Share Your GloPoWriMo 2024 Poems

My last for the month. Fell behind due to school holidays and my daughter but finishing on a nice note. Like a song that fails to find the tonic this feels like it does not resolve, but I kind of like that. As yet untitled.

The storm unleashes its sorrows.

Arduous the struggle to hold fast.

Bait no longer secure wharf side

finds its way in pocket.

The season, dry and fruitless.

Following in Ahabs footsteps,

this peir has become my bowsprit

and my final stand.

My whale, the kahiwai.

Few else brave these waves.

Farming carrots not an option,

cod south for the cold,

too shallow for kingi,

and snapper, no shelter.

I feel the contempt as I'm spat on.

Tangaroa warning I don't belong.

But to leave now, to give up,

without tribute.

To return with a slack line

would be condemnation,

a messure of my worth

and stubbeness.

Finished?

the dawn's light yet to break,

the edge of thirty nights and thirty wakes.

Each morning the empty page waited

each evening we desire to be sated,

with the inspiration of the muse's day

to scribble a verse from my mind's fray.

The pen—my wand, my axe, my plow,

carved paths in fields where words allow.

Some nights I left fallow fields behind

others, a harvest with line after line.

Anticipation curls a fog around my feet,

the challenge’s end tastes bitter and sweet.

Will the muse walk the meadow at my side

finding a home to console the tired-eyed?

Though the clock beats in my mind,

each moment stretches to a mountain climb,

I peer over the edge with trepidation,

will I tumble down the path to damnation?

The cycle closing with the journey as friend,

together we explored with paper and pen.

We have much to do before the end,

in the face of the challenge, we will not bend.

I pause, gasping before crossing the line

I run through heartache and thrill in my mind

each verse... a memory from a battle plan,

each rhyme... steps with shifting sand.

Shall I set down the quill, let the inkwell dry,

or find new quests after the victory lap's cry,

To climb another mountain's ledge,

and gaze at another tomorrow's edge?

I’ll find my answer in silent night's eve

the dreams I dare to chase and believe?

30 owl and the kitten

on a holiday morn

owl starts a poetic journey

'I will try, nothing lost

kitten arrives on the doorstep

I'm here, what's to eat

owl writes a poem

already sketched

the first of thirty

kitten patiently waits

then accepts sleeping

owl and the kitten

both on curve of growth

for owl cerebral, emotional

for kitten physical

eating, sleeping, gaining strength

owl pensively looking

for depth in the everyday

writing worked lines and move on

kitten intrigued

wants to play, with the pen

twelve hours, thirty days are over

writing flows easier

owl with this poem, at quest's end

kitten has doubled in size

but wanting to play with that pen

Victim to survivor

return of devilish demons

well trod path, facing crisis

wanting a change, assistance

sought from a practiced other

with indifference crisis disected

tasks given for confidence

establishing trust, 'I believe you'

'you have done nothing wrong'

tasks designed to challenge mindset

accomplishing, moves the soul

loosening bricks in ego wall

'fault' obscures, 'blame' destructive

each week goes past, work

to unseat deep belief

tasks dig deep, exposing

demons cementing bricks

they work, awaiting a chance

a moment of revelation

keystone belief, shifts

change this belief to

'you are good'

pool within the rock

centuries of molecular change

and movement of tide

residue settles enough

hold fast of Neptune's necklace

attaches and thrives

tidal brings fresh salt water

rejuvenating this microsystem

as the fronds of the necklace wave

27 Ravens (or call me what you like, just don't call me late for dinner)

this pair of ravens

perched on a low branch

near these picnic tables

stare with beady white eyes

as we prepare the luncheon

with loud and joyous laughs we cry

I used to call these birds, crows

but the ruffle on the throat

means they are ravens

these ravens continue to stare

with raising expectation

unconcerned with any noise we make

because they want our sandwich

Ashes

the house burned

from the cold ashes

i pulled a miracle...

my prized quill

surviving the flames

unlike the many words

perished in the blaze

the feather just singed

but unable to fly

like my wings clipped

placed in a hallowed shelf

above my writing desk

there to taunt me

as inspired words

abandoned my pen

a candle fell over

in haste to prevent

another inferno

the quill fell to my page

the hot nib burned

a hole on the paper

igniting my muse.

Another tough one to write... perhaps i have flaws. Maybe we shouldn't go there.

Imperfections

In the Garden of Eden,

where flaws ran wild,

each blemish, a seed,

the weed's own child.

the imperfections

in the residents

for they were different

than the other scents.

rooted in cracks,

these new creatures

whispered secrets

from flawed features.

