what happens when Lily takes
Life in the fast lane?
Leaping before she looks?
Running even though she cannot walk?
Finding friends who are cuckoos
And bindweed. Finding 
Love in the toad's belching cry.
Finding joy in the smoke of a
Thousand fires, and in the brew of
Sour light.

Lily withers. She decays at the roots.
She cannot support herself.
She delicately shrivels.
A shadow of a girl.
And when the stem snaps
And when she falls
The cuckoos have left.

The dead flower
Is alone again.
But a different alone.

Believe
Believe is a tiny word
And yet
It means everything 
To everyone.
Do you believe?
Or do you
Not?
Is it magic that exists?
Or is it ghosts?
Does God float in your mind
In a way
That centaurs and goblins
Don't?
Or does it simply mean
You trust a lie?
You deny an friend?
You allow creativity to mask
The broad lines of reality
So painstakingly knitted
To lacquer truth and 
Invade your head.
But belief can just be 
The love for imagination
A love for dreams
A love for the chance
To create
Your own reality.

Escape
I was trapped in
My own head.
A fortress of disbelief
And hatred for my faults.
Locked with my own key,
The bars made of misery
The window set higher than 
I could ever reach.
So I waited.
Waited.
For that shining prince
To arrive and save me like
We are all told will happen.
So I waited.
Then, as I dined upon
Regret and low confidence,
I realised.
There is no prince. 
Only me.
I pulled down the bars
And tore dow the door
I lowered them to a height that
Even I hadn't sunk to.
I was still trapped, though,
Despite stripping down those
Memories of decay, and only I
Could build a ladder.
I scavenged.
I hunted.
I scoured.
Then I found a shred of what I needed.
Hope.
It wasn't quite enough.
But I grasped it with 
Both hands and 
Clung on tight.
Then I discovered pride.
Then courage.
Then faith.
Soon my ladder grew.
One rung.
Two.
Then more.
The window I had raised was
Getting shorter.
Until finally
I could reach.
I grasped the sill like
I had grasped at hope
At the bottom of the ladder.
And I pulled my body
Into 
The day.
And suddenly
I was 
Free.

 

An Unexpected Message

I don't even know what I'm writing about, I just had this random phrase pop into my mind, and I'm off again. So enjoy this little piece of... well, I'm not even sure what it is. But here it is anyway!

 An Unexpected Message

She was bored. Bored of being alone, and disliked, and the odd one out. Bored of being the only kid at school who sat at a separate table in lessons, and of being the last one picked for the netball teams. It was boring. Life was boring. So why bother even trying?

Days slipped away, with no friends and no laughter. She was the weird one, the lonely one, the stupid one. Her grades slid downwards, to the rock bottom where all the good memories ended up. The landfill site. Faith. Huh! What a stupid name for her. A stupid name for a stupid person.

Faith, the girl who had no faith in anyone or anything. 

So she felt more and more like a failure, as she ended up leaving more and more homework to rot away in her rucksack, and got more and more detentions and reprimands for it. Her life was careering down a hill, unable to stop, and unable to carry on. Faith was a stuck person. 

Until one day after school. Faith had been laughed at on the bus coming home, so was feeling grumpy. As she stomped up to her bedroom, her blazer caught on the door frame and pulled her back like a bungee. Now feeling even more like the world was completely against her, Faith threw her bag across the room and slumped onto her bed. Honestly! It was enough to make you cry, and that's exactly what she did. Faith cried and cried and cried until her throat was croaky and her nose was running.Her face was streaky and her forehead was blotched with red. 

It was like a light being switched on. There was an almost audible click, and a puff of glitter, and a small green woman peered up at Faith from the end of her bed. Faith didn't notice her until she reached for the box of tissues on her bedside table, and a small green hand passed one to her. With a gulp, Faith stared at the woman, unable to verbalise her shock. 

"That bad, eh?" asked the woman, wiping Faith's eyes and nose with the tissue, and straightening her tie. "I know what it's like. I understand how awful it is to feel like no-one wants you."
"Who..." began Faith, still gulping, but the green figure finished for her.
"Who am I? I'm your conscience, I suppose. I sit with you, in your head, and I watch you do things, and think things, and feel things. I know exactly why you do things, and I can understand everything you think. But you've completely lost it, now. You've completely lost your common sense. So I've been pushed out of your head by all the negative things you're thinking. They've taken over! Which is why I'm going to help you. But first you need to be cleaned up." 

