Searching… #Poetry

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Three walked the riverbank, old friends
Searching for Arundel, the lost castle
Made from elfin hair, stronger than any fortress
Hide to find, the legend states it moves from place to place
So few have returned to tell the tale
Of a castle made from hair that stands as rigid as bone
From so many travellers who did not find their way home…

© anita dawes 2021

The Temperamental Christmas Tree…

Image by Jaye Marie

The Temperamental Christmas Tree

We didn’t want a big tree this Christmas, so when we saw this pretty fibre optic tree in the shop window, we took it home, content with our preparations.

The next time we went to town, we spotted a wonderful tree in a charity shop window. This was a small tree too, although quite different from the one we already had. Old fashioned ribbons and flowers gave it an old-world charm, as if it had come straight from a Dickens novel.

We had to buy it, even though we already had a tree.

It was decided that the Dickens tree would be in pride of place in our decorations, relegating the fibre optic tree to the dining room.

Image by Jaye Marie

And this, as they say, is when the fun started.

On the first night, the fibre optic tree turned itself off at 10 pm. Puzzled, we checked the instructions, but it wasn’t supposed to do that. It hadn’t overheated either. Before we could turn it on the second day, it turned itself on and then off again at 10pm!

We made sure it was switched off, thinking it just a fluke, although it felt distinctly weird. We are quite used to weird in this house. Remember that red light reflecting on our window, the one we never could find the reason for?

The next night, we switched it on and waited. It felt uneasy, as if someone we couldn’t see was controlling the tree.

It was one of those trees that has the capability of a choice of different light patterns. Twinkling, fading and several other combinations. We only wanted the static light, so we were very glad it didn’t decide to muck about with the sequence too.

Despite the weirdness, we have kept the tree… and it has turned itself on every afternoon, and off in time for bed.

What would you have done in these circumstances, chucked it out or run for the hills?

© Jaye Marie 2020

Games… #Poetry

Image by Prettysleepy from Pixabay

Games…

here I am in my trusty silver steed
My favourite four-legged friend sitting beside me
I tip my top hat to a lady passing
I have thrown a four, stopping before chance
I can hear the trains at Fenchurch street
Speeding, I narrowly miss a spell in jail
I would have lost the chance to collect two hundred
The wait to get out of jail would be too long
I continue my journey through Regent Street
One of my favourite places to stop and look around
I can see hotels being built
People having sold their houses, now thinking big
In the distance, Mayfair, one of the most lucrative places
To build your first million…

© anita dawes 2020

#Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge ~ #Poetry

The image is from Victor Moriyama at the New York Times.

For the visually challenged writer, the photo shows people seen in individual units through the large windows of a multi-unit apartment building.

Empty rooms

Darkness that makes me wonder what lies hidden
Windows lit, solitary beings stand within
What do they wait for?
Do they wait for darkness to take their pain?
Could be they wait for a lover to be let in
The darkness plays out many lives
Within the same space
Each story reflecting hope
played to a different tune
Which window do you hide behind?

© anita dawes 2020

Who Are You? #Poetry

Image by Ri Butov from Pixabay

Who are you?

I hear the voice, as if someone walks one step behind me
The words unformed, the sound of an angry bee caught in a web
I turn, face the empty street
Keeping my voice low, I ask, who are you?
“I am your shadow, here inside you
Where no light shines.
Most of your life you have taken no notice of me
As if I don’t exist.”
My shadow is nothing more than a trick of the light
“You think so? I am here to tell you I can be free of you.
Let someone tread on your shadow, while you continue to walk away
You may feel lighter without me.
You will feel slower, your days will take longer to pass
Each time you allow someone to step on me
 A small part disappears
Soon I will be gone, you will miss me, wish me to return
This I will not do; I will have the freedom I seek…”

© anita dawes 2020

Buried Ghosts… #Poetry

Image by Martin Winkler from Pixabay

Buried Ghosts

Mountains high
Old dark scars
Black tar rivers run
High castle walls
Lords and Ladies having fun
Unearthly sounds split the night
Warning went unaided
Fools entered
Swallowed by dark inner walls
Never would angels enter
Indoor evil attracts its own
Walls scarred by sounds new, swell
Souls buried in old castle mortar
Too long they lie forgotten
Names scratched on walls
Calling out dates to remember
No visitors heeding
Their hearts unturned
By old news…

© anita dawes

Stepping Back… #Poetry

Image by Peter H from Pixabay

Stepping Back

The road ahead is long, hard to walk alone
The world has eclipsed my mind
I am swallowed by darkness
The black hole reaches for me
Dragging my senses to its upside-down way of being
The mirror shows me walking away
I never see my face
The food on my plate is raw, never cooked
I am living in a nightmare
Rain runs up, the way it does when driving a car
Fascinating, but no place to live
I need to find a way out
Step back, keep stepping backwards
Until I reach the beginning
Discover that missing step…

© anita dawes 2020

What does it say?

Doodled by Anita Dawes

Here I am, in the living room
Watching TV, reading a book
today, the book lay open on my lap
Pen and paper at my side
As a word spoken can set me off
Yesterday, it was the word destiny
Something I have just read
Rewrites itself to end up in a poem
Not today.
My mind went on its own journey
This doodling isn’t something I am known for
I wonder what it says about me.

© anita dawes 2020

Grandma’s Attic… ~ #Poetry

Image by Pixabay.com

Grandma’s Attic

I felt lucky when I inherited my grandmother’s house
I loved every minute spent there as a child,
each visit felt like a two-week holiday
My grandmother made life fun
I could feel her spirit in every room
Joe, my fiancé, loved it as much as I did.
He was the first to enter the attic
There we found paintings of every size
Dozens of them, from a long time ago, no signatures
 There were four paintings of my grandmother
Much younger than I had known her
Her eyes sparkled with the same mischief I remembered
Who was the artist?
I imagined a dark-haired Latin lover
someone Grandmother never spoke about
We discovered more behind a large painting
My grandmother in the embrace of a woman
Scant clothing between the two of them
Surprised, as she had been married to grandad
For fifty-five years. Who was this woman?
Were they lovers as the painting showed?
Joe said they were good enough to put in an exhibition
I’m sure Grandmother hid them here for a reason
Least of all from Grandfathers eyes.
I may never find the reason they were hidden for so long
My search goes on, for there are dozens
of boxes and suitcases to look through
What I find will be a story for another day…

© anita dawes 2020