Oops, I Forgot - It’s Poetry Wednesday - prompts 3
Beth Kempton prompts - 10 mins, no revision.
Hello all,
As you will be aware now as this my third in the series, a while back
gave us a series of prompts for #tinywinterpoems. A single word, 10 mins only, and definitely no revision. Oo, that was hard. But, it made me stop and think and go more slowly, hard to do when you are under a short time limit. This week I’m posting 4 more of these poems - Searching, Siren, Ripple, and Bunch. I’ve got 4 more to go.
Searching
I’ve been searching all my life
For my true self
The self that isn’t bound up in men
In societal expectations
In how people perceive me
The true self that as a young child I embraced
The true self that was slowly squashed and pushed down
Into the soles of my shoes
Into the depths of my heart
Into the nothingness of being
Worn away as the years trudge by.
I’ve been searching for that little girl again
The one that climbed trees
That built dams in woodland streams
That ran wild and free in nature
Until it was time to capitulate
To become less
To become small
To become instead of.
Instead of me, him.
Instead of me,
Instead of me.
I’m searching for her after all these years
I’m sure I will find her.
Under my heart,
waiting patiently, for me.
Waiting patiently
For me. Next.
Siren
Of all the things that men have called me, siren isn’t one,
I think I would have enjoyed the moniker of singer of songs.
I imagine the flowing hair, the wind whipped form hugging dress
Pressed elegantly against my body like a careful caress.
Of all the things that men have called me, this one I wanted.
Not whore, or slut, or frigid virgin, or uptight tease, they weren’t needed.
If I refused to give out I was a tart,
If I gave out I was a prude,
This wasn’t a fair war of words, rigged for me to lose.
Of all the things men have called me, siren isn’t one. Oh, some words are wrong here. I’ll rewrite in a few weeks.
Next.
Ripple
The stickle back swims against the flow
The shallow stream ripples over
his spiny back fin,
don’t touch it will spike tender flesh
He fans the golden gravel, small weeds
greening in the freckled sunlight,
his chest bright red with breeding blood.
Child hands ease in the water so
slowly, so gently, so carefully
a finger cage made, the trap set,
and slowly, slowly, slowly,
encase the wriggling body,
lifted squirming, placed so precisely
in the jar with the others.
A present for another,
the stickle back settles to the jar bottom
and fans the stray gravel piece slowly.I ran out of time on this one and had to rush the ending. I’ve written a few things this week about stickle backs, a different form of a poem in Flirting, and a prose piece I began and then abandoned.
Next.
Bunch
How many daisies constitute a bunch?
How many have been given a small flower to hold?
How many petals have fallen plucked by a rhyme?
How many flowers are needed for a crown?
How many stems have been nail pierced?
How many daisies constitute a bunch?Again I ran out of time and inspiration. Anyways, till next time.
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