Well, whaddya know?

Well, whaddya know? It’s OctPoWriMo

That month in the year where we all try to show

Our bestest, most rhymingest, wordsmith-y side

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How to beat WordPress at Poetry

Here’s one I made earlier…

Considerings

Well, dear WordPress, I’ve just discovered a tiny thing which made me a little bit lot kinda MAD, and which reminded me that Blogger *could* do this, and HEY, what’s up with THAT?!?!

The function I’m talking about is the ability to play with text. Like embiggen and smallenify different words and move them around on the page. Because sometimes a poem needs that, and in spite of the amazing things my pal TwinDaddy can do with his layouts, I wanted MORE! Because I’m stupid at WordPress and can’t begin to hope I could format things as cleverly as he can, I turned to that other wonder of the adjuncted world of blogging – PicMonkey. (and no – I’m not being paid to promote the site – I just like it *that* much)

Play with words

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Precious

Sometimes there are people who, when you make their acquaintance, just reach right into your soul and become important, almost before you’re prepared to admit it. And so it was when I met Samara, and we became friends. And sometimes when your friend has a birthday, and the *twinklysparklyOTHERmagic* you organised has gone slightly awry, you write them a poem, not as a consolation prize or an ‘instead’ but because you CAN and you hope they’ll like it. After all, who doesn’t like poetry on their birthday?

Happy Birthday, Precious ❤

Precious

Nightmare

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There’s the sound again

of footsteps gaining on my every sleeping moment.

Rest is fleeting as I look behind myself and wonder,

“Who could possibly be gaining so quickly

yet unseen?”

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It happens most nights.

why can’t I seem to remember faces,

when I see them night after night?

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The alleys behind the tenements of my childhood

obelisks of red clay brick and fire escapes.

The footsteps still follow, voices in the distance.

Running now,

running,

I’m gaining on safety.

Almost home.

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Jumping the barriers to my kitchen window,

a hand pulls me back.

Who is this invisible foe?

And why is home never safe?

 

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The Fourth

Published here at my dear friend and co-bard, Zoe’s request – I was in a bad mood and walking storming along a few Irish Country Lanes to get rid of some of my thoughts, and as I walked, the thoughts took on poetic form and I wrote them into my phone (rookie mistake – that’s complicated – never go ANYWHERE without pen and paper), then because the poem was for Zoe, I sent it to her. Turns out it was only the fourth poem EVER to be written for her, so even though it was originally titled ‘Crappy Poem’, she likes it and thought it worthy of publication. So, in her honour, here it is:

Hardwired Heart

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