My purpose is to turn the earth,
not to act as a perch
for a rust-ridden bird
made of nuts and bolts
no good for anything else.
My self abhors the chuckles
of passers-by,
they know not what I can handle:
I’ve toiled;
in soil I’ve turned;
I worked hard,
yet I was spurned
and then discarded,
now, I’m found.
Polly Stretton © 2020
Revised for napowrimo #24
Regimented childhood
put an arm around yourself;
let the shell break,
dust off shattered residue
and float free.
Polly Stretton 2020
napowrimo #23
Banish the blues with a red touch,
blend them purple for tomorrow,
boys and clinker don’t mean too much
warm debris for the wheelbarrow.
Pigeons perch on the old scarecrow,
who imagines lilacs in spring,
they watch the boy make a furrow
and prepare for life on the wing.
Polly Stretton © 2020
Revised for napowrimo #22
The light in your eyes,
blonde of your hair,
silent space where once you were,
tender mouth,
intense glance,
knowing this:
the death of romance
and all that says, ‘love.’
Polly Stretton © 2020
napowrimo #21
In Grandma’s kitchen
the scented green slab
snaps from a green and yellow box.
A little lathered baby
walks atop wooden slats,
cleans between taps.
The soaked block of Fairy foam
pops to form honeycomb rings
and forms white, soggy,
fragrant films,
that trickle down
the Belfast sink.
Polly Stretton © 2020
napowrimo #20
As I drift, a dandelion clock
breathing through sunlight,
wafting at daisies,
my elderflower years have begun.
I once had bright yellow petals,
green leaves shiny and new,
I had you.
Seasons change.
Polly Stretton © 2020
napowrimo #19
A shadow of his former self,
my dad, in a hospital bed,
he’d broken his hip and a bit of his mind,
I’ll tell you what he said.
His close-mouthed lips formed these words:
‘Me teeth, me ruddy teeth!’
‘What about them Dad?’ I sighed,
‘Me teeth, me ruddy teeth.’
His face looked loppy-sided,
he didn’t try to grin,
I peered, to find the problem,
for sure, his teeth were in.
‘They’ve give me someone else’s,’
he lisped and almost bristled,
‘Let me see,’ I couldn’t bear
that when he spoke, he whistled.
His teeth were in, but upside-down,
he’d played these games before,
but this one was far preferable
to searching for teeth on the floor.
Polly Stretton © 2020
napowrimo #18
Shabby pile of bones
under a black bridge.
You were found out;
talked to the hawk,
or a murder of crows.
Maybe your first love,
who found you
in flagrante
set you up,
or the second, the witness,
incredulous,
who did not wish
to believe.
Selfish, faithless,
you will be alone.
The black bridge won’t help,
it mocks,
celebrates bones,
droll bones,
beneath the bridge.
Polly Stretton © 2020
napowrimo #17
Please help!
Stop people writing
messages in bottles
and throwing them in the seas.
Thanks, the Ocean.
Polly Stretton © 2020
napowrimo #16
Her blood drips down my arm,
our jumpers sodden crimson,
wet with tears and blood and snot.
I know it will be my fault.
I lie across her, the thundering roundabout
clangs over two small bodies,
there and gone, there and gone.
We’re too scared to move.
She sobs, squirms, heaves.
Someone’s run off shrieking, “Help! Help!”
A hundred hours later, her cries slow
she shudders, trembles, the tears don’t cease.
Help comes and stops the playground.
A circle of solemn friends watch
as she’s taken away.
Polly Stretton © 2020
napowrimo #15
Acknowledgement to pinterest
Time for dogs to stroll,
as sun beats through shade in cedar.
Beneath feet, tunnels mole,
while insects follow-my-leader.
The dogs don’t play the game,
they raise an eye, a brow,
‘Don’t care’ they sniff, declaim,
‘it’s too hot anyhow.’
White umbels hum and hover,
an alien craft swoops, dips then towers
above grasses’ itchy pother,
and burdock in full flower.
Rust green spires spring
over yellow tilted shades,
hear bombus choirs sing
over parasol parades.
Echoes heard,
warm summer words,
calls of birds,
dogs doze, droop, demur.
Polly Stretton © 2020
napowrimo #13
Polly Stretton © 2020
napowrimo #12
I am a fawn,
I live in woodland and forests
and don’t mind a gentle stroll on a quiet moor or hill.
Grass, bilberries, heather
and tree shoots make me happy.
Mum hides me in thickets
—bracken can be prickly—
Mum says it’s safer
until I’m big enough not to freeze;
she barks if anything comes too close.
But she bleats to me.
My mum’s called a doe and Dad is a stag;
guess I am too.
