NaPoWriMo – Day Thirty

National Poetry Writing Month
April that special time
Poetry composing abounds
Only thirty short days
Writing begins furiously
Resting only briefly
Imagination running rampant
Mastery of the written word
Once a year …

Digital Image

© Dawn Whitehand 2017

NaPoWriMo – Day Twenty Nine

soft and silky skin
pink and pleasingly pressed
eager and energetically enticing
carnal and cautiously copious
inspired and irresistibly indulgent
amorous and amply appealing
luscious and lasciviously lusty

© Dawn Whitehand 2017

NaPoWriMo – Day Twenty Eight

it slouched in the corner languid
the erstwhile grand upright piano
once shiny and stately
cheerful and tuneful
now dull and dusty
melancholy and silent
an archaic reminder of years bygone

© Dawn Whitehand 2017

NaPoWriMo – Day Twenty Six

large tubular trumpet flowers
misshapen and alien like
loom large in my dreams
creating a canopy
reflecting the red drenched sky
grotesquely twisting and turning
writhing before by horrified eyes
open mouthed and hungry
eager to devour my soul
… real life or nightmare …

© Dawn Whitehand 2017

NaPoWriMo – Day Twenty Five

Death alludes me
as does Life
fresh air
smells musty and grey
green pastures
appear back and burnt
colourful wildflowers
dotting the hillside
shrivel and die
a welcome relief
from the banality of tomorrow

© Dawn Whitehand 2017

NaPoWriMo – Day Twenty four

it is a simple pleasure in which I indulge
laying motionless in the soft warmth
soaking in the smoky haze of my dreams
piecing together the puzzle of the long night
following the clues to rediscover my psyche

© Dawn Whitehand 2017

NaPoWriMo: Day Twenty Three

the door slams
as you walk out … no…
as you storm out

and the house sighs with relief

the years pass
and peace reigns
normality returns

and the house smiles with pleasure

and then you return
through that same door
shrivelled and shrunken

and the house sniggers with scorn

© Dawn Whitehand 2017

 

NaPoWriMo : Day Twenty Two

what were you doing outside
when you should have been with me
during those last dark moments

were you watching clouds
as I lay pale

were you picking blossoms
as I lay rigid

were you skipping through puddles
as I lay dying

were you… still in love with me?

© Dawn Whitehand 2017