Hedges thick with hawthornís stink in thunderstormy June
No more metred minutes, only moments
Leaping lithely out of bed to days that sing with light
No more grinding gears down pot-holed roads
A thousand tiny piratesí chests, a thousand tiny hoards
No more craving counted online nods
A secret tang like tamarind that laughs along your walks
No more Radio 4 to hear a voice
A scream that bends you back with joy and throws you off the bed
No more emails sorry to inform
A body bending reaching striding shimmying its hips
No more overheated sterile rooms
A fairylighted wonder spilling words that each are heard
No more waiting. No more one day, soon.
This was from a napowrimo.net prompt to write a poem about gifts and joy, for yourself or others. Everything I'm sharing in the NaPoWriMo poems is raw draft, freshly written. In this one I'm already seeing potential edits, or ways I might rearrange, but I find a poem needs to rest a bit before making too many changes, so you're getting them raw and wriggling, throughout!
See the new NaPoWriMo poems as they pop up, complete with pics of the handwritten drafts, natter to me, and help me with titles for them, via whatever social media you call home:
All my poems on this site are now #FreeForPoets to play with, to write hybrid forms such as glosas, coupling poems, golden shovels, acrostics, centos, and erasures. Full permissions here: #FreeForPoets.