to erase me is to wipe
away the graffiti as though
it can make up for the
late night tags written
under cover of darkness
where I wear the smell
of spray cans as deodorant
and the rattle of the ball bearing
the music of our minds
This came about because my daughters had this whiteboard in the lounge room when they were practicing dance and Physie routines. The board was clean and next to it was the whiteboard marker and eraser. I debated getting the black whiteboard marker from my pencil case (I am a teacher after all) but stuck with the purple and wrote this up on the spur of the moment, tapping into the impermanency of the surface and the content of the poem. Tonight the girls are using the white board to play games of Hangman.
As a side note, does anyone else have trouble spelling “graffiti”? I always mix up the number of “f’s” or “t’s” but thankfully I wrote it correctly.
the time I spilled Hundred and Thousands
on the kitchen floor trying to make
fairy bread (because mum said we
weren’t allowed to have it)
I blamed it on you
as they scattered, we collided
with one thousand reasons
ricocheted off a million pretences
and you swept up the mess
collecting the coloured atoms
of our relationship
and the sugared balls hitting
the plastic bag of the bin
sounded like rain
Posted in Ars Poetica, Creativity
Tagged creativity, fiction, handwritten pages, microfiction, micropoetry, poetry, sample sentences, Sunday Scribbling, writers, writing
tend doubts like roses but treat happiness like weeds
which sprout in the cracks of the daylight hours
are cut down and thrown into the sunset fire
turn the epidermis of the earth
crack the bones and extract the marrow
mix in the ash and pack the compost
around the base of the roses. And when the petals
have fallen in their season, prune with abandon
until a solitary stem remains
Posted in Ars Poetica, Creativity, Short Stories
Tagged creativity, fiction, fiction friday, flash fiction, Friday flash, handwritten pages, micro-fiction, microfiction, micropoetry, poetry
I ate an overripe plum
on the afternoon
of my father’s funeral
eaten a day or two late
piercing the skin, tight and purple
the soft flesh a mushy pulp
first the sweetness
chased by the sharp, acid tang
digging the stone from the
centre with my teeth
while the juice dribbled down
my fingers, a puddle in
Sometimes you have moments when an idea forms as a cohesive whole and coalesces like breath. You quickly capture the moment, preserve it and share it. This is one of those times. It’s not autobiographical, simply an idea sparked by something I was reading and afterwards reminded me of William Carlos Williams’ poem, “This Is Just To Say.”
It’s not summer in Australia (we’re heading into winter) but plums have always been one of my favourite summer stone fruits.
Posted in Ars Poetica, Creativity
Tagged creativity, fiction, fiction friday, flash fiction, Friday flash, handwritten pages, micro-fiction, microfiction, micropoetry, poetry, writers, writing
Below is a collection of sample sentences and ideas I’ve had, playing around with new markers and pens.
“Every time you slam the door a fairy loses its wings,” her mother yelled down the hallway.
She leant against the door, watching and waiting for the wings to float down; one onto her pillow and the other beside the laptop on her desk. Their thin, steel-like frames and metallic membranes were added like plates to the almost-finished coat on the dressmaker’s mannequin.
Slipping it off the mannequin and dressing herself in it, she confronted her image in the mirror, the light reflecting a kaleidoscope of colours on the carapace she wore.
I will not need to fly, she whispered, when I can wear armour.
Posted in Creativity, Short Stories
Tagged creativity, experimental, fiction, fiction friday, flash fiction, Friday flash, handwritten pages, micro-fiction, microfiction, writers, writing
To scorch the earth
requires, firstly, a match
to spark the conflagration.
In it’s wake a monochrome
palette of ashes; the static
of a black and white television.
The white noise of silence
mistaken for a perpetual
round of applause.
Except you burned the memory
of why you did it in the first place.