Muse |
Muse |
The spiders have been weaving in the night And hung up their threads in the morning light Hoping to avoid attention from the wandering eye And ensnare the beats of an unsuspecting fly. From there begins the dinner dance And from which the flies escape only by chance. The spiders orchestrate a silken dress And store it among boughs of silver tress. Originally written in July 2022, age 26
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The trees are fairy, With their spindles reaching to the sky To fly. Or hands that stretch into A thousand fingers Or veins of a lung waiting For a sparkle of crisp air To breathe in and gasp At the surprise Of light. Delicate roots yawn and At dawn come alive, The bugs and beetles Dart far east and west Where the wind blows Steadily. Buds close their scent-selling Stalls for the night, Their customers buzz back to Their hive. The calm lilac of the sun As dusk arrives on the Horizon and birds flutter Home to hide in the Nooks of their cousins, Mystical trees. Originally written in 2012, age 17
The water shivers starlight waves Toward the emerald island it craves Where nesting geese and swans it saves And echoes breathe across the boating lake. Soft steps shuffle a carousel sound Of an imperfect centrifugal motion round Whilst geese wings with goslings pound And echoes breathe across the boating lake. During golden days in the grass it naps Whilst a goat oar shimmers hazily as it laps In the age of phones and bottle caps And echoes breathe across the boating lake. A flurry of fishing rods dance and catch Next to smoking tents that puff on the latch Whilst fielding feet play a cricket match And echoes breathe across the boating lake. Originally written May 2022, age 26
Flecks break out at the neck, Fire streaks across the breast. Dash! The enemy invades in black: Raven, not Robin; he only passes by, A neighbour of his majesty. Take off again. Return home. Arrival of the fittest; Leaves blow out in a fan as they land. Colonel does his cockerel march, Foraging in grass: As if in old honour, he bears feathers, Along with his combed hair and swaying beard He looks a gentleman of hens, Victorian and proud. Wattle and daub are there to house! Cuddle in the coop and stay warm. The Queen is about: Up and out, up and out. “Victory is yours!” Corn is the just reward. Photo by Wolfgang Hasselmann on Unsplash Originally written in January 2022, age 16
Iron filings have a tendency to run. Sandy; they go to see, Fuss and feathers, all in one. Reach the gathering in time, Rise and fall with the tide. Move on now, follow the line. Speckles in snow, Amber in eyes, Gone at sunset, back at sunrise. Combed and ready to crow, With a beard, sing: It draws in like a magnet, what a show! Originally written January 2012, age 16
In the morning, crocuses spawn from the soil like coral on a reef; soon to bloom their lilac cups, where sparks fly as fireflies sitting in the tea leaves.
In the day, seagulls flash their white wings in a hush, a snow flurry heading towards the river, quivering in the breeze, swirling round as a fowl tornado. In the evening, the lights of houses twinkle like stars in the night sky, and before me they peek out from behind trees as I walk past, along the lamplit path through the park. A ceramic mug, fired with love,
In the North of Wales, Pouring sea foam onto the shores of The Gower, Where I can walk along Llangennith beach at every sip. Its ceramic grit circles its rim, Like the sand between my toes, Exfoliating my lips with every kiss, Softly and with purpose To sit back and relax. Its lilac and blue shades are comforting Rather than cold; A waterfall down its handle that holds my hand, Emanating warmth and calm through its surface, Which caresses my throat as its tea Trickles down into my tummy, Scrumptious and aromatic; My specialty tea, my special tea, My wellness mug. A mug of tea does wonders for the soul. The sun adorns the gold leaf strands of spider webs hanging in the trellis squares of my summerhouse. The squares are imperfect with a slight lean backward. A sudden gust blows the leaves and shoots them into the sky, making them rain down on my lawn; waving as they go, they land softly in chocolate curls, crunchy from the cold. The grass quivers with the breeze and the pink kaffir lilies flail their leaves as if dancing in the air, elevated atop a three tier planter. The bird feeder sways forward, bent by countless pigeons perching on its arms. The citronella spreads its tendrils out across the fence, looking like the dappled shade in a forest, green with pops of bright yellow, sun buds. The clouds go past, travelling on their own airport ground belts; effortless. The daffodils are stretching up from the ground, yawning and bleary-eyed after a long sleep; their eyes will open in a yellow firework in Spring, not long to wait for the show. The granny's bonnet and cat mint are already crawling out to join the daffodils, still in their infancy but bringing the promise of new life. And so I drink my earl grey from my favourite mug and look out across my garden, in awe. I am thankful.
The carrot with its elongated waist Stretches out its leg, down through the earth, Grounded, Patient as it swells over time, Sprouting hairy roots like stubble on a chin, Although soft and flaky, Easy to break and to peel. Yet it stretches still, Down into the depths of worm-chewed soil And then up toward the surface Where the rain falls Washing, eventually, the brow of the carrot's head From which its spikey hair has already exploded Like an overflowing froth of green Reaching toward the sun. Then grounded. Now pulled, chopped, boiled, It makes its way into my mouth, Fresh and delicious; An orange bliss. This poem was written as a part of an exercise from a workshop "Creative Writing for Self-care" run by the University of Birmingham's UoBe Festival. The first line "The carrot with its elongated waist" is paraphrased from the poem Gratitude by Mary Oliver, and inspired my poem The carrot.
The cosmos blooms and flumes of deep blue, Golden glitter stars roll and swirl, Billowing as if blown from under, A volcanic current sweeps them upward to my glistening eyes, Seeing beauty for the first time. As I sink into the night, A pool of light shimmers up my body. Landing on my legs, settling as the gentle snow falls outside, It caresses my skin and frolics around the follicles of my hairs as they lie back, Relaxed and reflective in this moment of peace. I recline into the universe, My own galaxy keeps me afloat on the breath of a starry sky, A wave welcomes me in. To breathe deeply again. Night falls and I sleep beneath it. Dreaming. Originally written on 28th November 2020, age 24
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AuthorSamantha is a doctoral researcher researching the power of figurative language in advertising, social media, and mobile technology. Copyright © 2022
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