Toothbrushes kissing

It’s the small things, that she misses.

The toothbrushes kissing,

on the windowsill.

The two pairs of keys,

dancing in the hall way.

The shoes fighting;

his trainers army straight,

her heels tumbling,

on their sides.

The sounds of two alarm clocks,

fighting for attention.

The phone chargers,

keeping each other company.

She misses listening to the conversations,

of his coffee machine,

and her kettle.

She misses the childish behaviour,

of the television,

she misses how it used to disturb her peace.

(Keep it down!)

Mud stains.

Tapping feet.

Overflowing cupboards.

Extra washing.

She misses it all.

Most days though, it’s not too bad,

She can ignore the fact that toothbrush is lonely,

ignores the fact that the keys,

are doing a solo performance.

Most days, she can put the heels up straight,

she can tell herself that she’s okay,

convince herself that she’s thankful.

for one alarm

for tea in peace,

for the absence of annoyances.

But then that day comes around,

and her house won’t let her have peace.

It fights against her.

The single set of keys,

jingles

louder

and

louder

and cries

for

it’s partner.

The single alarm,

wails.

The kettle grieves.

She hides under her duvet.

And tells herself to

Stop.

Stop thinking.

But the TV roars.

And the memories come back.

And it’s all kissing toothbrushes, dancing keys, footwear fighting, alarm clocks singing,

It’s ‘I love you’

It’s ‘I’ll see you later’

It’s a

knock on a door

It’s a

scene from a movie

Not real.

Not real.

 

It’s ‘I’m sorry for your loss’

Not real

Not real.

Too real. 

 

Cold Burn

Her mother told her to stay away from fire.

‘Don’t get too close.”

It wasn’t a problem,

she was never a daredevil,

the fire didn’t call to her,

the warmth wasn’t alluring.

The chances of the flames touching her,

were slim to none.

She stuck to the outskirts,

stood far away from it,

content in her isolation.

She was stronger than the others,

resisted the temptation.

Someone should have told her,

there was more than one way,

to be burned.

It started slowly,

the cold,

then began to sit in her bones.

All alone, she started to shrink.

There was no warmth,

there was no heat.

The fire felt Oh, so far away.

She could spot it in the distance,

its’ red and orange halo,

surrounding the crowds,

all huddled together.

They looked smug…

and snug.

But she pitied them all the same;

didn’t they know,

how dangerous it was?

Fools.

Yes, the were fools,

she thought,

as her teeth began chattering.

The flames were at a safe distance,

far

far

away

but there was some-

thing,

some-

thing

occur-r

-ing,

it started at the t-t-tips,

and made it’s way up,

it burnt,

it burnt,

it burnt.

 

The fire suddenly looked inciting.


 

Not sure about this poem- a big experiment!

Daily prompt: Burn

My mother

My mother is warmth.

I watch her in Awe.

How she exudes her love,

her kindness,

her humour.

My mother and I,

are very different.

She is good with people.

(I am not).

She is resilient.

(I am not).

 

My mother is strength.

She’s the comfort to childhood nightmares,

she holds my dreams,

she knows my fears.

I never knew it before.

We argued.

We had disagreements.

I always said,

she wouldn’t understand.

I misunderstood

her warnings,

her advice,

for…

dictatorship.

I was a teenager,

(synonym for stupid).

 

My mother is empathy.

She forgives my transgressions,

she showers me with her love,

her concern,

and I…

I push back and say

“gosh, I’m twenty-one”.

 

My mother is not perfect,

she is over-protective,

a perfectionist,

she is too sensitive

and we argue,

we argue,

but these arguments,

are becoming

further

and

further

apart.

More and more,

we spend time

talking.

And more and more

I am in awe.

 

 

The abandoned

They made for a beautiful picture,

your Abandoned dreams.

Neglectfully discarded,

they still managed to scatter

beautifully on the ground.

It was strange watching them.

Each time you looked,

you saw something new.

