via Photo Challenge: Earth

that was the colour he wanted for his room, his home, himself. Being transparent was the worst a bloke could be. A bloke has to be mysterious, give the lasses some work to do. Transparent meant you were predictable and boring. Then again his wife said he was secretive, kept stuff to himself, untrustworthy so that’s how he’d ended up in this one room flat, with a gas cooker that didn’t work, dodgy wiring and a microwave on the blink. Perhaps he’d reconsider the redecorating colour.

via Daily Prompt: Opaque

Source: “One of My Tomorrows” and other poems in response Wednesday Writing Prompts

Many Thanks to Jamie Dedes featuring two of my poems

“One of My Tomorrows” and other poems in response Wednesday Writing Prompts https://jamiededes.com/2017/04/18/one-of-my-tomorrows-and-other-poems-in-response-wednesday-writing-prompts/ via @JamieDedes

Many thanks to Klaus at the great Outlaw Poetry for publishing five poems

https://www.outlawpoetry.com/category/paul-brookes/

memory keys from behind the cellar door
and retrieves the wheel of gratitude
from the landing of the unforgiving cellar steps,

places its plug into paid electric socket
his furry comfort slippers under a chair
puts on molded plastic sandals of consideration

opens the porch of opportunity into the garden
of undelight, ravaged by weeds of disconsolation
And the onset of unchecked abundance

turns memory in the lock of occasional visits
enters the garage of the unessential, but not
urgent to collect the editor of excess.

carries the cutter down steps of ill repair
unreeling the calculated wire of generosity
unreeling the cutters wire of restriction,
connecting both and pressing the plastic button

of limited destruction to start sharp blade
of reinvention around the edges of wildness,
Then manoeuvring in straight lines across the body

of untidiness and unwanted refuges and dumping the full bucket of them in the green recycling bin of official response. Editing complete wires reeled in,

a managed garden is admired by onlookers as cared for and the gardener as attentive to their design.
He tidies the edges with blades of definition

sight as she sips her cold prosecco watching him mow his immaculate lawn inhales cut grass like weed and sees a meadow years back and sucks a ripe corn stalk in her mouth frissons at a naked torso above her recently stripped of its flowery shirt little beads of sweat on his neck like rain droplets off the raised black umbrellas at his funeral when he overdosed on too much freedom.

via Daily Prompt: Jolt

into the sun out of the dark and cold grey shorter days when flickers sustained now fill with light inhale sweet green growth touch warm stone taste ripeness hear bough and roof chatter as homes are built or reoccupied, and prey multiplies a moving feast of lively skin and blood.

via Daily Prompt: Climbing

don’t get me wrong a niche twist your hand works into angular hole, ram skin against stone grain secure one hold of three above roll of water below fist into the dark unafraid of unseen more concerned with death drop riverside, pinioned a search for a higher hold and loosen fist in face of rock, a slight surface for feet or toes, remember to use your thighs, not arms to lift, and reach climb top a weight raises from shoulders, elation at achievement.

via Daily Prompt: Cranky

“The Bomb Baby” kindly published by Renee S in Literati Magazine

View at Medium.com