Friday, 24 July 2015

Flash fiction 13: Strokes

Well, it's Friday again, so it's time to write with JD Mader over at his home, Unemployed Imagination - The idea is to write for 2 minutes - some people write longer - and you just go for it, without looking back and editing. Head over to play or just read. Have a great weekend! :) This is the third piece I wrote.


Colour. I race through colours, all of them – a dipping stream of dizzying brushstrokes zipping the majestic. Me. Just me. I am not you and neither are you me. I used to be an extension, an extra limb, a twin almost to your individuality. The echo of your words, the agreement of your thoughts, dressing in your gawky style. Looking up to you in mind and height. My idea of happiness, for you brought me this.

Skipping on the chalk lines, calling out the purple numbers drawn in curls of magic. Our feet crossing, uncrossing, jumping, stasis. Giggles. And buttercups. Those curved buckets of lemon lips and we did kiss them, but only when the daisies couldn’t see. Our first four-leaved clover, seemingly left by the whitest, brightest unicorn in the land.

Only from the other; the other world. The lies of our dreams. Fantasies worn too tightly, falling loose as we found ourselves in our growing pains. A curtsey to the future while we ran wild, chasing time itself, even as we sensed the curtain must fall one day, when the roses would cease to flood our stage with the perfume of delight.

When once upon a time faded, decay stole into this place, clouding everything in its breath. Including you, my beloved sister, wrenched from my arms before your time. I paint you here with daisies playing in your auburn hair, your elfin eyes creasing at the edges and your lips turned up in a perfect bow. Love racing through its colours. 

copyright Vickie Johnstone, July 24, 2015

Thursday, 2 July 2015

Poem: Kid Summer

We're having a heatwave here in Old Blighty with temperatures up to 34C! I think I might have only felt that in Britain in my dreams! So here's a poem about summer. You can find it in my poetry book, Mind-spinning Rainbows. Cheers. Enjoy the sun! 

Kid summer

Lost in days
Strewn in sand
Feet twitch
Caressed by water
Flooding in
The in between
Lost on a horizon
Pinkly lit

Seagulls swirl
Streaks of white
A dance in time
With the tide
Beating a rhythm
Playing to none
Lost in the rays of
An egg-yolk yellow
Summer, we played
Yodelling with glee
Skipping puddles

Grey crab wakes
Shakes a claw
Laughter cracks
A dizzying spray
Salty to taste
Lips cracking
In the heat
Scrubbed by sand

Like lobsters
So red we are
Smelling of the sea
And salted earth
Trying to fly
This blood-red kite
It swoops and churns
Scaring the gulls
Squawking dismay
The wind carries
Us forwards
Jumping, leaping
Before diving
Into the blue
Lost and found
As we emerge
Currents drift
Ebb and flow

A courtesy call
This fish swimming
An orangey speck
Wiggling our feet
Swooping our legs
Circling our arms
We float
In the place
We cannot live
Like flying almost
Where the gulls dare
Losing us
To the here below
Earth bound
Sea legged
Spitting salt water
Only to gulp again
The same
Laughter spreads
Driftwood catches
Giving a rest
To weary limbs

It carries us in
Back to the voices
Of the sunned shore
A line of colourful
Stripy towels
Blowing windcheaters
Our mothers wave
Licking ice creams
The chocolate gone
As the first delight
Waving and swimming
We laugh and play
The day fading out
In the summer’s way
An echo of pink
On the horizon’s back
Towards the end
Of the earth
Flows the sea
Til it fades to black. 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone - Mind-spinning Rainbows, April 2015

Friday, 26 June 2015

Flash fiction 12: Cold comfort

Well, it's Friday, so it's time to write with JD Mader over at his website, Unemployed Imagination - The idea is you write for 2 minutes - some people write longer - and you just go for it, without looking back and editing. Head over to play or just read. This one took me about 4 minutes cos I revised it. Have a great weekend! :) We actually have summer sunshine here in the UK!

Cold comfort

She hasn’t called since Christmas, but I know the game. I’ve played it far too often over the years and this board bends under the negative energy. I can tear the pieces off the walls, ripping the coloured squares into nothing. A room bereft of this. I need circles – endless curves of possibility.

My skin prickles. This shower of emotion can stagnate in the corners, creeping beyond. I will sit here and read this book, my mind never wandering to the phone, wondering where she is or what she’s doing.

I can hold out longer. I have done before. I think the last record was a year. It’s a control thing, but I know her gameplay, know it by heart.

Like a chess master, she’ll keep her silence until the loss grows like a seeping wound and I’m beaten into submission. Usually the guilt will sway my hand. But these days I’ve come to terms with guilt and looked it in the eye, and we came to an agreement. It no longer kills me.

copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 26, 2015

Wednesday, 24 June 2015

A Poem a Day (50): The beach

The beach 

Walking careless lines
Drawn deep in sand
Where white crabs crawl
In an endless scrawl
Dodging watery rivulets
Into kingly castles set
Again, I wonder why
Upon this bluest sky

Frail yellow petals torn
Drift on the air forlorn
Finest seaweed scattered
Misty dawn rain splattered
Below, seahorses pump air
Majestic in a cerulean lair

Dwelling on such things
Life appears to hinge
As the horizon runs free
In a silken symmetry
Dragging my mind afar
To where it fails to jar
And as it all comes to jell
I listen to this curved shell.

copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 24, 2015

Sunday, 21 June 2015

A Poem a Day (49): The tree

The Tree – written in a pub in Copenhagen

As a tree rises
Leaving its roots
To cherish the sky
Lifting clouds beyond
A fragmented hand’s space
Only this big
Only this wide
If you touch upon it
You will see it glide
The mirrors melt together 
In the mind inside.

copyright Vickie Johnstone, May 2015

Sunday, 7 June 2015

A Poem a Day 2015 (48): The time

I wrote this one in the art museum in Copenhagen about a week or so ago. Loved it there. Terrific place. 

The time

It's the time I spend
Ever being
Ever moving
Ever consoling
Never watching any more
As movement soars
Marking water
With its own new path
Without missing
This scourge
The urge to be gone
Only to reappear
In the waking
Of a dream
Always lived
In the time we spend.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone