Poetry

Down the hall

The hall was hot

with a fiery glow,

great wafts of smoky air

swept towards me with mighty blows.

 

I knew what awaited,

how could I not

have heard of the beast

who occupied this spot?

 

 

Staring at me

through the door’s seam,

I saw two green, glowing eyes

and wings cramped against the beams.

 

My hand shook

as I reached for the knob,

after all, a dragon’s breath

could reduce me to a messy blob.

 

But a beast

shouldn’t be trapped

just because some people think

it’ll eat them for a snack.

 

Bravely, I opened the door,

overcoming my fear

as I stepped right into

its tiny, sparse lair.

 

I braced myself for the worse,

yet the dragon shied away from me.

Then I saw the chain around its legs.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I’ll set you free!’

Poetry

Magic!

I have a ball of magic,

right here in my hand,

and if I wish upon it,

I can create enormous

dunes of sand.

 

Or whole fields of vibrant poppies

that wave to me in the wind,

and I can even make a robot

by magicking together

my collection of used tins.

 

Sometimes I sit and wonder,

‘What do I have this power for?’

Then a flood of ideas fill my head

and all I can think of

is creating more!

 

Poetry

A pensive hound

Snug and warm,

a mass of fluffy black fur

to rest my head against;

my bright-eyed, wet-nosed mentor

lounging in the shade

behind discarded tins of fence paint.

 

A lolling tongue

hangs from her mouth

as she looks up at the sky,

watching a flock of birds ark and swoop,

they dip their wings to her

as they pass by.

 

Poetry

All potted up

I have a little seedling,

it’s just sprouted green leaves,

it waves about in the wind

and makes our cat sneeze.

 

I want to give it a home,

so I’ve found a neat brown pot

and filled it with earth

all the way to the top.

 

I’ll make a small hole

using an old lollipop stick

and put my seedling in it

so the stem grows nice and thick.

 

Then for the important bit,

I’ll need to give it a drink.

I heard rainwater’s best,

not just water from the sink.

 

After that, I’ll have to wait

and care for it with love,

only then will it flower

from its tender buds.

 

 

Uncategorized

The Personal Rejection: Backhanded Compliment of Publishing

A Writer's Path

by John Briggs

There are two types of rejection letters – the dreaded form letter and the personal rejection letter. The former is just what it sounds like—the one that editors and agents send to dozens, if not hundreds of authors every year that says, with very little subtext, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

The personal letter, of course, says, with very little subtext, “We’re sorry, thanks, but no thanks.”

Actually, that’s a bit unfair to the personal rejection letter. Some are effusive in their praise. Gushing even. But for whatever reason, they can’t publish or represent your hard work.

View original post 537 more words

Poetry

The Pirate King

Riding along

the rushing seas,

sword in hand,

the Pirate King steals

everything he sees.

 

He doesn’t care

whose jewels he takes,

he bundles them up

and locks them away,

careful that none are fake.

 

He takes the gold

from foreign ships

along with bottled spices,

piles of dyed silks

and fruit from exotic pips.

 

He dances ahead of those

who would capture him,

they can’t keep up,

even with full sail

their chances are slim.

 

Forever and always

he’ll sail the ocean,

fighting off enemies

and plundering islands

for wonderous tokens.

Uncategorized

Are you a ‘writer in the closet’?

It’s good to have support from family and friends, but even so I do sometimes feel like I’m not a real writer because I’m not published yet (okay, so I have self-published my novelette, but I’ve still got seven full length novels sitting on my desktop that no-one knows about).

The Cat's Write

You’re watching your friend closely as surprise flirts across their features, the expression sinking into their eyes and the lines around their mouth.

‘You’re writing a book? Far out, I had no idea you were even a writer!’

You smile tentatively back, feeling naked under their blazing gaze. ‘Well you see… I’ve always been a writer, I’ve just never told anyone before. I mean, some of myvery closefamily know, but even they don’t know how serious I am about it all.’

View original post 527 more words

Poetry

The Switch

There was once a young witch,

who suffered with a twitch,

and, though tragic,

it affected her magic.

 

One day she cast a spell

in order to help her sell

her newest healing potions

and soothing skin lotions.

 

Then she felt a slight itch–

oh, no, the beginning of the twitch!

 

BANG! The spell went wrong

and she ended up in a throng

of market-goers looking

for simple ways of cooking.

 

Everyone pushed and shoved;

the witch felt a tug.

 

Someone tried to steal her magic

but it let off such static

that thief and witch

felt their bodies switch.

 

So witch became thief

with missing teeth,

and thief became witch,

taking on her twitch.

 

Now they have to work together,

or they’ll be stuck that way forever!

Poetry

A display at the exhibit

Twist it good,

squeeze the dye from the rag

and paint broad strokes

over their eyes.

 

Tease them, taint them,

make them crave

the taste of inking,

have them savour

the sharpness on their tongues.

 

Tempt them with

cherry-laced vinegar

that leaves a permanent stain

on white memory,

and finally gather

their multi-coloured tears.