My pedicles itch,
they’ll become antlers with soft grey velvet.
Dad’s velvet hangs in tatters,
he’s over there, rubbing it off
against trees and bushes;
Mum says it’s called ‘cleaning’.
Doesn’t look very clean to me,
the horn’s stained with sap and tannins.
My coat is spotted,
dappled, pommelled, it’ll change soon,
my winter pelt: red-russet-brown.
There’s a myth about us
living thrice the age of man,
nonsense, of course,
but it would be good.
When my belly’s full, I can eat no more,
so I ruminate.
I doze, I wake,
I doze, I wake.
Polly Stretton ©2020
napowrimo #11
I meet him halfway,
in a café
between his home and mine.
My heart rants and rails,
impaled, yet veiled.
We walk slowly—at first—
then we run.
Overwhelmed—together.
He wears a tweed jacket,
rough and fragrant;
hugs me close
like we’ve known each other always.
Inside the café, we can’t stop,
can’t stop talking,
—talking—
until I notice his hands,
his hands.
I take his in my own,
turn it palm upwards
—mine too—
there’s no doubt:
carbon copies.
Father and daughter meet at last.
Hands revealed.
Hearts unveiled
in the palms of our hands
Polly Stretton © 2020
napowrimo #10
She cups a small bird in her hand,
born this year, feathers silken, soft,
she encourages flight, holds it aloft,
so warm, so weak, it trembles.
She wheels her chair along smooth garden ways,
wishes there were more she could do, she prays.
A feather drops, drifts, wafts;
the bird stays in the hayloft.
She keeps the silence of the barn,
leaves the bird in its haven, whereon
the creature stills, mute and calm,
scented hay burns the air as a balm.
The gentle girl returns the next day,
no drama, the bird has flown away.
The girl in the chair and her protégé.
Polly Stretton © 2020
Revised for napowrimo #9
Smooth iridescence,
shining luminescence,
silky strength and resilience;
trace tempting inlays
touched by musicians,
adored by pearly kings and queens.
Baglamas and bazoukis,
caviar spoons, buttons,
beautiful jewellery
warm to the skin,
sexy as satin, sultry and shimmering,
nacreous clouds and notional things.
Some advice from an online friend.
Many of us are experiencing emotional distress from the pandemic which can affect each of us in different ways, but often presents as increasing anxiety, worry, sleep disruption, feelings of helplessness, panic, and/or depression.
The shrieking headlines don’t help do they? So what can we do to manage these feelings and feel stronger emotionally and psychologically as we prepare ourselves to face the difficult days ahead?
As a psychotherapist who has practiced for many decades, I have some ideas that can help. So if you are interested, read on.
We are going to make a customized anxiety toolbox. One approach doesn’t work for everyone, pick and choose what feels right for you. Of course I’m including relaxing photos intermixed in this post because looking at positive images is an objective and powerful anxiety reducer. What you perceive influences how you think and feel.
ANXIETY TOOLBOX:
Self Talk Reframing (Cognitive Therapy)
View original post 627 more words
When Dad was embarrassed, he whistled,
a tootling flute of a whoot; notes rising,
always the gent, he never bristled,
but when Dad was embarrassed, he whistled.
Always the same, breath gently pushed
through pursed lips, eyes on the horizon,
Dad, red, embarrassed, he whistled,
a tootling flute of a whoot; notes rising.
Polly Stretton © 2020
napowrimo #7
I see your laugh
I hear your smile
I taste your face
I touch your kiss,
the shape of your heart
All things pass
laughs pass
kisses pass
days pass
fights pass
smiles pass
You heard my smile
you saw my kiss
you tasted my face
you touched my laugh
the shape of my heart
is changed forever
all things pass
Polly Stretton © 2020
napowrimo #5
There’s always something to scupper a plan,
the printers aren’t printing, no woman nor man
handles rolling machines, all sweat and sheen,
that clatter forth with our fine magazine.
No worries, I’ll send the mag files online,
only five to print out for those who decline
to use a computer or email; we cater
for those who prefer to use quill and paper.
But my HP printer runs out of ink,
I insert a refill and restart the print.
Just five to print out, no trouble at all,
but my little stapler hits a brick wall.
The mag is too thick for the stapler to cope,
what to do? Online delivery! I hope
they’ll have a stapler to deal with the heft,
if they can’t manage that, I’ll be bereft.
‘Oh yes,’ they say, ‘heavy duty we do,
‘give us a day and we’ll get it to you.’
I bet you can guess what the next line will be,
that’s right, I’m still waiting, it’s day number three!
Polly Stretton © 2020
napowrimo #4
journalread 