So the little green lady flicked her wrist, and suddenly the room disappeared. They were stood on something solid, but they were surrounded by white nothingness. The woman flicked her wrist again, and a bath appeared. She sat Faith in it, and two large jugs floated over, filled with a creamy liquid that smelt of cinnamon. Pouring it into the bath, Faith noticed that her clothes had disappeared, but that she wasn't naked. It was bizarre. Working quickly, the lady rubbed the water into Faith's hair, and combed it through with a smooth purple brush. Then she scrubbed Faith's face with a flannel and pulled her out of the bath. It disappeared as soon as her feet touched the ground, and a big blue towel crawled over to them, like a caterpillar on a leaf. It seemed to be alive, and it jumped on top of Faith, and rubbed her dry. The towel made odd crooning noises as it wriggled over her, and its soft fabric made her skin tingle. 

Finally, an oak wardrobe floated towards them, carried by two white wings. It sat down and opened its doors obligingly, showing a vast array of different clothes.
"What do you want to wear?" asked the woman, pulling out dresses and tops and trousers on ivory hangars. Faith climbed inside he wardrobe, and looked around. There was everything from the most lavish ball gown to the simplest pair of jeans. She fumbled around, searching for something she liked. After a few minutes she had made a pile of possible outfits. Finally, she settled on a stripy jumper with long sleeves and a denim skirt with leggings. She pulled them on, and they shrank to fit her slim figure. Finally, the woman walked over to her and braided her hair neatly on one side, and pulled a mirror from her green pocket so Faith could marvel at her calm and collected image.

"There! You're ready," she said, picking a loose thread from her shoulder.
"Ready for what?" asked Faith. She felt very serene now, far from that girl in hysterics she had been just half an hour ago.
"To revisit your past," replied the woman, "and to realise that life isn't so bad." Taking Faith by the hand, the small green lady took her to a large door in the white space, and pulled her into a dark room. It wasn't pitch black; it was more like looking into the sky on a clear night. Faith even fancied she saw a few stars winking back at her from the floor. 

"Now, we must look at all the happy memories, and forget the bad ones. I've seen them all, Faith, and I know as well as you do that you used to feel happy and loved." said the woman gently. Thin screens appeared from the ceiling, depicting good moments in Faiths life.
The time she got a medal in a gym contest, the first day she met Maddie, her best friend, when she went to the beach and made a beautiful sandcastle... They were all here, and more. Some she had forgotten, others she could remember as clearly as if they were a film played in a cinema. 
"Remember, Faith, that these are what you should focus on. Focus on the happy times, and the things that you do well, rather than these memories."

A cloud of hot steam floated down from the ceiling, covering Faith in condensation. She felt warm, but a little cold too, as the steam cooled into water. The screens were playing bad things now; those arguments she had had with Maddie, the reason she no longer liked her; those rounders games when she had tripped up and fallen top of Miss Anderson; that time when Georgia made up those lies about her, so Faith had torn up her French assignment. They were awful, and there were dozens more besides them. But Faith recognised each and every one of them. She had dwelled on them so long they were like a tattoo in her mind. 

"Faith," said the woman, smiling sadly up at her, "I am Hope. There cannot be any Faith without Hope, and no Hope without Faith. You have lost hope because of all these bad memories that you stew over. So push them away, push them out, and made room for me in your head again. Then we can have Hope for the future, and Faith in the present." 

So Faith did think. She thought about all those good things. All those happy moments, pressed into her mind like a flower in a book, stored away for when she needed them. Slowly, very gradually, the moments of displeasure, embarrassment, anger and despair evaporated into the air around them, trapped in that night-sky room forever. 

All of a sudden, Faith was back in her bedroom. Her bag was still collapsed on the floor like a dishrag, and her homework still lay within it. She smiled. She was wearing her uniform, and her face was still dirty with tears, but she smiled all the same. Carefully, Faith put her bag at the end of her bed and pulled out her Geography book. 

Over time, Faith grew happy again. She smiled more, and was liked once more. She apologised to Maddie about the arguments, and soon enough they were like sisters again. Her grades went up, and she got an award for her painting she made in Art. Faith had hope once more. 

And she wasn't going to lose it again.

What Should I Call This Poem?

