NaPoWriMo: Michele Brenton

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

Michele Brenton

Michele Brenton's poetry was first published 2001 when her poem 'Enemies' got into the 'When the Teacher Isn't Looking' anthology brought out by Pan Macmillan and more recently in 2011 with the inclusion of two of her poems in 'Prompted - An International Collection of Poems' an anthology edited by Dr Pearl Ketover Prilik.

Three books of her seven book series the 'Alternative Poetry Books' (the Yellowedition, the Pink edition and the Blue edition) published in paperback & as ebooks by Endaxi Press can be found fleetingly from time to time in the Amazon poetry bestsellers lists.  The Alternative Poetry Books were conceived as a way of allowing both sides of Michele's poetry personality to co-exist comfortably in one volume.  Michele Brenton the poet produces thoughtful more serious works while banana_the_poet has fun uppermost in mind when penning a poem.  The 'alternative' series has funny/quirky poetry beginning on the 'odd' pages and her serious poetry titles can be discovered on the 'even' pages.
As banana_the_poet (Michele's quirky/satirical/funny poetry persona) she was voted the most popular human poet by the Twitter community in the Shorty Awards 2011.

Her last two books were satirical poetic parodies of the Fifty Shades phenomenon.


Imagine that!

Some children think the very worst thing


is having to eat their greens.


They haven't opened their imaginations


to what that really means.


If you saw your food the way I do


it would make you smile and laugh,


'cos gazing over your plate is like 
an aerial photograph.


It's not broccoli or Brussels sprouts


if you play you're in the sky.


It's fields of trees and cabbages


beneath your giant's eyes.


You reach your giant hand


carrying a giant fork


and spear a tree or two


and stick it where you talk.


You are so giantly giantish


living a giant's life,


that you can eat six cabbages


no need to use a knife,


they fit inside your giant mouth


and you give them a giant chew


and suddenly greens are much more fun


if you see them the way I do.

by banana_the_poet

NaPoWriMo: Tracey Schedler

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

Tracey Schedler

Bio

I started writing poetry in highschool for no specific reason except for that I liked it and enjoyed challenging myself to put my thoughts onto paper. Many of my poems are untitled and as I edited some for Jenn's blog I found that I still was not able, or willing, to attach a title to them. I figured if it felt too forced I should let them be.

Every one of my poems is from the heart and carries a different emotion within it. I am by no means a professional and have taken no formal writing classes but I enjoy it and as an amateur I hope you do too.

 

---------------------------------------------

the brown hangs down to block her vision
but it does not disturb her concentration

because she works with total magnification
and with one fatal swoop she regains her vision

---------------------------------------------

The tale takes place on a cold and blustery day 
All the rodents are scurrying to find a place to stay, 
Their food is gone, now what to do for the next two months 
While they hide away and play with joyful bunts. 

Everything has a coating of soft white and glistens 
The sun shines down and the passerbys silently listen, 
Crunch crunch under their feet yet only a few more weeks 
And then little shoots will start to sprout on the street. 

Flowers here and flowers there flowers popping up everywhere 
But alas a boy stomps on them and the flowers are nowhere, 
Rodents play in the flourishing fields and have a feast 
Then go for a relaxing swim in the creek because it's the least 
To enjoy the magnificent scents of summer and cherish them always

------------------------------------

Tis Sunday but not just another day
for someone just got one year older
but not to fret my friend
because from this day on you will just get wiser

This day comes but once a year
and is one to always remember
while others plan on the perfect gift
you scurry about with a natural lift 

Now that you've had time to recall
all your other special days
and to discover why this one is different
is simply because they are never the same

---------------------------

There was a bright star called Glee 
No brighter a star one could see 
It winked at the earth 
As if t'were in birth 
It's a star I wish to be.

-------------------

A leaf I wish to be 
So shimmery, light and carefree 
I'd hang from a tree 
And pretend I could see 
For a leaf I wish to be.

-------------------

I Am I am a bleacher groupie, brown-haired girl, 
I wonder where my bosom buddies are, 
I hear the rhythm of the pounding music, 
I want to yell, scream, make myself heard, 
I feel like dancing and stomping on the flimsy bleacher boards, 
I need to move, get active, bounce around, raise some hell, 
I pretend I am a professional air diver, 
I jump from my spot and land on some soft people, 
I think I may not be held for much longer, 
I do not worry, they'll move me towards the floor because 
I am a bleacher groupie, brown-haired girl.

NaPWriMo: Cecilia Satterthwa​ite take two!

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

Cecilia Satterthwa​ite

Stories have always buzzed in my mind, but it wasn't till my health deteriorated that I started writing, being inspired by an interview of Catherine Cookson. In it she said she planed the plot and characters while resting. Needing to rest a lot at the time I thought writing stories might be fun.

