Today marks the final day in Paul Brookes' National Poetry Month Ekphrastic Challenge. It has been an honor and a privilege for me to participate in this project, and I am incredibly grateful to Paul, Jane, Samantha, Ali, Jay and... Continue Reading →
I can’t believe we are at the second to last day of the challenge. It has definitely been the most production National Poetry Month I have ever had. I love today’s painting; it is a beautiful image that can take you to so many different places, which is evident in the diverse and gorgeous poems.
Finishing is as Meaningful as the Project Itself
No matter where he goes, it always looks like Yorkshire,
pedal to the metal whenever he can. He comes everywhere
with me. I keep moving, am ghosted by news of milk bottles,
collected late, cricket odds, snow painted over moors.
The endless game of eye spy, that nobody could win, because
the answer was only visible sometimes – grandma’s false teeth.
In the garden, fingering the soil, feather light, never weary.
When I write this, he is long gone, playing mandolin for hours,
making the violin jealous in her velvet home. The needle
always points north, geese skein a morning song, and the way
on is lined with sherbet and barely sugar, Pontefract cakes,
corporation pop. The pull of a homing beacon, the case of
the long way, coming back to the beginning; around each
tarmacked day, a vapour trail, firedogs, a…
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A mystical day twenty eight, and a painting by Jane, from a photograph taken by Paul. Art inspiring art inspiring art….how cool is that!!!!!
Rendering Ourselves Relevant
There’s not a single one of us
Who hasn’t seen, nor heard,
Nor tasted
The fear
Mankind ingested
At the Tree of Knowledge.
Sure, we gained the world.
But we lost
The visionary existence
Assuredness proffers–
One of unicorns, and
World peace, the flavor
Of sunbeams,
And creation made new each day,
Unbridled by impossibility.
Instead, ours has become
The collective burden
Of rendering ourselves relevant,
Rather than
Extinct.
-st
Our Spired Unicorn
is a place of worship.
A moveable feast beast.
Offer it fruits and flowers
at harvest, Easter and Christmas.
Baptise bairns, get married,
celebrate the dead in its presence.
Pray before its hooves and flanks,
comb its hair, feed it oats.
Don’t try to ride it, or steal its horn.
It is sacred and full of light.
Go where it goes, a disciple.
Some may say you believe in a myth.
Your faith keeps…
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Only three more days! It’s been an amazing month of art!!!
Trusting the Musician
Sometimes I wish I were
More than a solitary note
Played intermittently
By whatever musician or animal
Happens by.
Wouldn’t it be nice
To be able to hear the
Whole melodic symphony
Of nature, ourselves included.
But thus, I tempt eternity.
This must be faith,
To know there is
More than we can know,
To trust the music we collectively make
Will continue to grow.
-st
Play it Again
There’s a busker on the corner
Of the main shopping street,
Saxophone held shining forth,
Empty case at her feet.
She plays each day, whatever weather
It’s voice is old deep south,
So animated, living the music,
With the reed held to her mouth.
I do not know her name, or where,
She goes home to every day,
But the sun’s glint on the saxophone,
And her skills always make me stay.
-Ali Jones
🎵 Frank Says 🎵
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Twenty six days of beautiful art and poetry is what I call a pretty great twenty six days.
Progeny
I was not meant for motherhood,
not with these sharp edges
and a predilection for sadness.
I am a cog in a genetic footprint
that left a web of darkness
behind my eyes,
planted seeds of cancer in the
delicate bodies of my mother
and my brother.
I am the progeny of rage,
of battles with the bottle and carbohydrates.
There is a cruel streak
that runs through the caverns of my veins,
racing against the frenzied connections
that dictate the rhythm of my heart.
I was not meant for motherhood.
My touch is not one that nurtures,
my voice not one that soothes.
-Susan Richardson
Bridge Of Sighs
I am heart fire,
the blue flame.
Hold my mirror
in your other hand.
See reflections,
look for shadows.
There are no others here.
I please my buddha soul,
always now, forever.
I squeeze my other finger
I feel no…
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I can’t believe it is day twenty five. I seriously didn’t think I would make it to day three.
Expecting
She has read, read and read—
exhausted all the resources.
After 9 months of prenatal
Yoga and eating bland food
all she hopes for are enough
strong contractions.
Don’t lift heavy things
Don’t eat spicy foods
No late nights. Sleep
on time. No alcohol
there are days when she feels
that all this drama should just come
to a standstill — all at once.
Just get it over & done.
-Jay Gandhi
The Dance
When I met my niece,
she was the smallest
baby I had ever seen.
Her tiny hands, bunched into fists,
punched the air
in protest of an ache in her belly
that wouldn’t let up.
I remember taking her in my arms,
smoothing her delicate fingers
singing softly into her ear,
but still she cried.
I stroked her head
and walked quietly
to the laundry room,
turned the dryer on full blast.
It was the…
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I have a new recorded poem up on YouTube, if you feel like having a listen. This one is the first of 5 originally published in The Writing Disorder. I hope you like it. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pdc1Uq9gRMo&t=32s
Day twenty four and the sunset of this challenge is upon us!
Broken Heart Stone
The drovers road
ran through this moor,
stone people in their days.
Between times,raiders from
the west
just walked the beef away.
Railways came to check the lie,
on mattresses of wood and roots.
Took sleep on earth and ash.
Sheep in heavy jumpers
came aboard the train,
in a festive holiday mood
bound once, Firth of Moray.
When glaciers departed
the land breathed a relief
like proven bread raised
on bubbles of yeast.
At black woods edge
on Rannock Moor
the heart stone
marked the way,
glacial erratic.
Near there I saw a heron
take a rest from flight.
A heart is mended
in a dream this Isles way.
– © Dai Fry 23rd April 2020
Old Whistler
He has stalked the pool,
Statuesque for many years,
Wading with tattered wings
Through the shallows.
Once, a human took aim
And fired a shot, his wing
Bears the evidence, of a
Perfect O, that sings
When he dives into the wind.
Sometimes scars bring strength,
And the creatures down below
Still can’t hear him coming
-Ali Jones
The Sinking Sun
I am not a tree,
barren branches that stretch
through the sunset,
thirsty for morsels of light.
A tangle of veins
pressing into the sky
to keep night from falling.
I have no bloodline to the sun,
no call to warmth.
As the night chill falls at my feet
and the path in front…
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Paul is looking for people to join his May Ekphrastic Challenge and I highly recommend it. It has been super fun and I learned so much about myself and from all of the artists who participated this month. I am... Continue Reading →
Stories From the Edge of Blindness 