Epic April 10th NaPoWriMo Fail

In desperation, and with a whole lot of help from my - errr, friends? - I bring you the epic April 10th NaPoWriMo fail:

#1 (Please use Canadian accent)

There once was an old man from Cambridge,
Who knew a sweet tweeter with cleavage
He had a face like an otter,
She could swim underwater,
Ducking ducks together they played quidditch...

#2 (Please use a very, very bad urban youf accent)

Cambridge,
Like a fridge,
Where you play quidditch,
It is quite rich,
It aint Stourbridge,
Not a ditch,
I aint no snitch,
But it aint got no urban rhythm!

NaPoWriMo, April 9th; Not The Whole Poem

NaPoWriMo, April 9th

Not The Whole Poem

You could be in a desert
With shimmering second sight
Salted sea to the North and
Crusted, white sand to the East, and
Flowering fig trees to the South, and
Bowers of roses to the West.

But they only have bowers of roses in poems.

I could be in a fool's paradise
With mist covering my eyes, and
Monkey's fingers in my ears, and
My lips sewed tight with butcher's string, and
Rose thorns in my fleshy hide.

But they don't beat hides with thorns in poems.

Ode to Bacon, NaPoWriMo April 8th

Ode to Bacon

My blood sings, as it passes through my veins,
Of empty mitochondria and lack
Of care and comfort, so vicious it pains
The delicate homeostatic plaque
Decorating arteries' finest walls
And hunger wails its divine truthful course 
Thundering, train-like, from stomach to brow
Descending again, fast as water falls.
Granulated hiccoughs, coarse,
Excruciating rumbles, announce how
Desperate a hunt is required through malls. 

'Feed me! Oh Mistress, take pity, I pray!'
What food can satisfy such pitiful 
Demand? Salty desire a dancing sway,
Phantom smokiness, tantalising full-
Tongued and satisfyingly delicious.
Meaty and pink-blushed, I follow the call
To the butcher's counter. Whereupon my
Eye discerns wonderful, meretricious,
The apple of lovers, all
Fatty and glistening, passive and - sigh -
Willing. Bacon, my intent's malicious.

NaPoWriMo April 7th, She Was Born

She was born on a mountainside

She was born on a mountainside,

The thirteenth child, bellowing her 

Presence to the rocks and goats. They

Tied her umbilical cord with 

Whatever nature laid to hand - 

Grass, or a vine, or her mother's 

Hair. Cut it with a stone. Quelled the 

Bleeding with ash and rags, and her

Cries with practised let down. Fifty 

Years later, bewildered in a

Heated classroom, she tells the tale

Of how her husband threatened to 

Kill her, just last night. Her legal

Aid doesn't cover the cost of

Good advice, and the police are

Only interested in crime.

We fill in the paperwork that

Will prove he did it, if he does,

And everyone tries to pretend

It never happened. But then there's 

Nigella Lawson in her posh

Frock, and she was born on no

Mountainside; if it could happen

To her... Then again, people say

Things all the time, and isn't it 

Easier not to get involved?

Mother mountain is half a world

And half a life away, and her 

Orphan children know their own way 

Home. There are no wild midwives here

In England's green and pleasant land.

For my Husband on his Birthday, NaPoWriMo, April 6th

For my Husband on his Birthday, NaPoWriMo, April 6th

True love is commonplace.

It's in the paintings that 

grace the walls of caves, ships,

Chapels, turrets, in the

Whispers of underground

Bunkers, behind rustic

Shutters of isolated

Woodland cottages and

Fifty shades above street 

Level. Find love in the

Shape of lips, delicate,

Curving, lifting, pressing

Against, giving life to

Words that hold hearts dear. Hear

It in the music of

A washing line in the

Wind, a kettle's whistle,

A baby's wail, silenced

By a warm nipple in

A sleepy bed. Taste love

In birthday cake crumbles,

Chocolate kisses and

Spaghetti wishes, in

The damp spot behind an

Ear after bath time, and

On a finger-full of 

Raw, sweet dough. True love is

In the letterboxes

Living in the copper

Wires, echoing across slow 

Oceans, broadcasting in

Outer space. In poppy

Strewn mountains and shadowed,

Grassy valleys, in dank 

Marshes and knife-edged plains,

In sweaty ballrooms and

Resined studios, love 

Sweeps feet into air and

Air into life. Love's in

The future and the past,

Seek it hidden in the 

Present, wrapping itself

Everywhere infinite

In minds and under feet,

Through fingertips' soft

Grip on elbows, bent knees,

Delicious tickled toes.

While ours is as unique

As a combination

In a pack of playing

Cards fifty-two love deep.

Monopoly, NaPoWriMo, April 5th

NaPoWriMo, April 5th

Monopoly

She skips barefoot and gentle
From King's Cross to Liverpool Street
Alone on her toes
Buying time
Mortgaging pieces of your soul
For imaginary facilities
Trading chance for electricity
Stripping community bare,
And you cling to your parking space,
Hoping for a double six.
So caught in her game, she doesn't know
You aren't an opponent
And in life,
There is no get out of 
Jail card -
Not one that's free,
Anyway.

Time and entropy are kissing cousins, NaPoWriMo April 4th

There are five minutes left of my  Eldest's 19th birthday - darnit, 4 minutes now...

Time and entropy are kissing cousins

Time and entropy are kissing cousins,
And their illicit tease is infinite
Scandalising the gossipy stars
While moons dance, hoping for more
In the way of a warm embrace
And meteorites may
While galaxies' might
Dwindles
To
A
Breath
Of
Promise
In
The
Void

But love is a gift
That holds its shape
Indefinitely
And faith is its
Fuel.