The first piece I wrote was a science fiction story, but discovered I didn't know the science it needed. After doing a science degree with the Open University made me happy that I knew enough to get by I started to do creative writing courses. It was at the classes I started to write poems and stories for children.Although stories are wonderful, poems have a richness of sound and meaning that for their size can out shine any prose.

Cup Of Milky Tea is about nursery school (a UK pre-school).

You can find out more about Cecilia Satterthwa​ite on her Authonomy profile. 

A CUP OF MILKY TEA

Breakfast of Readybrek for me,

Toast with a CUP of milky tea.

Then I will sit upon Mum’s Knee,

To sing a song of Blind Mice Three.

Ducks and boats and balls go splash,

A wet Mum tries me to wash, alas.

Soap is rescued and pulled is plug,

Out goes water glug, glug, glug.

My coat, with hood, is hung upon a peg.

Paper and brushes and I paint a leg.

With some friends I play with sand.

Then with water I lend a hand.

Soldiers and a boiled egg for me.

Biscuits with a cup of milky tea,

Some TV programs then I’m off to bed,

Rhymes of one to ten echoes in my head.

NaPoWriMo: Dan Holloway

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

Dan Holloway

My poetry roots come from a mix of the Beat poets, certain strands of contemporary performance poetry and to a certain extent the Brutalists. In other words it’s a bit of a mish mash though the emphasis is on lyricality and emotional honesty and rawness. It would be truest of all though to say that my main influence is the confessional wing of Young British Art, in particular Tracey Emin. I like art that reaches deep down inside the artist, wriggling under every layer of artifice to get to the red raw truth whatever that may be.

My solo show “Some Of These Things Are Beautiful” will be premiering at Cheltenham Poetry Festival on April 24^th.

 http://danholloway.wordpress.com (where you can download my current collection “i cannot bring myself to look at walls in case you have graffitied them with love poetry” for free)

http://twitter.com/agnieszkasshoes

http://facebook.com/danhollowaywriter

http://eightcuts.com is a literary project I run that combines online exhibitions and spoken word shows

http://79ratpress.blogspot.com is my experimental publisher, launching 6 collections by new poets this June.

strangers

  

street smells and posters and paint and

uncanny rhythms through doorways

click through and scroll

   down

and slide

    across

the sprung limbs of our disappointments

hover

behind glass

cursor-like ghosts

moving

  imperceptibly

             slower

london has put on her lipstick for strangers

gewgaws and whirligigs and astroturf and tar

concrete and candy and steel and the christmas sweat

of a woman with

     not enough

             whisky

acid skies etch the textures of jazz

into concrete

she pours mojitos

to quench

   dry-throated

           promises

we are the soft belly of an afterthought

stashed under ruffled underskirts

where her scent

is untouched by the cooling

      cologne of

             drum and bass

delivering endless slow-tongued reproaches

through the jabbering of strangers

NaPoWriMo: Nikki Morgan take two!

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

Nikki Morgan

Bio

I live in Walsall, West Midlands (UK) with my husband, two children and our mad Staffordshire bull terrier.  After leaving Birmingham University in 1998 with a First Class Degree in Ancient and Medieval History, I took a series of administration jobs that weren't really very fulfilling and, to be honest, I was terrible at.  I had my first child and decided to stay at home to look after him.  This is when my life as a writer truly began; I found love as a mother and rediscovered my love of writing and life.

Poetry

Poetry has been a fairly recent addition to my writing life.  I joined a local writing group which undertook a project in conjunction with Walsall Art Gallery in which we, as writers, composed poems about our responses to the art in the Garman-Ryan collection.

The first, The Flight of Ideas, was inspired by the story of Theo Garman (Jacob Epstein's son) and his struggle with schizophrenia.  It seemed that the progression of his mental illness could, possibly, be traced through his art.

The second poem, The Struggle for Life, was written in response to the Van Gogh lithograph, Sorrow.  I see the crouching woman in the picture as a personification of Van Gogh's own sorrow, his attempt to put onto paper what was, perhaps, in his heart; that struggle he had with life, his extreme loneliness and sadness.  In his own words; the "convulsive passionate clinging to the earth and yet being half torn up by the storm". 

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/249328

A sample of Blackthorn can be red at Authonomy:

http://authonomy.com/books/43572/blackthorn-a-tale-of-fire-and-fury/

and my new book can also be sampled there:

http://authonomy.com/books/48571/silver-bullet/

I can be contacted at nmorgan160@gmail.com

or at http://nikmorgan.com

or at http://www.facebook.com/BlackthornATaleOfFireAndFury

The Struggle for Life

I stand naked in this barren land.