Another piece of the story,

of the dreams and their shattering.

It was strange.

And sometimes,

when the light reflected harshly,

painful.

The glare was too strong.

You had to turn away.

Sometimes you could walk,

among them,

understand the reasoning,

for their abandonment.

 

On most occasions, the

shattered fragments lay dormant

and buried.

Abandoned under a sea of other choices,

until you step on one of the sharp corners,

and they prick you.

Angry at their abandonment,

they stab you.

It’s uncomfortable,

to say the least.

And then they start to reflect the tales,

of what could have been.

This bit’s the hardest.

If only you’d tried.

 

If only you’d tried. 

Clouds

Clouds. Surprisingly, the first image that popped into my mind at this prompt was a bright blue sky, with a wholesome white cloud.

A summer cloud, if you will.

It’s surprising. I would have expected my first thoughts to be dark, grey and miserable but my mind conjured out something beautiful.

I thought clouds and I thought blue sky.

I thought blue sky and I thought summer.

I thought summer and imagined staring up to the heavens.

I imagined staring up and began dreaming of free falling.

Of being caught by a soft fluff of white clouds.

The science student within me scoffed.

Impossible.

But I quietened her down for the sake of fiction.

What if the clouds could catch me.

What if I could lie within them, floating along.

Take a book with for company.

Tour the world, dodging planes and birds…

There would be marshmallows.

I don’t know why, there just would be.

My mind is… strange.

It brings me stories, illogical and impossible.

 

 

Immigrant

She was an immigrant.

She came to her adopted home in childhood.

In the first few weeks, she was just like a Tourist. Five years old and wide eyed at this new world.

Everything was awe-inspiring.

The red buses.

The busy roads.

The new school.

The new friends.

She watched it like an outsider.

Until it became her own.

It didn’t take long.

Her original accent was quickly swallowed away,

Chased away by the laughs;

(Can’t you speak properly?).

She learned to speak properly.

Made friends at school.

Went to the park.

Went to the corner shop.

Used public transport.

Started calling this place, home.

She can remember the day her citizenship officially began,

remembers the small white office.

The friendly man.

Her mum holding up her hand.

Speaking words.

Pledging allegiance.

She wanted to do it too.

They said she didn’t have to,

with a laugh.

She was far too young.

She remembers being happy.

Remembers opening the envelope.

Staring at the red passport.

A tiny picture of herself inside.

Hair tightly pulled back into a nice, neat pony tail.

She remembers her cousins back on the other side of the world,

laughing at her excitement.

Teasing her.

This will always be your first home, they said.

She went back there of course, over the years.

To visit.

She doesn’t know when she stopped calling there home.

But she knows each time she went back,

she felt more

and more

and more

like a tourist.

Her adopted country was now her home.

And she studied there.

Volunteered there.

Worked there.

Paid taxes there.

Voted there.

She lived and laughed …

but she knew at the end of the day,

it wouldn’t matter.

It wouldn’t matter if she stayed for another five years,

or ten,

it wouldn’t matter if she stayed for the rest of her life,

she wasn’t born here.

She was an immigrant.

That word, thrown around like a curse.

And so to some, this place could never be her home.

(“Go back to where you came from!”).

She is

She’s tired of making decisions.

Having to choose.

Having to defend.

So instead, she chooses the weightlessness.

Lets the current carry her where it must.

Becomes slave to the winds.

And when it rages, she will rage.

She will thrash and she will howl.

She will break through the boulders.

Wreak havoc,

Unchain her emotions,

let them flood.

Let them be free.

And when she is spent.

She will continue on her journey.

She will glide smoothly.

Enjoy the sights,

the smells,

the sounds.

She will create her own music,

the soft whisperings

of a calmed river.

Some will ignore her.

Others will travel miles to get,

just a glimpse.

Some will protect her.

Others will strive to,

tear her down.

Some will herald,

her as purity.

Others will damn,

her as pollution.

She is neither.


In response to the prompt:Water