Today’s prompt is to take a window and write about what is viewed through it. I came up with a triptych.
Through the Butcher’s Window
For Scott and his Lady in Greggs
I would marry her right now if for the rest of my life I could feast on her pies.
Don’t get me wrong,
This is no attempt at enhanced imagery or less than subtle analogy,
That first line is no poetic device,
It’s short crust and simple – her pies are so nice!
So, yes, me her and her savoury delights I would splice.
I could of course,
in “lifting the puff pastry of her secret lid, devour the warmth that she hid”,
But I kid you not,
I like her pies nice and hot.
And I’ve nothing to hide, I love licking the gravy inside.
So, come on you aproned stringed beauty, let’s get that knot tied.
They are so firm and so plump, made with fine English rump.
O, did my metaphor stump?
But that’s not my intent,
My words are not bent.
Please make no mistake,
With her pastry and steak, this man happy she’d make. Forever.
There’s a theory that claims we can tell the state of well-being in our communities by the number of broken windows we see in our streets.
A Mother’s Pane
Who is she,
That I can see,
Who is not me,
That stands with he?
Inside my room.
This weight I’ll bear,
I’ll not cast or share,
My role to care,
For you in there.
Inside my womb.
What will you see,
You by my knee,
That stands with me,
Please be blind.
Please don’t remain,
A bleeding stain,
To invoke pain.
Please be kind.
I held your hand tight,
As a son might.
I abore your plight,
Now. I loathe that sight.
The window smashed.
A lover’s porthole
Droplets of nectar time falling from a crystal pipette nourish memory.
Swathed in silken mousseline, unmoved by the ravages of mind and age,
Crystalized in diamond casements, exquisitely fragile porcelain dreamscapes.
Gifted on the night’s wings and late summer sunbeams,
Finger traced lace petal bouquets, heady aroma of woodsmoke.
Secret places, hidden from faces, mirage explored, secrets stored.
Gulls cry high above crashing waves, washing inscriptions from the sand.
Irreplaceable, irredeemable time shared.
Please do leave me your thoughts and comments, in praise or constructive criticism, I appreciate them all and will reply.
2 thoughts on “Panes and Pains”
I thoroughly enjoyed your tryptich, Graham! The poem for Scott and his Lady in Greggs had me grinning, especially the lines ‘It’s short crust and simple – her pies are so nice!’ and ‘come on you aproned stringed beauty, let’s get that not tied’ (I’m not sure if that should be ‘not’ or ‘knot’). ‘A Mother’s Pane’ was poignant, with an interesting rhyme scheme, and I was swept away by ‘A lover’s porthole’, with its ‘droplets of nectar time’ and ‘fragile porcelain dreamscapes’. My favourite line is ‘Gulls cry high above crashing waves, washing inscriptions from the sand.’
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Hi Kim, thank you so much for taking the time to write those kind words, I really appreciate them (and the prompt to sort out my typo).
I really enjoyed taking three different themes and emotions and using differrent styles on each. I think it’s a testimony to how well NaPoWriMo works, is managed and the inspiration that is put into it that I could actually do that. There is no way I would have believed that possible in March, and if I had tried it would have been pants; I have learnt so much in the last 29 days.