Alone.

Except for Death.

He sits upon his jagged rock

and waits.  The clock

counts the seconds,

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

Eventually,

He raises his skeletal finger

And points;

Clouds are gathering in the distance.

A veil of darkness,

Descending,

Swiftly upon us.

And although numb,

I can feel it.

The storm.

It stirs my skin,

Stabs

somewhere deep within.

Its taste is bitter,

But sweet,

Like love.

Or hate.

My companion

extends out his hand

And offers me safe harbour.

But I turn away,

Mesmerised,

by that ominous,

Turbulent, terrifying sky.

He knows that,

Although it’s been a while,

I will embrace sorrow like an old friend.

An old coat I slip easily on

Although uncomfortable and torn.

He sees

My feet,

Planted in the ground,

Like gnarled roots of a great oak

Clinging to the earth

He sighs,

And buries his head deep within his hands.

And sits

And patiently waits.

NaPoWriMo: Cecilia Satterthwa​ite

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

Cecilia Satterthwa​ite

Stories have always buzzed in my mind, but it wasn't till my health deteriorated that I started writing, being inspired by an interview of Catherine Cookson. In it she said she planed the plot and characters while resting. Needing to rest a lot at the time I thought writing stories might be fun.

The first piece I wrote was a science fiction story, but discovered I didn't know the science it needed. After doing a science degree with the Open University made me happy that I knew enough to get by I started to do creative writing courses. It was at the classes I started to write poems and stories for children.Although stories are wonderful, poems have a richness of sound and meaning that for their size can out shine any prose.

Zoo Twilight is a fun way to learn the alphabet.

You can find out more about Cecilia Satterthwa​ite on her Authonomy profile. 

Zoo Twilight

Ants walk over paths and through grass

Bats flying their flickering flight pass

Cats who fluff up their fur and swear

Dogs who’ve watch the sun set bark

Elephants trumpet as dark gathers

Flies swarm from the lake

Geese fly in to doze on lawns

Hippopotami emerge to graze

Iguanas hurry to their burrows

Jays squawk sleepily in the eves

Kites hide in the walls

Lions roar out a challenge

Monitor lizards flick their tongues  

Nocturnal gnats appear around lamps

Orange moths gather to dance

Pelicans formation swim as they fish

Quail scamper to shelter of roots

Rabbits nibble at lettuce

Swans large and small head landward

Turtles bite chunks of greenery

Unloved skunks scurry along the trail

Voles creep beneath the shrubs

Wrens snuggle down in their nests

Xylophones ring out from the house

Yawning children wander home

Zebras watch them go

NaPoWriMo: Charlotte Stirling

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

Charlotte Stirling

Biography

I live in Singapore with my gorgeous husband and equally gorgeous son. Also a Beagle.

I have been writing since 1756 (its feels like it) and have bits and pieces published all over the place. Except for the Hustler. And Vegans Weekly. Also, Latex for Fun. 

Three important things about me:
Bi Polar
Silversmith
Great Legs

Three other things about me:
Cry to Vivaldi's Gloria and Empire of the Sun
Bake my own bread
Dislike cockroaches

And another thing :
Experiencing the IVF protocol so please treat tenderly.

MOSAIC  

Your eyes coal-rimmed, poignant

and busted by betrayal.

.

You and I, knee to knuckle,

skinny with disorders and

blurred around our edges.

Challenged by our experience

and the ash of past-love

dusting the grate, the state, the grace

of our rose-chipped future

in place

like mosaic.

saltine

You speak of waves, of tides, of flecked foamy fingers

the wildness of the hub

the depth of boundless deep, of fathomless sleep.

But what of the tack of your lips along the rim of my glass.

Off the nuthatch at five - breathless and hoarse.

Or the sweat and scent of Absinthe - powerful from the pores.

And what of the coarse feel of stubble - like thistle but comes out rose

on the delicate skin behind my ear.  Or the silent tear of translucent

that weeps a trail along my thigh.

 The saltine cracks that appear in the corner of my mouth past midnight.

The fury of a gaze when I am above you  cornering your bliss

and you find yourself forgotten in the ridge and hum of mouth.

ARCHITECTURAL CARROL

(Homage to Mr Lewis)

A  Finial butterfly had weaved

Its Doric way toward

the safety of a toffin Gump

and its Hypercast reward

Woovish from its Indigo flight

and Jambled by the Sconce

It’s Basillica'd wings forgot to sing

and it flopped to the Fluted tonce

Rampant from its Broach-ed Spire

and doofed by a Slype cinch

it Pavillione'd round for half and hour

before surrender to the Squinch.