Pursuit of Bold Dreams
A warm husky voice calms me,
Brings me memories captured in resin.
Nostalgia engulfs me,
And carries a worthy lesson.
Pursuit of a dream
Takes effort, with no bounds,
A furious rhythm foists me to seek,
To search, to pine, for bold sounds.
My tangled earphones surround me,
Reminding me of soft childhood tunes,
But we must leap over stepping stones,
Exploring far from the banks,
Even on rainy afternoons.
In response to the tenth “junk drawer song” prompt from NaPoWriMo.net
Instructions can be found here.
My chosen song was Hugh Harris’ Rhythm of Life, and my junk drawer contained: wires; shells encased in resin; old music devices; and a ring pouch.
A Cat’s To Do List
I must remember to wake my human,
Before I bumble downstairs.
I prod her face, with my gentle paw,
And purr until she cares.
When I hear her footsteps,
Along the staircase,
It’s time to wiggle my rear, jump off the bed,
And then begin the race.
I always beat her to the door,
But I must remember my belly.
So I will rush to my bowl, in the kitchen,
And demand the food most smelly.
After chasing the birds, I must not forget,
When it’s time to come inside.
I must cause a raucous, with my yowl,
But this damages my pride.
So when my human opens the door,
Her patience I must test.
I stretch, I lick, then I strut inside.
And at last, I will need a rest.
In response to the ninth “to do list” prompt from NaPoWriMo.net
Based on the antics of Jake, my childhood friend, who blessed my life for sixteen years.
I have had another poem published, entitled Our Summers, in the Visual Verse anthology.
A short poem celebrating childhood summers.
My inspiration came from my own childhood, which was spent knocking on neighbours’ doors and spending all day outside playing hide and seek.
Neglected, no chance to attach,
A childhood gone rotten.
As resilient as a baby seal.
A beautiful girl, forgotten.
Her world is backwards,
With nowhere to stay.
It has an unwelcome smell,
No downpour could wash away.
Yet it rains and rains,
Until she is wet, with a chill.
Like when the crickets stridulate,
Her cries are shrill.
The downfall is that she will grow,
Knowing how to hurt you.
Her expressions will be informal,
And she will hold no virtue.
Image credit: pixabay.com
In response to Mindlovemisery’s Wordle Prompt found here