I had a flash of inspiration for this poem the other day, and I wrote it all in the space of 10 minutes. It is very dark, and I'm not quite sure what part of me wrote this, but I was still very happy with the phrases and imagery that sprang into my head, no matter how morbid they were! I am very pleased with it, but I can't think of a name for it. If you have any suggestions, please comment them below.

I used to love it so much, but now

I can’t remember its name

It used to feel so different but now

Every one is just the same.

I used to think so dreamily but

Now it all fades away.

I used to wish and pray and hope

Departure was not today.

I used to feel  tenderness

Apart from icy cold.

I was once able to feel

I wasn’t only getting old.

I used to think the daylight would

Chase those nightmares back

But now I think that I’m the one

Who needs to hide at the dawn’s crack.

I once could remember the shining sun

The skies and seas of slate

But now in my head all I can hear is

The closing of the gate.

 

I used to hope that bad days

Were just days that were bad

Now I realise that they are

The root of what makes me mad.

I used to think of daylight and smiles

Those were what kept me safe and bright.

Days and nights are now the same

Except one is dark and one is light.

That darkness seeping through my veins

Those circles under my eyes

Aren’t just the things that make me

Want to say my final goodbyes.

Life is good, and life is bad

But for me those mean nothing.

All I think of now is how my

Life could, maybe, have been something.

But hate and violence and sadness

Fill me up more than acts of kind.

So I just sit here in lasting shadows

And I pretend that I don’t mind.

 

A Month Of Haikus

I haven't been writing much for a while, so I decided to write a haiku a day for at least the next month. Here are my daily haikus, starting from the 12th October.

Soft, gentle pink dawn
Pearly candle in the sky 
Morning has broken.

Fat crimson rosehips
With polished blackberries galore
Countryside gemstones.

Silver silk ribbon
Flows curling through the valley
Water; most precious.

Silken shining string 
Weaves patterns unknown to man
Beads of dewdrop jewels.

Autumn leaves fall down
In a circular motion
Making forest mulch.

Pinpricks of starlight 
In the night's inky darkness
Jolts of light and hope. 

1 Year Anniversary!

So, to all my lovely readers... It's been a while since I was on here, but it has been one year exactly since I started up this blog! It seems crazy, but it has been a year since I first thought that a blog would be a good idea. And it turns out I was dead right!! So much has happened since then, and I am very pleased to say that I have fully completed the first draft of Emma Hood. I am extremely pleased with myself, and I will release the rest of the the story very soon, so keep an eye out for that. Until then, lovely reader, I will keep feeding you up with more juicy poetry and thick slabs of stories, and I promise I shall eventually complete some more of my stories. Don't forget to check out my Wattpad pages, under the same name, and I will keep writing. Happy Anniversary! Now let's go and eat cake.

Has anyone else been watching Bake-Off, while I'm thinking cake-y thoughts?
Never mind, here's some random poems to entertain you. You deserve it.

Reflections 
Who is that? In the glass?
It's not me, and yet it
Is me...
That person. They copy me.
Think the same thoughts.
Dream the same dreams.
But... we are not the same.
For the glass-person is but an
Echo
Of me.
Of my being
Of what makes me
Me.
We are the same, just different.  


Red coloured pencil
Scatters scribbles on paper
Sketching out a life. 

What Pencil?
Which colour pencil shall I use today?
After all, I am writing the story
Of a person. But of course
They're aren't just
Any old person.
They are special.
So what colour should I use to illustrate their story 
In words? 
Perhaps red; for the action, and drama, and intensity of their life
Or blue; for the softness, the calm, the serenity of the ending
Yellow; after all, that is their favourite colour
Green; the forest, a place to hide from their past 
Purple; luxurious, warming and pump 
Or that teal pencil which is my own favourite colouring pencil 
With the notches in the nib, and the chipped paint...
I know.
Grey. HB. The normal drawing pencil.
Why?
So you, dearest reader, can imagine the colour yourself.
Then it's yours.
Your story.
For you to enjoy. 

Austria

For my summer holiday this year, I went to Austria. I stayed in a large hotel near Innsbruck, and had a wonderful time. The scenery there is so beautiful; the lakes there are so clear and fresh with water that runs from the mountains - perfect for inspiring poetry!

