Freedom, Ltd

Locked in and locked out both at once;
So slow, I convinced I’m a dunce
In all the social niceties.
Some friends help, other like to tease the encumbrance.

Locked in when I can’t leave my bed
For the pain in my back, legs, and head.
Locked in when I can’t talk or hear,
For the roaring fog in my ears leaves me dead.

Locked out when a shop says, “Boo-hoo,
“You can’t make us put ramps in for you.
“Stop acting like you have the right
“To give decent people a fight, you scrounger, you!”

Locked out and locked in, with no cure;
There’s nothing to do but endure.
But one choice is left here still mine:
If I want to let this define me: No. I’m more.


Form: The Florette

Prompt: Write a poem about being stuck in a very small place, actually or metaphorically; or Write a poem about being locked out, actually or metaphorically.

Exercises in Perspective

I see through many other eyes
And feelings share as though inside
The heads and hearts of beasts and men
I am when dreaming, now and then.
I walked in Tudor times again
As someone’s loyal and trusted friend.
A family of monstrous men
And women, I was one of them.
I dream in vivid stories when
I walk in the shoes of other men
These stories have just one down-side:
They never end before I rise!

Form: Duo-rhyme

Prompt: Be inspired by a dream, without saying it’s a dream.
Not strictly followed, but acted as a starting place.

Darkness Defied

Dark sky
Stark and wide
From the bright city
But bid the lights goodbye,
And see dark skies blossom pretty
Points of light, becoming clouds of bitty
Distant fires, or rocks in space reflecting light
From the hidden sun, behind the gritty
Bulk of Earth, the shadow fitting
A window in the sky
Show the pretty
Lacy shine
Of fine

Form: Diatelle


Clear Skies

I walk,
In my mind, past
Limitations imposed
By wearied limbs and brain-fog.

The white clouds drift
In sparse, scattered clusters
Brilliant against the trees and

Stand dark, empty
As owners head outdoors
Bound for work or play, enjoying

Bathes the garden
In light, and heat, too much
For me to bear, I sit inside,

Are you surprised?
Yes, happy despite all.
Contented, I lie and look at
Clear skies.

Form: Crown Cinquain

Prompt: Go for a walk, and be inspired by what you see, hear, smell, and feel.

Brief Biography

Idealists know that the hero must win
And pessimists know that ideals are for fools
Suffering brings its own wisdom, of sorts,
But maturity comes when ideals are regained.

Fresh-faced and kind-hearted,
Flat-footed and dim,
Idealists know that the hero must win.

Betrayed and abandoned,
Shell-shocked and schooled,
And pessimists know that ideals are for fools.

Life-hardened, resilient,
In deeds and in thoughts.
Suffering brings its own wisdom, of sorts.

Come forth, sprout of kindness!
Feel joy and, yes, pain.
But maturity comes when ideals are regained.


Form: Cascade

Inspired by the dominant theme of the fantasy novel I should be writing this weekend. See, I am working on it after all.

Am I, Though?

An iamb is inherently a paradox of poetry
Transparently trochaic, it cannot contain itself. Poor thing, it is
Its own antithesis, and as such might be my spiritual synthesis
As I am, also, set against myself; depicting what I am not
Form fascinates me, yet I am myself most formlessly
Chaotic; cramming weeks of work, after delays, into mere days
I am the iamb, so much smaller than my ambition. Amen.


Form: Complex Alliterisen

Prompt: Write a poem that contains the refrain “I am” at least six times.

Poetic Procrastination

I ought to be writing my novel, so naturally I’ve signed up to a 24-hour poetry marathon. Because why not?

I think I need to write my own version of John Finnemore’s ‘Procrastination’ song, in which I list all the many and extremely necessary tasks I’ve been doing rather than work on my book. A book I very much want to write, but for some reason keep avoiding. Hmm, feelings to explore through poetry this weekend, perhaps?

Anyway, enough about that. I’m returning to the poetry marathon after a three-year break, and raring to go. It was encouraging to look back at some of my posts from previous years and realise that they were not completely awful. Not especially good, but better than my prose writing at the time. And due to get better, I hope.


Looking up at the sky from between two tall buildings.

Head all the way back
One last glimpse of grey daylight
Before starting work.

Unrhymed Pantoum

The Earth spins on
Around the Sun
The Moon comes up
Amongst the stars

Around the Sun
The planets sing,
Amongst the stars
They’re barely seen

The planets sing
Their wordless song
They’re barely seen
And seldom heard

Their wordless song
The Great Minds seek
And seldom heard
The children cry

The Great Minds seek.
The Moon comes up.
The children cry.
The Earth spins on.

Little Handbag

I have a little handbag
That sits upon my knee
But somehow it’s much bigger
Than a handbag ought to be

It takes in bottled water
By the litre. And the pens!
Hear them rattle in despair
Of ever being found again.

There’s mints and sticking plasters,
And a glasses-mending tool,
Nail files, clippers, stamps and tissues,
And a fan for staying cool.

Deep in its dark and endless
Hidden depths there may well be
An old three-volume novel,
“Title Pending”, by “L.P.”

So I pay no attention
To what the labels say;
I think my little handbag
Was made on Gallifrey,