Tick Tock - Writing Workshop

Time is running out.

Out of what?

Out of me.

It starts too slow.

And before you know

It's running too quick

so nothing sticks.

Slipping away

through my fingers.

I take pictures

to hold time still.

So when I sit

I can look and see

what passed me by

today.

This was written for the Sleep Is For The Weak Writing Workshop from the prompt Time.

Join in or stop a while to read the other contributions.

My Interrupted Life

photo credit: mycatisgay.tumblr.com

My Interrupted Life

I wish I could be solitary

just for a minute or three

to privately

go wee.

I wish I could drink my coffee

before its cold completely.

Hot and frothy,

milky.

I wish I could watch daytime news.

But I don't want to lose

the innocent view

you're due.

I wish I could read a story.

No children on my knee

demandingly

happy.

I wish I could sleep a whole night.

No first annoying sight.

No chink of light,

or fright

I wish I could chat on the phone

without the nagging drone

of a child prone

alone.

I wish I could complete something,

finish without juggling

and dropping

a thing.

When you're grown I'll get my wish.

Home alone and you I'll miss.

No goodbye kiss.

No bliss.

This is my contribution to The Writing Workshop and the prompt "I wish" from Sleep is for the Weak

On Beauty

Open your eyes.
Look around you.
Look through a photographers lens.
Just look.




I did this and watched my daughters golden hair swinging from side to side as she ran, in her own penguin like way. I wanted time to slow down so I could savour every lock catching the light, reflecting the sun. I wanted to hold the golden tones and feel them run through my fingers, sure that they would simultaneously be heavy and soft to my touch. The waves of her hair and its fluidity filled my heart. If I could hold them, I could keep them and save them.

I saw a feather drift through my back door on the afternoon breeze. Time was, I would have tutted and tossed it in the bin. Instead I held it up to the light and turned it into the sun transfixed by the amazing regularity of each barb and how the light was distorted as it passed through this simple, discarded piece of anatomy. Such uniformity creating the perfect tool with which a bird can fly and look down on me looking at it's feather.

It rained. The smell of green was wonderful, no beautiful. The earth gave up its fresh rich scent that held me, smiling, and sent me into the garden to touch leaves, lift flowers, brush raindrops from abandoned toys and reach into the sandpit to feel its cool dimpled surface. I didn't expect that. I didn't expect to be pulled outside. My bare feet, with grass and earth stuck to my toes, woke me and led me to get my camera.

Beauty is there to be appreciated. But there isn't always time to indulge in it.

I will make time.


Inspired by Josie at Sleep is for the Weak and the Writing Workshop .

Indigo Mood

Thank you Josie at Sleep is for the Weak and her Writing Workshop prompt: Personality Catwalk.

I wear my mood. It hangs, swinging in my wardrobe, waving at me. Pick me. Pick me. But no, you're not my mood today. You are so yesterday.

Yesterday was dark and threatening. Prickly. A stiff collared jacket, crisp sleeves and polished shoes. A subtle hint of colour from a scarf to soften the edges but not disguising the armour I wore to protect me from the day. My indigo jeans, trusted and reliable, fresh from the laundry, were slightly too tight on my waist, pinching. An unneccessary black leather belt brought it all together, drew me in and gave my mood the structure it needed to be complete.

Today is bright, shiny and hot, with promises of enthusiasm to carry me through the day. Today I can pick my jeans off the floor, shake them out and know that the waist has stretched and will let me breathe freely. A purple shirt confidently wraps it's arms around me, while a dash of silver birkenstocks are playful around my toes. I am ready. No fuss and certainly no iron.

Tomorrow? I've checked the forecast but these things are so unpredictable. I am hoping for a hazy softness so I can wear my jeans just one more day, improved with wear. Tomorrow I would like a mood that I am not afraid to share, one that will raise the corners of my mouth into a half smile. A simple long t-shirt will drape catching at my hips perfectly and my suede converse trainers will be fluid, flexible and perfect to tread softly through the day. No footprints tomorrow, just a breeze and a few passing shadows.

Whichever mood is dealt, I will wear it with my indigo jeans. I will not hide it at the back of the wardrobe because that is where mistakes are hidden, tags still attached. I will not hide behind a fake outfit, because it will only confuse who I am today and limit my potential.

But my trusted jeans, that adapt so perfectly, are me, so me.


P.S. I'm hoping for a high heels day soon.

Unmuddled

I am content with my unmuddled life.

There is of course the odd day when, from nowhere in particular, something, anything, really irritating trips me up so I stumble. But that is all it is: an irritation. Much like an itch can be scratched, it can be forgotton by the time I've walked around the garden to find the perfect spot of sun to sit in.

I am a creature of simple needs. I may wish for many things that, at the time, I think will improve my life, add a whole new level of contentedness to it. But can they really do that? Or am I just dreaming of a place where the grass may be a nano-shade greener. Certainly I sometimes peek through the fence at the neighbours garden (who doesn't?) and I am sure if I squint a little and turn my head to the side I might catch a glimpse of a bigger flower, a more luscious bush or a sunnier spot to sit in. They have invited me round once or twice and it is true they have nicer biscuits but that isn't everything is it.

In all honesty, all I need to be content is delicious food, a long lazy walk through some woods or by a river and a warm comforting bed to lie in. I'm not that fussy whose bed either as long as I can stretch out from nose to toes and snore undisturbed. Admittedly my bed partner may not appreciate my sleeping habits.

I know my place, at the bottom of what has become an increasingly long ladder. Once I was the favourite. Numero Uno. But along came the children one by one and slowly, almost inperceptably, I was knocked down another peg. Given the regularity of this decent I think I have been more than reasonable about the whole affair. I have been reassured that there will be no more children but after 3 what does it matter if there is another to pull my ears, steal my biscuits or sit on my back, there would be another bed to stretch out in.

There was a time before this family, that I was very muddled by life. Fed with one hand and beaten with the other. I didn't know when I would be fed or walked and despite a bed to sleep in, there wasn't enough room to stretch out. I didn't know about other families and how happy you could be. I had moments of happiness when a hand would absently brush against my back and stroke me and I would sigh in appreciation. It wouldn't last though. Not one to dwell on the past, I don't often think of those days before I came to live here. Perhaps if I did I would appreciate all the more the love and affection I get, even if it is a somewhat clumsy approach from the children.

So it is here, by this fire, with this family, that I am content to settle and rest for my remaining years.

This is my first contribution to Sleep is for the Weak's Writing Workshop. Pop over to see the other contributors. Your comments and feedback on this piece will be gratefully received. Thank you x