Hour twelve


In the closet,
She dreams of escape,
Snow covered lamp-posts
And talking fauns.

She dreams of hiding
In fur coats,
Burrowing deep into warmth.

In the closet
She is her real self,
Free and brave and strong.

In the closet,
She is safe.

Hour eleven


This spoon was once bent by Uri Geller,
Took tea at Buckingham Palace,
And was smuggled into space,
This spoon is no ordinary spoon.

This spoon has shared ice cream
With Hollywood startlets,
Dined in soup at The Ritz,
This spoon is no ordinary spoon.

This spoon has climbed Everest,
And been to the poles,
Packed carefully in cases and bags,
This spoon is no ordinary spoon.

This spoon is a silver spoon,
Laying in my kitchen drawer,
Dreaming of exploits and fame,
It is no ordinary spoon.

Hour ten

What Is Love?

Is love calm, and safe,
Or butterflies and roller coasters,
Flushed faces and romantic whispers
Or talking all through the night?

Is love gentle and kind,
Or fierce and wild,
Uncontrolled fire or a soothing balm
To body, mind, and spirit?

Is love all we need, to lift us up?
Does it destroy us forever?
Once it snares you, are you lost,
Or finally found?

Is a team
Of two, forever,
In the calm and the storm,
Passionate kisses
And talking nonsense till the sun comes up?

Hour nine


On lazy mornings
They go in search
Of the whiff of cinnamon,
Throwing warm jackets
Over tired bodies,
Squinting at too bright
Lightbulbs and grabbing
Coffee cups with tiny tremors.

It is ritual, it is easy,
It is comfort and safety,
Resting elbows on worn wooden tables
And oversized, cozy armchairs.
It is morning and they
Are finally awake.

Hour eight


Like exotic birds they flock,
Displaying colourful finery
To visitors and passers-by.
Tipping top hats and twirling parasols,
They greet the crowds,
While promenading past the pier,
Goggles clear and cogs all shiny.

You can almost see the airships,
Steaming along the coast,
Stopping just long enough for a spot of tea.
They are full of airs and graces,
And inventions wild and new,
But the sky is an open road,
For steampunk’s bravest crew.

Hour seven


I do not write form poems,
But, being asked to do so
As a poetry marathon prompt,
I put my pen to paper.

I do try my best, but
I do not write form poems,
Try as i might, my pen
Wishes to do its own thing.

No rhythm, rhyme or reason,
I let the poem speak its truth,
I do not write form poems,
But tell my stories anyway.

Snapshots of a life in words,
Moments caught in time,
The words will come however they may, for
I do not write form poems.

Hour six


It’s turtles all the way down,
They say,
Peering carefully over
The edge of the world,
Standing on the backs of each other,
Towering down into
The emptiness of space.

They plod along silently,
So smooth the world above
Is unlodged and undisturbed,
So that we can keep on living
On this flat disk,
Till we reach the very edge,
Hoping not to tumble over,
Waving at turtles as we go.

Hour five

Turning Cartwheels (For MF)

You are
Turning cartwheels on the seafront,
Where time and tide wait for no girl.

You are
Sprouting tall and strong,
Blooming before our very eyes.

You are
Kindness and compassion,
Imagination and fun,
The world in your hands
As the tide tracks your feet,
Your cartwheels spinning like clock hands.

You are
Years gone by in a flash,
Eager for the next adventure,
Twirling cartwheel after cartwheel
Step by step into your
Bright, blue future.

Hour four


Bound together by vow and ring,
Building a world together,
Day in and day out.
This is their destiny,
This is their job.
Each day, week, month, year,
Needs work, commitment,
Room to grow,
For two to come together,
Come together again,
Remaining each one
Inside the two of them,
Partners to the end.

Hour three

A Prescription For Poetry

A twenty minute interlude
To just sit and read,
Poems for the broken hearted, the sick and ill,
Those just plain broken.
Old and new, well-read and unknown,
Long, short and those in-between.
There is a poem here for everyone.

These are the doctor’s orders,
Take one poem. Two, three, four.
Take these words and rebuild
Yourself, letter by letter,
Rhyme by rhyme.

As something shifts in your heart,
To let the poem speak
For itself,
And open a door.

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