I’m not okay

Although I wrote this poem in January, I think I’m about done revising it. For a tiny poem, it’s been through 11 drafts, and I think I’ve given up. It’s as good as it’s going to get. Feel free to make suggestions though!

 

My shoulder muscles tense,
instinctive reaction to a
threat.

I’m not okay.

My fight or flight response
a bone-deep warning to
avoid sudden movements.

A wee poem

I’ve got a few poems jotted down that need a second (or twelfth) look before they’re ready to share, but this one is unlikely to become any more than it is, so I’m just throwing it out there.

I was sitting in a rattan egg chair (I think they’re called egg chairs? Like a little cave of a chair, suspended from the ceiling? Anyway, moving on) on the porch/verandah/deck at my in-laws’ this afternoon, and as I half dozed in the sun, wondering if I should start a new book or if my husband and my mother-in-law were serious that work would only take ‘fifteen to twenty minutes’, my eyes were drawn to the patterns in the chair. And ta da, a poem was born. *shrugs* It’s not great, but I feel like there are a couple of people who followed me when I was posting poems every day and I’ve neglected them lately. This poem isn’t probably the best way to indulge them, but oh well. I do have a few more on the way, but I think they have potential to be stronger, so I’ll hold on to them for a little bit.

The rattan is woven around the sides
in such a way as to make
diamonds
ofthespaceinbetween,
and the borders
are encircled with bands
that give a sense of
decorative purpose.

Escape

Prompt: Use personification and alliteration.
Prompt: Write a poem involving an emotional reaction to some event that seems to be about something else. Talk around your strong feelings; don’t declare them directly.

As I complete my plummet
from the cliff edge,
the water welcomes me
in a cool,
dark,
silent embrace.
Smatters of salted sunlight
grapple with the murk,
as I close my eyes and
slowly s
i
n
k.

Cyclone Bola

Prompt: Winter is here and you are now trapped.

The paddocks were sodden,
each hoof print a puddle that
rippled and overflowed with every
driblet of water that fell from stony skies.

The excess swept over the grass,
blades bent beneath the heavy weight,
and slowly the water forged a path
down the hill.

A deluge the colour of clay,
with the unmistakeable fragrance of
cow shit and mud,
poured across the gravel road
just below Prior’s farm
in a rush to reach the swollen creek
which had long breached its banks.

Avid eyes and bright smiles watched
from the safety of the farmhouse windows,
because we knew the school bus
would never get through.

And Mum worried about practical things
as Dad shifted stock to higher grounds,
but at least the water tank was full.

Tiritiri Matangi dawn chorus

Before a sleepy, disheveled sun even thinks about poking her nose over the horizon, the first calls go out. A cheery wake up song to start a day of industrious productivity. As the sky lightens, first to a dull charcoal, then slowly, persistently, to a stunning, vivid blue, the chorus of melody grows stronger and louder. Sweethearts are courted with flirtatious serenades, and materials are meticulously gathered for the construction of homes in anticipation of future families.