Friday, January 23, 2009

Writing doodles

Two 'poedoodles' and no they're not crossbred dogs.

She walks and walks for miles to clear her mind
To silence killing cries from times long past
The winter crisps her fingers sharp as bone
With interwoven strands of mistletoe
Though times were hard, forgotten all her loves
Simplicity of purpose led her forth
Across a placid ocean she still stares
Transformed into a birch, stripped of her leaves
Within her icy veins no blood now flows.

Friday, 23 January 2009

Such long dark days when spring has not emerged
from winter’s chrysalis; when rain pours down
from darkened skies; and children go to school
encased in shiny coats. The drip of rain
the swish of tyres on road, an engine’s growl.
Across the road, a front door’s outside lamp
Still shines at way past ten, as though ignored.
The dirty blotting paper air sucks up
what light there is. No colours here to cheer
Unless I count the brightness slick and harsh
Of umbrellas grown like toadstools overnight.
Give me instead a tourist paradise,
of sun and snow and glistening mountain peaks.
No doubt I’ll find one on the internet.

Both (pretty much) in iambic pentameter with variations and no rhyme. Does it show that the very last line of the second one happened when I ran out of stuff to say? It doesn't matter - they're doodles!

And I've just noticed two much rain in the second one, as well. Ah well ...

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