These imperfections,

rough edges of stone,

carved by the wind,

through tears alone.

from these scars,

a unique force awakened,

driven with spirit

forged and mistaken.

the stuttering tongue

forked in its cadence,

breathes the rhythm of words,

showing through a new lens.

their minds wander,

living in dreams,

discovering new worlds

beyond Eden's scenes.

from trembling hands

with lacking skill,

they draft beauty

from the empty till.

the treasure of gems

who inhabit the earth

flawed from inception,

each one of worth.

thus the nature of flaws,

a mutation of new,

through millennia

the jumble, from two.

we've marked our journey,

for better or worse,

on a future day, we'll know

blessing or curse.

26 Celebrity status

any sport any game

you play the ball, not the player

play the player; foul, .penalty

music, film, modelling

games requiring talent

develop skill for public audience

industries grow around

egos abound, sharks swim

within this abstract market

summit; celebrity status

an individual with talent

skill that expand their soul

no claim to 'godlike' status

joy to share, embarks upon

a career within the industry

survives the troughs and crests

to arrive at summit of celebrity

Abstract market of high finance

sales the driving factor

this world of celebrity

gossip columnists, critics, photoghers

all convinced of their own importance

entourage and celebrity

set sail upon this foreign sea

a sea laden with pirates

gossip columnists with their barbs.

and fabricated tales

threaten lack of exposure

and then the fall

human frailties

blown out of all proportion

accusations of assault

a tango danced by only one

media editors attracted to the slaughter

usual propriety, morality,

does not apply in this sea

they wanted celebrity status

this is price that they should pay

only the guilty can escape hatchet

25 Live drama performance

time and space entwined

thought defies these limits

thought as dramatic words

words for others to enact

reinvoke the limits of time and spare

an idea too big

for drama time allotted

short sequence blocks

not quite syncopated

the play: testing robots

human character automated

tests are meant for AI character

believability slips between gaps

confusion and reasoning lost

within the moment of the play

dramatic finale

this audience, next model of robot

disconnected moment in time

24. Inner development

ego walls, like egg shells

solid but fragile

semi-permeable

ego walls grow from

baby's wanting cries

nurturing strokes or lack of

strokes manufacture

emotional threads

grow with baby to child

other senses develop, augment

twist these threads

into a shell of faith

a shell encasing

inner motives and drives

as we develop into adulthood

Sonnet 001: The Lake Beyond Reach

Across the woods, white birches lightly sway,

a hidden lake lies warm beneath the sun;

my canoe darts, but can no longer run

towards the soft shore where I found my way.

The water gleams like dreams I chase in vain,

each paddle stroke, fathoms from freedom's air.

I halt my craft, resigned to cold despair,

for all that's chased is but a distant bane.

To those who seek this warm and gentle wave,

beware the heart's deceitful siren call.

You'll find the quest a shadow, ever more,

For round its edge, where silent willows slave

their sign proclaims, "No step shall breach this law"—

the magistrate’s decree; my heart, its shore.

Mount Chincogun, Murwillumbah NSW

to Edwin Wilson

Mount Chincogun

towers over local terrain

guardian of play

symbol of stability

poetic expectations met

locals view it as a mountain

30 centimetres short

not listed as a mountain

by overseas measure

a fact, a symbol of Australia

almost but not quite

Day 24 Prompt: "Beyond Boundaries"

I don't remember not having the fear of heights. Sometimes, I could overcome my phobia to finish a task. Other times, it would be a different... and terrifying experience. This is Part 1 of many Falling Feeling

i

i remember falling

from the wooden rack

my father built to house

his aluminum boat.

trauma persisted

since that fateful day

when i uncovered

the fear of heights.

as creative children

we wandered the wood

building cabins

and waging wars.

the tree towered

at the edge of a glade

formed when the giant's

canopy spread wide.

the kids all clambered

up an improvised ladder,

slats nailed to the trunk,

all, except for me.

ten feet from the ground

my breathing racked,

a cautious retreat

to firmness under my feet.

my friends cajoled

from the lofty lodging

pressing me to act

without regard.

i again began my ascent

sweat on my brow

as I passed the mark,

with clenched jaw.

i continued, pausing

at a higher slat

unable to look down,

pressed to the trunk.

with weakened legs

and chattering knees,

my primal brain shook

I could only take flight.

i scampered thru the hatch

greeted by smiles

and the valley's broad vista,

with the ground far below.

even at a tender age,

the breath-taking view

felt awe-inspiring

until nausea breached,

the retching continued

until I shut my eyes

under the pressure

between my ears.

