OctPoWriMo – Day Twenty-Nine – The A487 Is The Road To Everywhere Here

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The A487 Is The Road To Everywhere Here

In the darkness between llannau
there is sudden realisation –
I could be anywhere.
The wrong side of my village,
the wrong side of the world
where there are less lights
and few stars to be seen
through the clouds that cover
the acres of valleys and hills
that envelope us in what we hope is safety.
I could be anywhere
could be outside my comfort zone
too far from home, too far from anywhere I know
The headlights show me little,
grey tarmac I can find anywhere
that tells me so little
and until those faint white lights come into view
I could be anywhere
even if there is no where else to go.

r.l.w

Llannau is a Welsh word, for church or village, and is usually a prefix in village names i.e Llanon the church of Non etc.

OctPoWriMo – Day 29

OctpoWriMo – Day Twenty – Eight – Sorry

Some days I don’t have it in me.
All those words pile up behind my eyes
inside my mind
and I don’t have enough in me to get them out
put them down
share them around.

Sorry.

OctPoWriMo – Day Twenty-Seven

I am not afraid of you.
Why should I be?
I stand tall with weapons I have crafted from words.
I will always have judgement
and higher ground
from the moment those words leave your mouth.

I have little to fear
because I know I am honest and beautiful in my reality.
I take steps to determine my soul is clean
for whatever comes when I’m gone.
For whatever comes before then.

Perhaps I will see you soon,
you know where I will be, I am honest and free.

I win every time
regardless of the outcome.

r.l.w

Half inspired by Gamer Gate and this the last words of this Iranian woman – Reyhaneh Jabbari. Her last words will be more profound than any poetry.

OctPoWriMo – Day 27.

OctPoWriMo – Day Twenty-Six – Our World

Anxiety and exhilaration
mix into something I can’t quite
work out well enough to breathe properly.
A soft skin around a softer soul
and I’ve really made my way home
Life’s no breeze and I can’t quite handle the storms.
It’s supposed to be easy,
supposed to be beautiful
and it is, it is, but
why the hell do I feel so bad
with every passing moment
without you in my bed.
I can’t face the harsh realities of the world without you.
I can only live in our world.

r.l.w

OctPoWriMo – Day Twenty-Four

What I write
and what I live
are separate promises I can’t keep.
Never mind
that I’m in too deep
and wrapped around both worlds
like a chrysalis.
This is not for you though.

r.l.w

OctPoWriMo // Day 24

OctPoWriMo – Day Twenty-Three – RIP

R.I.P

Give a little more with your grief.
Or perhaps step back and stay away.
This isn’t your moment you know,
you’re still standing and no one’s missing you.
But someone, someone somewhere is gone,
you don’t need to stay a word
like they don’t need to breathe.
It’s not enough, to say the usual.
It can be enough to say nothing.

r.l.w

Inspired by this article.

OctPoWriMo – Day 23

OctPoWriMo – Day Twenty-Two – Kissing

She kisses me
whispers of love on my lips
and lines of soft skin
shaped and smiling
as they slip and slide over mine.

There’s a taste of honey
and a push of generosity
over and over.
She’s my sweetheart
in all honesty.

These moments are mine alone now,
I savour them
slowly and with sorrow,
do I pull away.
She smiles, and it’s okay, then.

r.l.w

OctPoWriMo.org // Day 22

OctPoWriMo – Day Twenty One – Spaghetti Bolognese

Spaghetti_bolognese_-_add_tomatoAge old recipes
or so it seems
when some of the ingredients
are older than you
as you stir them into the sauce.
You don’t question it though,
never did.
It was the best meal you would have
until you went home again.

You didn’t question that either.
Not for the longest time.

r.l.w

I don’t really cook. I can cook a few things, but in honest I find the entire process tedious. I don’t enjoy it even if I could cook a lot. I guess a lack of interest leads to a lack of practise which leads to a lack of ability. My mother can cook, very well in fact, and I suppose my sister inherited some of that ability (though, not all of it, and she had to practise what she has). I seem to have inherited my father’s ability. Which is none. When I was a kid he set the kitchen on fire making chips.

I, in turn, as an adult set the kitchen on fire. I can’t remember what I was making, I don’t think I had even started and had turned the hob on and set a tea towel on fire. Luckily it didn’t get out of control like the fire did when I was a kid.

Anyway.

One thing I can make, that my dad could also make, was spaghetti bolognese.

When dad made it though, it was a fucking event. Like the event of the year (even when we’d had it a few weeks or months before). I can’t remember having it when I was little, it was something I only had after I was 11 or 12, like some sort of insane ritual. But then, it was always quite spicy so I probably could not have handled it before then. My sister never did develop a taste for it. I always really enjoyed it.

Because yeah, it was spicy. My dad had a very clear system and set of ingredients that went into his bolognase sauces, and some of ingredients were Indian spices who’s expiration date had already passed. I don’t ask me why. Most of the expiry dates were from 1990 – 1992. For comparison sake, I was born in 1982. So these spices had past their date by time I started eating my dad’s ‘creation’. I assume they were once brand new. Perhaps in the eighties, like me, but considering he was still making this sauce when the millennium came around and using those same spices, well, yeah – this is not something that can be recreated.

Unless you know of a store that sells thirty year old Indian spices.

Every ingredient was carefully measured. A whole tube of tomato paste, on top of an entire jar of Dolmio bolognese sauce, (usually four people at least were eating). We also weighed the spaghetti. 100 grams per person. Every single time, we never estimated or guessed, or just used what we had, we measured out the exact amount we needed. It’s really hard to balance spaghetti on scales, trust me, yet we did it every time. He was a little obsessive over certain things, I guess I picked that up from him too.

It was always delicious though, I always looked forward to it, always enjoyed it. Dad didn’t make anything else, Nanna made dinner and she wasn’t much of a cook either. I don’t know if it was always that was, or if she was already getting too old by time she had to take care of me and my sister with my dad during the holidays. I don’t know. It’s too late to find out from her.

My dad is struggling to look after himself a little now, he has Parkinsons and his right arm shakes a lot. A lot. His legs are starting to give him trouble too, soon he won’t just have trouble with spilling or keepingĀ  balance, but with everything. I have hopes he will take help when time comes but he’s a stubborn man. He spent so long looking after my grandmother (and for a time, my grandfather too), that he won’t be looked after by my sister or I. Not that we could really. I would never move and I wouldn’t have the time, no matter how much we love him, it’s not feasible; these are plain facts really, rather than based on how we feel about the situation. That’s much more complicated and a long way removed from Spaghetti Bolognese.

OctPoWriMo – Day 21

OctPoWriMo – Day Twenty

pillsI am empty and sold on medication,
like they aren’t enough
to keep a solid heart whole
if I am not kept stable.

There is nothing
and there is everything
and it is all wrong.

A stretch a light
through to the end,
breaks inside me
drowned in the old darkness.

When I wake,
when I wake
it will pass again.

Until then, everything is just
wrong.

r.l.w

OctPoWriMo.org // Day twenty.