Austria

The hills are alive with the sound
Of hikers. Boots thumping the ancient rock, 
Panting their way to the peak.
The hills are 
Alive with cowbells. Traditions as old as the mountains themselves
Keeping the cattle from straying.
High and low, deep and mellow
Tinkling as the stream that trips and falls.
 The valley is alive with the cooks in the kitchens -
Strudels and puddings and schnitzels and stews
All carefully preapred and
Savoured by maker and consumer alike.  
Papery pastry encasing the apples,
Blanketed in cinnamon and spices and 
Powdered with sugar.
The hills are alive with squirrels
Russet, black, gold, brown
A million guises of red to darkness
The spectrum of squirrels leaping from
Tree to tree.

The hills are alive with the beauty and wonder
Of Austria.

More Poems!

I'm still writing lots of poetry, so here are a few random poems I have scribbled down briefly.

Rain
Tap. Tap. On the glass.
 A rainstorm is beckoning.
A swirl of tears and sorrow
Melting onto earth.
Pennyworths of sadness, paid
In silver coins -
Dropped into puddles 
And left.
Rumbling and cursing, the storm arrives - 
Raging and ranting, biting and snapping.
It hurls wind and cloud at the earth,
Purple in the face
And crying quietly into its hand.
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap.
The rain is thrown to the ground in lumps.
Fat teaspoons of misery,
To chill your happiness 
And break your laughter.
Tearstains soak the windows
Of your warm, comforting house
And you realise - 
Even the sky gets sad.
Every once in a while.


'I Don't Like Spiders'
Mummy, I don't like spiders
I don't like the way they crawl around.
I don't like them sneaking about
All the way along the ground.

Mummy, I don't like spiders
I just don't like them, or their legs
Their hairy legs that twitch so fast
They slip on water dregs.

Mummy, I think I see one.
No, I don't want it near my hand!
I hate their silvery cobwebs
And the way they always safely land.

No, Mummy, don't bring it closer!
I really am afraid.
Afraid of what? Their big bottoms!
The biggest ever made.

It's getting nearer, Mummy.
It's creeping along my arm.
And even if I brush it off
I might do it some harm.

Oh! It's little legs tickle!
They're really quite adorable!
Do you know what, Mummy?
I like spiders, after all.


Outside
What is it like outside?
I'll never know. For I am but
A bird. A rare and special bird.
I'm the only one left.
I'll never go outside.
I don't even know what is outside.
I was born here, after all. Born in my
Home, to be looked at and poked at.
But it's not bad here.
I like it.
I get food.
Fresh food, guaranteed every day  
And a warm bed.
A safe nest where I can sleep,
Without worry.
And yet I have never seen outside. I 
Wonder what outside is, what it does, who it loves.
I wonder if I will ever meet it.
I wonder if I will ever live to see a day
When no animal fears humans
And no animal need worry of extinction
And every animal can see
Outside.

The Attic of My Mind

I was clearing my (cluttered) desk the other day, and I had started categorizing my notes - I get through Post-It notes really quickly, as I jot down anything that I think can be used in a poem or story. So I was thinking about how these Post-It notes are also in my head. I have these files of images and jottings in my brain too, and I was thinking about how much like an attic it must be in my head. As I thought about this, the more I thought it could be turned into a poem. Here it is!

The Attic of My Mind

There comes a time, just once a year

When I decide to clear out my attic.

All the rush and the focus of the months gone past have

Forced away the thoughts that I store, until they

Are nothing more than scraps of scrawled-on paper.

So I unload each boxful, blow off the dust, shift through the notes -

The memories, the events, the regrets, the opinions -

About the world around me.

Scrapbooks and photos, drifting across

The windows to my mind, blocking my vision until

I can see nothing but my thoughts. I must

Sort and stack, pile and pack, each and every scribbled message

To myself.

One cannot move forward when one is buried in the past.

Re-stack and re-stock, with those jumbled up ideas, those

Moments of glee, of sadness, of joy, merged into the months of thinking.

The lost jigsaw pieces, the broken games, those

Discarded things I no longer need.

Clothes that are too old, too torn, too dirty

Or that I have simply grown out of, piled to be thrown out.

The forgotten loves, forgotten friends, forgotten photos of

The girl I once was, long ago. These I wrap in tissue paper,

To protect from the harsh words of today,

To cherish in the warm light of tomorrow.

Checked off and accounted for, added to and removed from,

My thoughts now collected and categorised,

I pack away these boxes and bags and tubs of treasures,

My thoughts about the world. Cardboard lining the walls of

My attic once more, the spiders now allowed to roam again,

I can let my thoughts gather dust

Until I clear them out again.