Poem 22

Reading

reading well-crafted prose

natural seamless narration

envelops me into another's story

intellectual enjoyment

another well-crafted book:

'Women choosing childlessness'

text reads;

'I didn't enjoy playing with dolls,

I preferred plush animals'

the arrow is slung

finds my mark, piercing

through my ego defences

words and emotions unite

thrown into a spiral

unable to read further

savouring these words

childhood memories emerge

rereading, then stalling

cycle repeated, until

my mind's spider has woven

a web, securing my emotion

emotions disected

disarmed, made safe

I continue to read the rest

becomes another's story, comfortable

Poem 21

Victim

a person in a

spider's web

of personal intrigue

web woven from

threads, memory of

unsatisfied wants

a person feeling

like a captured fly

in a spider's eye

a person bound by

belief, attitude

powerlessness

victim's attitude

bricks of emotion

baked in a 'wanting oven'

victim passively

creating persecutor

creating rescuer

victim wishes for

new life, achievement

knowing fulfilment

victim grasps at assistance

sabotages this rescue

sinks into self pity

cries 'you are not here'

'you did this' 'your fault'

you just don't feel

unfulfillment

fulfills expectations

and cycle begins anew

Poem number 25(Perhaps) based on the struggle of feeling the self-imposed pressure Inspiration Lost

questing for the spark

of Muse's inspiration

forcing the Devil's mark

upon lack of reception

in the languid lark

of misconception

thus the villain of ink

lays low from the volley

of bolts that sink

the belief in the calling

of what the quill thinks

will move the tasked trolley

they judge poorly of words

cast upon the board

in haste to sling swords

at slicing coarse cords

hung by eye-picking birds

for the dullard's ward

I think this is number 24 and I struggled with this poem.

Arthur's Atonement

Stopping in woods where two roads diverged,

to follow the lesser, my intuition urged

but in a fit of unease, I chose the higher,

following the steps of crimson sunset's fire.

The easy road to the city of dreams

where I hoped to find a viable scheme

to work hard and make a favorable name

yet, what transpired was hardly my blame.

An arrow in the trunk of a sturdy oak,

and on the ground, I found a bloody cloak,

my empty dream again delayed by intrigue,

short of the city by a mere two leagues.

I sought the source of this woodland's bleed,

o'er a faint path obscured by thorn and weed.

A whisper on the wind, a lament so stark,

the story of betrayal, etched in black bark.

A mystery unfolded under twilight's hue,

I followed the signs as the cold wind blew.

Deep into the forest, shadows danced with fate,

in the heart of silence, I pondered at the gate.

The city's lights lost in the distant gloom,

yet here I stood, where secrets loomed,

with every step, my chest's breath grew tight,

whispering tales of wanderers lost to the night.

With lantern in hand and a bold resolve,

deeper, I prayed my skeletons would absolve

me amid ancient, silent and grim guardians,

their twisted branches tracing tales so dim.

Suspense heightened with each step I took,

beneath the moon's pale, watchful look.

The wind whispered in a language of old,

of a knight betrayed for silver and gold.

In a clearing’s center under starry vault,

I found a grave, the betrayal's final halt,

where etched in stone, a name and a date,

a reminder that acquittal can come too late.

But the ghostly echoes wouldn’t let me rest,

seeking a champion to continue its quest...

to right the wrongs of a forgotten day,

and lift the shades darkening their way.

Compelled by the spirits, led by flighty fates,

I took up this charge, before it was too late

for me, the city of dreams no longer called,

the path of justice felt righteous and entralled.

Thus, in the heart of the woods, I swore,

to guard the forgotten, and explore

the horrors hidden by the veil of night,

to bring them to light, to set this land right.

I drew the secrets of the betrayal's sword,

I found my purpose, my destiny forward.

In the woodland's embrace, I stood stretching

as a Guardian of truths in that etching.

For this was my forgotten path to atone,

the blade grated from rock, the sword singing:

Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone

and anvil, is rightwise declared king.

This is from a prompt from NaPoWriMo Day 22.

The Cow ran Away with the Spoon

The cow and the spoon had leapt

in the light of the moon, a romance kept

from the haystack and the barn,

under star-speckled heavens, the yarn

unfolds after through the velvet night.

The cow dreamed of fields beyond sight,

of wildflowers. "Let's roam," she swooned

with a gleeful moo, "by the light of the moon!"

But the spoon longed for a quieter life,

away from the clatter, with fork and knife.

"A cozy drawer’s the place for a spoon,"

he sighed, reflecting the silvery moon.

The cow, with dreams of endless green,

couldn’t grasp Spoon’s quiet scene.

"Why linger in shadows, confined and tight,

when open fields offer endless delight?"

The clinking spoon declared his need,

"For order and calm and rest, I plead.

for the drawer’s embrace feels secure,

a perfect polish and clean I can endure."

Hearts once aligned under twilight's bloom,

their discordant fell into gloom.

For what one cherished, the other spurned,

and neither knew which way to turn.

Would they part ways, one wild, one tame?

Or find a path both could claim?

In the tales that follow, under moon’s soft light,

May they forge a dream to share each night.