Today has been a boozy day. Pub. Football. Great result.
Manchester United clearly felt a vibe in the air from my morning visit to the cemetery to see my grandma, granddad and Uncle Peter. They clearly won today for them. Doesn’t matter what anyone else says.
That is that.
Here is a poem. The prompt is to write a descriptive passage about your favourite room, meal, thing in general then trim it to poetic form. Here we go.
The room was full when I stepped into it for the first time.
There was a bare bed, bare shelves, empty wardrobe and
empty desk yet it was full. Full of what might be in my
first home away from home.
Also, it was full of people.
The landlord, the landlord’s partner,
another tenant in the shared house
and two of the landlord’s children.
That did not bother me.
I saw what it could be.
The blank-canvas walls would be covered,
largely with posters of vintage cartoons.
The desk would be my main procrastination base.
The bed would, in all hope, see a lot of action.
I know this now to be false.
I now know a lot of things to be false.
That room was not full of the promise it held upon that first viewing.
There were a lot of bad times in that room.
One thing though,
I would not change any of them
because it is a room in which I grew.
What I grew into at that time was not
great but it paved the way for something much better,
more grounded though,
sadly with a slightly larger waistline.
(Keri is catching up from yesterday so here is two from her)
Spit cruelty at me.
After all, it’s only me who’s listening.
Leaves whisper gently
to a cruel wind that shreds them.
Every single one.