Butterflies: One A Week 2020 Week 3

Butterflies Lingerie 002[13087]
Photo courtesy of Bill Don, Artist and Photographer

There is a reason for everything I write – if you’d like to know more please let me know 😊

I tell my daughter, think I’ve flown too high
She says don’t be afraid, you’re still a butterfly
Sky’s a high diva and she sings our song
If you keep on flying, you just can’t go wrong
My daughter says, you’ve still got wings to fly
Fly to the sky, Mother Butterfly
If you catch a little rhyme, someone will sing
In the high sky, Mother, with your big strong wings
Sky-blue mirror in my daughter’s eyes
She says, you and me, Mother, we’re both butterflies
Be yourself, you’re still a butterfly
I see me, in her topaz eyes
My daughter tells me I’ve got wings to fly
She says, don’t be afraid, you’re still a butterfly
My daughter tells me I’ve got wings to fly
She says, I’ll always love you, Mother Butterfly
I say, I’ll always love you, Daughter Butterfly

If you have been, thank you for reading!

Blue Very Blue (Getaway Driver): One a Week 2020, Week 2

WP_20190119_16_48_53_ProBlue Very Blue (Getaway Driver)

I suppose I’m a kind of a got away from
That’s just the way things are
I knew the night I met you
that one day I’d write a poem about you
I tried so hard to do it, but
sometimes the words just don’t come through
But the lovely night I met you,
I knew I’d write a poem about you
I’m not saying I’m a poet, but it is the sort of thing that poets do
I met you in a nightclub, stuffed with metaphors
like mirrored walls and smoke. You slipped handcuffs
round my heart,
pushed my dizzy starry head into your yoke
When the DJ played the last one,
our slow dance was metaphorically warm
and you said you’d read the papers, and the papers said
we should expect a storm
Some people play with rhyme but I just didn’t have the time
after that night. Quite frankly, even writing my own name
was very, very difficult. The hours slid away as I looked forward
to the next thing we would do
I wrote lots of little wish lists that said You, You, You, You, You
At Christmas you went AWOL
and I thought you must be face down in a ditch.
When I found out who you spent it with, I blamed her
and I swore I’d kill the bitch
and when I think about it,
that’s the time the poetising should come through
but a quart of Southern Comfort stopped my pen
from doing what it’s meant to do
You begged me to forgive you
and I took the chain off on the New Year’s Eve
I tried to hide my doubts, to scrape my stupid heart away
and off my sleeve. I wrote a lot of stuff that said
stuff like, love, love me do
and love, I love your eyes, blue very blue
On Valentine’s you phoned and said you couldn’t make it home to me
You left the motorway at junction two,
instead of where you should, at junction three
I hugged the inside lane and waited till you got to where I was
And when they asked me why, I said because, because, because
In August I was lost and lonely, on my own in France
Drank too much wine and cried, about our life, our love, our dance
And that was it. That was the end of me and you
Years later, I still wonder – still blue, very blue?
I suppose I’m a kind of a got away from
That’s just the way things are
Getaway driver. Getaway driver
Your car was always a getaway car

Red Stilettos in the City Museum – from “One a Week 2020”

20200105_103306

An observer of fashionable things approached the shoes
and said, Oh shoes, why are you so?
Why do you wear the colour that you do?
and why are your heels so high and slender?
The shoes made answer to that observer
All that’s left of her is all we have
so we are preserved, immortalised
We will be eternally the colour of her melody
We will be eternally her posture and her dance
Since long ago, really, we are she
We two are but that one
Our bodies recall the dancer
While, in time, the world forgets
art endures

Inspired by a writing prompt and the rhythm of “An observer of spiritual things approached the sea” from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, translation by Edward Heron-Allen, published by Bernard Quaritch, 15 Piccadilly, W London in 1899

In the Week Before Your Wedding

100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Sandra Crook

Unforgettable, that bittersweet night we spent on the train. The recollection of tears (yours and mine), the repeating circles of hopelessness. And your casual clothes, the hard upholstered seats, the loo door getting stuck. Finally, the lyrical, which the writer in me can never resist. Oyster-coloured half-light before dawn, as if the weather had not yet decided on its course. Then the rain coming, as break of day broke us apart. All we did that night was talk, trying to find a way to cope with what was ahead. There was no way, of course. Duty won out over love.

And A Voice To Sing With

 

FF picture 260619 copyright Ted Strutz

100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Ted Strutz

When I asked what’s a box office, Mum shook her head and said “Just a rotten dream dealer.” She still bought our tickets though. Then she chucked her ciggie butt on the ground and trod it to death.

Inside the theatre, a beautiful lady sang to me: Little one, I have dreams to sell.

She was all blonde and sea-blue with sparkly bits. She looked nothing like rotten sounded.

What will your purchase be?

That night I prayed for a sea-blue dress. Not a selfish prayer. In my child’s way, I prayed for a voice to heal my mother’s heart.

The Hireling

This terrific photograph is here courtesy and copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

 

ben-gurion-airport-2.jpg

I’m trying not to think about the amazing curve of the innocent neck, because it’s a target not a woman. I hope it doesn’t turn around, but actually, if it did, I doubt it would see me. I’m not that kind of bloke and that’s why they chose me. Main thing is, the money’s going to transfer soon and a credit balance is a bit of a new experience for bland, faceless me. If she, sorry – if it does turn around, I won’t make eye contact. The one they call Red Dog told me you should never make eye contact.

These Boots Are Made For Walkin’

adamickes-childsboots.jpg

100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Adam Ickes

I’m just a girl who can’t say no. So my dream lover had me at hello. What’s love got to do with it, you may ask. Well, listen, do you want to know a secret? Love’s a many splendoured thing. And a must to avoid.  But I slipped, I stumbled, I fell. I thought he was my guy until Sally told me he was under the bridge with the other woman. I don’t look back in anger though.  While I did have to become the funny girl when he told me these boots are made for walkin’, I will survive.