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WRITINGS ON THE WALL
Every month a topic or theme is set for a voluntary assignment of about 800 words prose or 40 lines of poetry. Writers may choose not to use the prompt if they wish. The following month, some are selected to be read by the writers for general feedback. All writings can be emailed to [email protected] to be placed onto the website for reading between meetings.
Our writers appreciate receiving feedback on their writings. You can comment or provide constructive criticism on a poem in the form below.
Our writers appreciate receiving feedback on their writings. You can comment or provide constructive criticism on a poem in the form below.
February 2024 - Prompt: something inspired by a love song
THAT’S NOT SANTA (from November - A Christmas Catastrophe)
© Marianna Pieterse
An ugly baby doll was my gift on Christmas day.
Mom opened the door, there stood Aunt May.
She gave a squeal, clapping her hands in glee.
She pulled me from Mom’s arms, my face to see.
She gave me the doll and said, “I named him Thor.”
I gave it one look; my bottle dropped to the floor.
Traumatised beyond belief by the horrid toy baby,
My voice reached a new record, maybe.
Mom popped my beloved dummy in my mouth,
Aunt May pulled it out, our friendship went south.
Cheerful songs play from the screen on the wall.
I looked at my knees and wished I could crawl.
Aunt May found humour in my utter displeasure.
This day will be burned into my memory forever!
I stared at her, and my bottom lip began to quiver.
She patted my back, and the milk went upriver!
Covered in a layer of half-digested juices,
She handed me to Mom, with various excuses.
“I need to powder my nose… Lukas is calling!”
My nose wrinkled; she smelled appalling.
There was something familiar about Santa’s face.
I couldn’t place him, but knew the smelly embrace!
The beard’s fake; I have been deceived!
It was Aunt May! I was quite peeved.
The quivering lip went full on scream!
Mom lifted me from the cot; it was a dream!
It’s been discussed; these trust issues I display,
If you ask me, it boils down to that Christmas day!
BEYOND MY LIMITS (from December - Over the Limit)
Samantha Wallace
When I exceed my limits of what I can’t contain or control
I tend to overflow,
Pouring out the excess, leaking like a hole
When my patience grows thin and my fury reaches boiling point,
I release with words of steam
The cherry on the top, that last button pushed, makes me scream
“I’m up to here, and no more”, I warn of my pending limit
But when things continue and do not cease,
That fuse is popped and I blow a gasket.
Another limit I sometimes exceed is that glass of wine or two or four
But never driving, always safe at home, I drink till I can drink no more
Cheered with wine, till everything’s fine, all feelings put to bed
I’m only glad my overflow,
Doesn’t enrage me like some people I know.
Instead, I tend to find my bed, quietly and quickly,
Barking snores echo my limit exceeded.
Thanks to my vino tab, I sleep solidly, like a log from a tree.
New submissions to this section are placed first, older pieces follow.
All contributions will stay on for three months,
Thank you to the author for sharing these poems. They will be here for your reading pleasure until the end of April 2024.
MEMORIES
Dawn Rae (c) December 1996
(from her book Milestones)
The turn of a head, a remembered laugh,
Your eyes meet mine and I am transported...
Oh ! To be young and in love again !
Your dark eyes sparkle with laughter
At something I've said or done.
You ruffle my hair and turn away...
I want to cry out, `Stay - please stay!'
That first sweet kiss, so hesitant,
The embarrassed chuckle, the quick cuddle
Then it's over, and you are gone...
How my heart yearns for you - only you!
And the pain, the searing pain, to see you
In someone else's arms...
How could you not see that it should have been me ?
So long ago - a lifetime past -
Yet a glimpse in a crowd brings it all back.
To see you again... yes, I must, just once !
So I tackle the crowd and push my way through.
I call out your name... but it's not you.
A stranger's face looks back at me
And I smile, embarrassed, knowing he
Unknowingly
Has given me a precious gift...
Memories… bitter-sweet memories.
SO THEY SAY
Dawn Rae (c) September 1993
(from her book Milestones)
A child approaches – eyes large, hand open,
Asking – begging.
Another hand reaches for a coin.
Stop, they say. Don’t do it, they say.
It’ll only go for glue or video games.
It’s all a con – they go home at night
To warmth and food. Don’t do it.
But I have seen
A hungry face – eyes filled with tears
A mother’s eyes as her child cries
For non-existent food.
I have felt those tears.
If my small coin can ease one iota of suffering
Is that not something ?
A child leads a man – an old man,
Blind, in pain, leaning heavily,
Book in hand. Little black battered book.
No, they say. Don’t do it, they say.
It’s organised, you know. Busloads
Come in daily – go home jingling
From fools like you. Don’t do it.
But I have seen
A body – cold, tired, alone body
Huddled on its cardboard bed
With its newspaper blanket
In its dustbin bedroom.
No, I can’t change it,
But must I give less
Because I can’t give more ?
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