#52weeksofnaturepoetry Week 24 – Sky Dancer

The poem below is part of a project I’m doing to raise money for the RSPB, a UK wildlife conservation and protection charity. Being autistic, nature is often my only place of solace, and I want to do all I can to protect it. As I’m not very comfortable around other people, most of the standard ways of helping out (volunteering, ‘traditional’ fundraisers etc.) were not a good fit for me, so I came up with #52weeksofnaturepoetry, where I have to post a nature poem here on this blog each week for an entire year without fail.

If you’d like to help, please share this poem to encourage others to take joy in nature, and if you have the time and means to donate, you can do so here. Let’s help keep our wildlife wild!

Sky Dancer

Snagging the updraft, she glides high.

No fuss, no theatrics.

Just drive.

Her next meal awaits below, somewhere unseen for the moment.

Not for long.

With due perspective, she’ll pinpoint her catch.

In a quiet spot, she might be able to leap from perch

to extract a tasty morsel,

yet close to ground, disturbances always threaten.          

Other predators, rowdy humans, her own hunters –

the ones who claim she kills their game

as if she is playing as they do

rather than being fuelled by pure survival instinct.

When she rides the air, deep eyes alive,

everything becomes clear.

Nothing can hide.

She’s looking for her main course,

no mere snack this time.

Her mate circles close, nothing yet for him.

His luck is his own.

Her skills deliver: mottled brown fur, a speck to our eyes.

A prize for her.

Talons poised, she bullet-dives.

Faster than an arrow meeting its target, near soundless

and every bit as deadly.

For her prey, that is.

Snatched in a blink, life extinguished by her grip

and several nips from her beak.

Devoured quickly.

Precious energy not easily gained.

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Blackout poetry

My first attempt at blackout poetry, courtesy of my local library, who had loads of loose book pages to try it on and a display board for people to proudly show what they’ve done. Yay for awesome libraries!

Aloe Vera

I was a husk filled with things that weren’t me,

and all the problems I’d had

were squashed down so tight

I didn’t even know they were there.

 

Now the spell is broken and I’m returning to myself,

those crumpled seeds

are sprouting

and forcing me to re-live and re-live and re-live

in a never-ending loop.

 

Until I hear your voice.

Then, it all stops,

leaves dropping in the wind.

Your careful words are a salve

to these self-inflicted wounds.

They will not heal me completely, but they help.

They really do.

Say it

Say it. Let the sound fill your mouth

like curry, full on flavour and spicy

enough to set your breath on fire.

Then spit it out. Let them know

the wine is sour,

and the alcohol content cannot make up for it.

Bottle their gasps for later,

you can use them at the lightshow

when they try to blot you out.

And, with their retorts,

take off your cloak and mask

so their ice-words melt from your brightness.

Show them the spectrum,

not the gradient.

Notes on crafting

I can inspect my patterns, carve them neat,

counter each edge with a curve, shaping out

the chase line of a puzzle piece.

Practice bites down the cold,  ice melting from overload.

Magic nails ideas to the walls.

Bellyache

The water cuts off suddenly; the spark died in an instant,

burnt out by the dragon’s unhurried burp.

He dams himself, lets it all build up around him

to cool the molten heat of his belly. Indigestion

from feasting on too many words of men,

paper crafted into delectable prey

that he swallowed too quickly, without taking

time to enjoy each morsel.

Thoughts I had while eating chocolate spread from the jar

Scraping the bottom of the barrel,

those threads and fibres of ideas.

They’re no good, they say.

So I counter; I’m not scraping, I’m shaping,

crafting not a barrel but a watertight embrace

that I can shelter in as society’s laughter stampedes.

 

In my cave of solitude, while I wait for quiet,

those threads have been plaited into prose.

 

Like Tolkien, like Rowling – it’s all just the same.

 

No, it’s all just me. They may only see words,

but their children will see worlds.

Word Vomit

Like a cork that’s just been popped from

a bottle tense with shaken soda

it all spills forth, disregarding the plan, the time limit

the need to focus on one issue.

 

No rules, it’s all going tidal, a tsunami

coming from a still glassy lake.

The cake is damp

It’s how you have to contort your mouth when you say it

chew it up like tough leftovers

with that same shine of distaste in your eyes.

It’s just a word

but oh, how you use every synonym you can think of

just to avoid it.

Sadly, good cake

is nothing if it’s not this.

Crisp Pages

I open my journal, touch

the fibre rich pages with my pen      and pause.

How do I word the thoughts

in    my   head?

L e t t e r s  skip around, a merry jig

and I’m struck by how many writings

have come before this,

before me.

Surely those hands   did not falter   so?

Or perhaps they did,

and persevered anyway.