we_tell_stories

Stonehenge echoes in the microchip
the walls are lined with
the ghost of trees.
Brittle plastic tube
standing sentry to the feathered quill.
Long dead bison flicker across
picture frames.
The window remembers
a handful of sand

When the old woman died the girl felt adrift, there were so many things she never asked, were so many people her grandmother had been that she would never now know about, so many stories she’d never hear, things she’d never learn

But she was left with those memories, sweet home grown tomatoes, watching the sunset across the mountains. She was left with the ethic that if something needed doing you did it, if a dog needed walking you walked it even if you hated dogs. If your son married a woman who you hated you loved their children regardless.


This is the first drabble I've ever written. I just thought it would be good for exercising those formal poetry muscles

One of my friends was talking about how writing was just part of who they were and about how other parts of their life were just as important, but I think for me writing is the lynch pin of who I am. If I don't write I can't balance my life, if I don't balance my life, I cant write. Writing is a way of transforming, understanding my life and my experiences. But If I don't let myself have those experiences I have nothing to write about.

To let writing matter, to make writing matter, to give writing the place in my life I think it deserves I would have to change and rearrange a lot of things about the way I live.

I would: stop ingesting the amount of caffeine I do because that blocks me, but have the occasional cup of delicious real coffee, go outside more, listen to the radio more, watch good quality tv, spend less time on the internet but make the time I do spend of better quality, read more, go swimming, make collages, make soap and candles, do more cooking, listen to more music.

And make space and time to write in without feeling guilty