A Poem a Day (81): Portrait

A flash poem written for JD Mader's 2minutes go writingexercise... It's every Friday-Sunday, so if you fancy writing something - whatever you feel like - head over there, or just read the flash fiction and poetry.

Portrait

Sketch a simple outline,

Tracing each and every

Curve and moving angle;

Fill in the spaces in between

Lines, careful not to skim over,

Staying always inside this

Safety net. Paint it the perfect

Colour, see it real, pouring

In passion, earth and quietude.

Wait for the coming rain, the

Splash of desire for something

Outside, something new,

Beyond the now oft-dotted lines.

Step outside and relish in

A haze of multiple hues – this

Vision lifting to become you,

Wet with a layer of paint.

And then hope it stays true.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, 24 August 2018

A Poem a Day (80): the pen

Flash fiction written for JD Mader's 2minutes go writingexercise... It's every Friday-Sunday, so if you fancy writing something - whatever you feel like - head over there, or just read the flash fiction and poetry.

The pen

Pages torn, thrown into a light of spiralling

Might, incandescent streams of being; we are

Born individual, respected or adored; it is

The choices we make that define us. Bring the

Nightshade, happy in its existential knockout,

Fruitless but serene. Wake it, lest it vanish

On the back of this dying tide. Make it last,

Lest these days are but a pretence, a lie
Before the curtain drops on an empty stage.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, August 17, 2018

A Poem a Day (79): The catch

Flash fiction written for JD Mader's 2minutes go writingexercise... It's every Friday-Sunday, so if you fancy writing something - whatever you feel like - head over there, or just read the flash fiction and poetry.

The catch

I will keep the twisted hook

When I prise it from my flesh

Dug in deep where it rusts,

Its poison coursing through me

In a steady line. I hear it like

The ticking of the clock, slowly

Diminishing, out of time, as an

Insect crawling scours a ragged

Path. I linger. I pull. I pick. The wire

Snaps. And I watch as the hook sinks

Back inside, enmeshed, twisting,

Twisted, down.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, May 11, 2018

A Poem a Day (78): Morning

Flash fiction written for JD Mader's 2minutes go writingexercise... It's every Friday-Sunday, so if you fancy writing something - whatever you feel like - head over there, or just read the flash fiction and poetry.

Morning

Morning does not have your eyes,

But it keeps time more evenly.

This is the place I like to come

To sit, to speculate in the sun,

Like coffee perculating in a

Cup. Alone with my thoughts,

All else distant, as though life

Exists in a bubble.

At home the dust is mounting,

The cobwebs sprouting hair

To rival a good many beards,

Likely to house the same little

Spiders, wriggling their many

Black legs in the air.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 10, 2018

Flash fiction (22): Moral code

Flash fiction written for JD Mader's 2minutes go writingexercise... It's every Friday-Sunday, so if you fancy writing something - whatever you feel like - head over there, or just read the flash fiction and poetry.

Moral code

Come what may, those are the lessons we have to learn, he stated, settling too long on the word “morality”. The room spun on a revolving desk woven with autumnal leaves; a veritable feast of reds, oranges and yellow, sliding like liquid ink towards the swirl of the thick carpet, in contrast to the hollow beige of the man, from his wispy hair to his sharp suit, far too short in the leg. Did he actually wink at me as he spoke, the curl of his lips seeming to reveal something else? 

I looked again and the colourful cloth resumed its everyday appearance, but the flaming red still sounded a warning. I backed away towards the window and the rigid black ornamental feline perched there. As Mr Brown strode towards the door, the cat’s stiffness slunk away and she sank down on the sill, back into Sphinx mode, eyeing me in empathy. I could have sworn she smiled. 

Once he’d left, I took the sealed, stamped letter out of my pocket and reread the stick blue scrawl, asking for Elizabeth Main. So she hadn’t forgotten me over these nine long, silent months. Her confinement at an end, it was only a matter of days before she’d walk through the front door and everything could go back to normal, and he’d be sent packing whence he came.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 1, 2018

Is it about you?

Is it ever about you? Rarely is my answer.

I was chatting to a friend about writing today. She wants to do a creative writing course, but finds the idea of talking about ideas scary - and what if no one likes your idea or your writing?

I think that scares everyone. And it's even more scary when someone you know reads it... because you know them, they're reading your words and that's as embarrassing as walking the dog naked.

Is it embarrassing cos it's about you? No, that's not it. I write fiction. My latest project has a serial killer in it, so it's definitely not about me, however bad my day got! And even my poetry is fiction - abstracts, fictional characters and imagined situations. They're rarely about me.

So what is so embarrassing?

Because maybe it does make you feel stripped bare, pinned like a butterfly. But it shouldn't. Maybe it's self-criticism, lack of confidence or maybe just fear. But as my mum always told me, you can't achieve anything without trying. And with writing, someone somewhere will get what you're saying. And you just can't please everybody – ever.

I've done three creative writing courses, all different (two fiction, one poetry), and they were great. Inspiring, interesting, fun and supportive. You learn a lot and they get you writing. A great butt-kick for the humble procrastinator.

So go for it, I told my friend. Hopefully she will.


The creative writing courses I've done and recommend:
Writing for children – Writers & Artists
Poetry – Faber
Starting to write your novel (online) – Curtis Brown

A Poem a Day (78): Wordplay

A flash poem written for JD Mader's 2minutes go writingexercise... It's every Friday-Sunday, so if you fancy writing something - whatever you feel like - head over there, or just read the flash fiction and poetry.

Wordplay

Smoke escapes as words silently twisting,

Rising from the gaps between your fingers,

Nails gnawed at the edges, pink and raw,

Discoloured yellow, cracked and worn. I study

These quiet purveyors of another language

Transfixed, as though they carry the secrets of

The moon and a vision of loveliness only you

Can portray in stories woven, twisting in the air. 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, August 5, 2018