writing

Tuesday I went to Poetry Bites, a poetry reading. The most interesting piece for me was by a man, sadly whose name I did not get.

This is a poetic response and tribute to the single piece he read. A difficult poem to say the least written in the fallout of his wife and childs death.

He is what I would call a phoenix writer, someone who in the darkness of dark finds a pen and spills their soul. I wish him well.

A quick doodle on expression inspired by the different colour attributes of blood.

We live day to day uneventful but it is those hard times in our lives where we stand to have the potential to find ourselves, if it doesn't kill us first.

Blood

Blue as hypothermia
silent as thought
naught is sort or found
given or lost.
Piped and forgotten blood runs
in the veins of rats
while Prometheus bound
Opens a wound
Watches thick supple red
Bleed the words
Held beneath the lips.

People write for different reasons, fame, fortune, recognition, money and self gratification amongst other things. This is why I don't call myself a writer but an expressionist.

So the question to write with is, "What does it mean to write for you?" This is my part of my answer.

Writer's block or as I like to call it, "Looking out the wrong window" comes to us all. The trick is always to change your perspective. There is inspiration in everything; you just have to allow yourself to see it.

I have a thirty minute lunch and with no ideas, I have decided to write about writers block, which I do from time to time as it is a feeling as vast a space, for me at least.

There is was. Neat. Crisp. A brown envelope, handwritten with stamps on it. It couldn’t be anything else.

Could it?

Simon hesitated. He wasn’t expecting anything else in the post. He dwelled on the thought to reassure himself.

It had to be.

His fingers tore the brown flap awkwardly, it seemed to be stuck down with super glue. A tear streaked down the envelope.

Careful! Don’t want to damage the contents! Butterflies danced in his stomach, his heart racing.

He pulled the slender paper free. Took a deep breath and opened it.

His screams could be heard in the street.

It's a slow day at work. Lunchtime has arrived and I needed something to cure the boredom, maybe the onset of writers block. I thought on a title, "The Voice", what it might mean. Writing sprung to mind so I decided to roll with it to see where it went.
And now I’m bored again. Going to be a long day.

The Voice

The voice is
faces strewn across a void,
in the crank of a curling cat
in stones strewn from bank to bank.
Here is the voice
passed like a parcel a long a line,
sung or whispered
but, always given a moment in time.