Waking to Spring

I was going crazy trying to stitch sense into a fabric project and I woke up this morning to see the trees had already produced buds and beat me to it. The sun is quite absent and the rain makes for a dreary Sunday 🌧️ along with a rejection of a poem from a poetry review. Perhaps, I deal well with these, they make me E. Scissorshands and brutal with a pair 😃

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As the night wove onto the spokes of sleep / the weaver of dreams twined in a strange reminiscing / and she heard the trees groan in buds of Spring, in collective labour //

The kaleidoscope of calico strewn across the floor cleaved moonlight into little squares of nightmares / Here she is, designing beauty in REM / quilted in the hues of a strange pallor //

It was the nucleus of a mist / like the pea under her bed / that kept the princess awake to wondering how Spring would awaken in blossoms / like the trees had it planned all along //

At dawn she felt she would explode legume like into art / creatively abridged into those ten minute DIY / where details are irretrievably lost in the maze of perfection / everything fabricated at the witching hour / to burst out in blossoms //

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I woke up feeling like I needed to write more, maniacally perhaps. I did, after breakfast and a chamomile tea. Love to self and getting through finishing what I started.

Arabian Nights and other stories

It occurred to me that ‘One thousand and one nights’ could have been the story of a woman stalling death through self soothing soliloquies. Marie Antoinette went grey the night before she was guillotined; so it must take a lot of strength to wax eloquent in stories, before ones imminent execution. I read one very tattered copy, lying around my childhood home, at twelve I think and loved parts of it. Today, I will try some haiku, tanka, waka maybe …

Sweet Scherezade,

spins in soft soliloquies,

sepulchral solace.

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April blossoms are,

the laconic wit of Spring

at a shy winter.

She sings syllables in hue,

to a frosty reluctance.

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Virgin bedchamber,

sweetly ricochets in tales,

like peas slumbering

in pods that divulge secrets

ripening in explosions.

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Despite the dreary circumstance of Scheherazade’s storytelling under duress, within the bedchamber of Sultan Sharyar, she apparently gave birth to three sons during the period. Ok, poetic license I reckon but this is one heck of a strong woman.