Child of the 80s

Mama said there'd be days like this

when inspiration is a national myth

and bills need paying and

love needs resurrecting fast.

On the Tube to Work One Wednesday...

Somebody's gonna love you

like your perfect jumper, cosy,

worn, pilling at the sleeves.

NSFW

Midway through the phrase, both of us flinch:

"Oh, you're still in the honeymoon phase."

I wanted to punch her in the face.

Too dramatic? I'm not sure. It's just what came out tonight. I'm intrigued to see where that one will go... Also, caution to those who believe in the 'honeymoon phase.'

And, Galway....

At the time I don't believe you.

This place where for the first three months

the bay wouldn't bring my happiness back, where I

believed Bailey's would cure my upset stomach, and

woke up in the bed of an Irishwoman on St. Patty's Day.

How could this place be sacred?

Ah, it was a crass day in my writing world. (Sorry, Dad.)

Monday was for Boxes

My dear storyteller friend is living with us temporarily as she finds her way in this vast world capital of millions. One of the areas of density common in London, among many many things, is storage space. We don't have any. So, in adding a third person's food and likes and nibbles to an already creatively packed cupboard and counter top, we needed some assistance. Hence, I nicked balsa wood 'frutas y verduras' crated from the neat, clean recycle pile outside of the health food shop on my way home. It rode the Tube with me for an hour and I carried it home in the mist. It now holds pasta, can foods, and root veg on the floor in the kitchen. I also wrote about it.

Wooden boxes holding cola bottles

Wooden boxes for jalapenos

Wooden boxes for the sea shells

and tea cakes; fancy cigars and rows of jewlery

Wooden boxes to keep out of mind,

and keep the whiskey, too.

4th, 5th, 6th November

I'm not gonna lie. I didn't write a poem each day this last weekend.

I did think about it. Think about topics for poems, think about all the emotions raging inside of me, think about the commitment to myself to write a poem for each twenty-four hours I live on this earth during this 30 day month.

I started one about mint sneezes. But all I could visualize was a field of mint in someone's nose. (I'm not prone to limericks myself...)

I imagined writing one about holiness during a secular christening, and of wearing my great-grandmother's onyx and pearl cross whenever I attend something sacred. I invoked her and all my grandmothers of faith as a lit a candle for the little one, newly named.

I could have even thought of something clever about the gun powder plot or Guy Fawkes or at least emulated V for Vendetta in poetry form. I didn't. Obviously.

And yet you were never far from my mind: the poetry, and whomever might be reading it.