Muse |
Muse |
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.
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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.
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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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