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Thursday, 7 October 2010

Celebrating National Poetry Day and A Project of The Day

Dear Scribblers 

It's a little different today on The Crafty Scribe. It's National Poetry Day, and the theme is home, so I thought I would share some of my poetry with you. If you like what you read, why don't you check out my other blog - My Year as A Poet to read poems on many different topics, including the brand new one for today.

Before that, here's a Project of The Day for you to try. Get involved in National Poetry Day. Create a journalling page or scrapping layout on the theme of 'Home'. How about writing your own poem and adding it to your project? If you don't want to write one yourself, you could craft using your favourite poem. Please let me know what you decide to do by adding a comment below.

So, here are a selection of my poems which remind me of 'Home':

Sunday Starts
Bacon sizzles in the pan. 
Papers on the mat. 
Lazy waking without the clock. 
It must be Sunday morning. 

... Sometimes it's those that live in the house which make it a home.
Cat Nap
Large monochrome cat curled up on my bed.
I see your white paws.
I see your black head.
You lie there before me pretending to sleep
but through those flat slits,
I see your eyes peep.
The point of your tail swishes back to and fro.
Large monochrome cat in your dreams,
where do you go? 

Home and Holidays
I love to travel, trek and cruise.
Take a trip or vacation, so many to choose.
I want to globe-trot, getaway and tour,
Holidays to explore, an adventurous lure,
But it doesn’t matter where I journey and roam,
There’s nothing like the pleasure of coming back home.

...Here's the reverse. When you feel another place is home.
Oh, Malta!
From the moment I step from the ‘plane,
To diesel scents warmed in salty air,
I breath of the place I need to be,
My escape.
My panacea.
My spiritual home.
Oh, Malta!
I miss your honeyed tones.
Your walks along chic promenades.
I miss your cafe society life,
With ladies who lunch, 
Enigmatic behind vast sunglasses
On fashionably painted faces.
I love to listen to the melodic tongue
Of an exotic language, 
Pleased when half phrases are caught and fathomed,
Like Lampuka caught in nets on in a fisherman’s Luzzu.
I miss people watching in Spinola Bay,
Paparazzi the perfect name for the venue and display.
I want to hear the thumping rhythms into the night
Of Paceville’s crazy club scene, sure to excite!
I miss lazy strolls on battlements of old,
Mdina’s stone beneath my fingertips.
I want to sit in Eddie’s on Republic Square
- I think of it, and I am there - 
And watch the beautiful people strut by,
Boutique bags swinging on designer shoulders.
To dream in cool marble courtyards,
And take solace in churches, resplendent in gold.
To marvel at festas of fireworks and holy figurines.
To understand Shakespeare in Presidential gardens,
And dance at concerts at the old grain stores.
Oh, Malta!
I need run along your sand and rock
And swim in your deep blue waters,
To release my fears and cleanse my soul,
A baptism to make me whole.
Each visit you renew me,
Mold me and bake me in your sun,
And find a better person
Inside this tired shell.
Oh, Malta!
You chip away at my negativity to find
Your sweet haven at my core,
I pine for you when I’m away,
Until I embrace you once more.

Don't Wanna Start The Day!
It’s morn.
It’s warm
In bed.
Don’t wanna get up!
Weird meditations in my head.
I wonder if…
Night nudges Day.
“Time for you to play. 
It’s time to get up,
and take your shift.”
Demands dark to light,
It’s been a long night.
But Day won’t answer the call. 
It causes a rift.
Dawn drawn out.
Day coughs.
scratches, turns over.
“Just another five minutes,” 
comes a murmur and sighs,
“Why am I burdened with an early rise?”
Day drifts,
In sleep - until -
With one big push and a shove,
Night replies, “I’m sorry, my love,
but this is your time and this is the hour.
Get out of bed, and into the shower!”
Day bathes 
in the sun’s rays.
Emerges from defeat.
Ready to greet.
The world and it’s fate.
Days smiles and states,
while resplendent in light,
“Night may have won the fight.
But this time tomorrow,
We’ll do it all a-new.
I’ll win then, you’ll see that I do!”
And me?
It’s morn.
It’s warm
In bed.
Don’t wanna get up!
I’ll lie here instead.

... What about if the same place feels like a prison to you?
House Arrest
Light shines in through the slatted blinds,
To land as segmented rays across the bed;
As thought they’re made prison bars, she thinks.
She looks across to the tray - her morning rations
Tea and toast - bread and water
Next to it lies a row of bottles and packs,
Tablets for this, vitamins for that.
It’s what she’s in here for. Her life sentence.
Her committed carer, her unwavering warden ascents the stairs.
He stays at the bottom of the bed to ask how she is today.
It’s best to stay away. Don’t get too close. 
Detached. Dutiful.
Time for a shower. Her turn for ablutions, now that the rest of the world is done.
He takes her by the elbow, telling her how and when to move.
Don’t run away from me now, he jokes. She smiles in return.
Don’t turn against that screw for he is the keeper.
Bringing her extra treats when she’s good… or sad. 
          Time for a happy meal.
Don’t run away from me, he repeats for something to say.
          She can’t. 
She’s shackled by the pain.
Into the bathroom. 
          in front of another.
No room for dignity here.
The water cleanses away some of the grime of her life 
- for a moment.
She feels almost normal but 
          - don’t drop the soap.
Quick dry, comb raked through un-coiffured hair,
Then into clean pyjamas 
          - regulation wear.
These have flowers 
          - not arrows.
Straight back to her cell for the day 
Spent alone -
  Solitary confinement.
She lies on the bed, watching the light change, through the slatted windows, 
On the world outside she had nothing to do with.
In care, 
  Incarcerated by disability.
                    This is her life - 
  Her prison.

... Not forgetting those without homes.
Without Sense
On bitter tongue I taste the air.
Through icy eyes I see.
My home was not the shielded place,
that I had thought it be.

I touch with hands that do not feel
and hear with sceptic ears.
For my time has not been a cherished one.
Forgotten faith and full of fear.

Though I live and my heart does beat,
misled love was a mistaken feat.
So when you see me, walk on by.
There’s nothing left for me.  For I -

am scum forsaken,
Discarded and out of care.
Exist on pavements.
Violated being on earth.  Unfair!

Happy Scribing! Happy National Poetry Day!

All poems copyright of the owner of The Crafty Scribe
© The Crafty Scribe 2010
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