It has been a very long day. Whenever I get close to a writing deadline, I start working more hours in the day. Why, oh why, don't I invest more hours at the start of the project?! Clocked up far too many today and now my head is thudding and my mind is almost a blank. Which reminds me of a poem ...

This poem was performed at a gig organised as the finale to a Performance Poetry course I attended in 2006. So, I had to learn it by heart - and inject a lot of passion while delivering it to an audience who perhaps weren't expecting me to have written such a tale.

On waking, 7  

Head thudding, mind a blank
The stench of stale smoke
On your breath as you exhale
But don’t open your eyes
Until you realise
Where you are
Where you have been
And who you must thank

Piece together your recent past
One moment at a time
Check for clues
What brings you here?
Then when here is clear
And you have a tight grip
Lift your lids, let sleep slip
To see who is lying next to you

Is it someone you know?
Does he have a name?
And can you remember?
Would you want to see him again?

If the answer is no
Slide out so quietly
Like a slow ray of sunshine
That melts away snow
If the answer is yes
Move ever closer still
Wrap your arms around him
And go in for the kill

I wrote the first On waking (see Blog day 4) never realising that it would become the first of many. To see the intervening ones, visit my website: annerainbow.me.uk

I collect egg shells. I let them dry out and then crunch them into a plastic tub that used to hold houmous. That pot fills and I start a new one. The act of crunching them every day or so, reminds me how it sounds when you walk on eggshells. Eventually, I sprinkle the shards on the garden to deter slugs. And then they know too.

Egg shells, walking on

A touch or a feel
Indecent assault
A blunder, that’s all
And never his fault

Pastry that crumbles
And slips down the throat
Settles in acid
With lies that can choke

It’s egg shells that crack
Crunched, under your spell
My lips prized, apart
The whole truth to tell

This poem was written today. To see poems I wrote before today, visit my website: annerainbow.me.uk

Surprise! Surprise! The folk on WritersDock (www.writersdock.co.uk) decided I was Poet of the Year for 2006. Blush ... So, here's something romantic!

Encased in your arms  

Encased in your arms
Feels good. Feels like it should
No concrete overcoat
No tightening at the throat
No madman’s straightjacket
Just fulfillment, when I lacked it.

Lying by your side
Feels good. Feels like it should.
No guilt or second doubts
No planning the way out
No urge to wander off or stray
Just fulfillment, here, now, today.

And then, when you’re out of sight
Still feels good. Still like it should
No wondering when you will return
No bridges left to burn
No need to close the door
Just fulfillment, for evermore.

Okay, okay ... well, at least it had no suicidal tones? To hunt for romantic poems, visit my website: annerainbow.me.uk

My brother's birthday. I forgot to send a card, and apologised when I spoke to him yesterday ... but as he said, he forgot mine too, so that makes us quits. If only everything were so easy to balance out in life?

Then, I went to a training day - for healers ... and this poem erupted on to my notepad during an idle moment. So, today's poem is not one I prepared earlier ...

Lonely fields

The stranded wife, an abandoned child
Fretting and failing, wandering wild
Booze bloated, fists floating, the fighter
Damns his family to hell’s own land

Bandaged, blood-stained, his wounds still seeping
Takes bed side healing, patience keeping
Bells a’ringing and time past passing
In this lonely field, the truth, it’s banned

And yet, till this soil and water well
Hoping to heaven for health to swell
Isolated seeds of forgiveness
Sun blessed, with love’s breath bowled underhand

Standing tall, strong, with eyes that shine bright
The message now clear: one thought that’s right
Fans a flickering flame, guides the way
To the narrow path where sin’s unplanned

Not much on the sex and suicide side here ... I'll find something lighter for tomorrow.

To see other poems, visit my website: annerainbow.me.uk

Yesterday, the weather wrought havoc, bringing down trees and disrupting travel. Lives were cut short and, today, many people will be wondering what it was all about.

The beginning of my day, from late last night until the early hours, was spent with a neighbour who is poorly and needed company. After too little sleep, I was already at my desk working when I received a phone call - from someone who had exploded during one of yesterday's lows, with an apology.

So, I feel like I have been blown and battered, like those trees. And this morning, although the sun is shining, I am not sure I can see it. Meanwhile, the news reports are focusing mainly on Big Brother - and the clever timing of Gordon Brown - Brown of India.

Tell me why  

It is summertime, so why does the rain pour down the window pane?
In the autumn of our years, why expect to live like a young’n again?
And in the winter, we complain it’s too cold – but where is the snow?
Tell me, and while you do, remind me. Why are we so well-matched, we two?

Why is it that the trees stay firmly rooted to the ground?
How can birds fly and planes glide through the sky?
Fish flick their tails and are propelled forward in the flow
Tell me, and while you do, remind me. Why did I fall in love with you?

Who invented the wheel? Who turned circular motion into a piston thrust?
Harnessed the sea behind concrete and the wind with blades that purr?
Split the atom and took a man to the far side of the moon?
Tell me and while you do, remind me. What is it that I love about you?

Why do miracles happen every day? Every time a child takes its first breath.
Amid war and sleazy tabloid news, how does happiness shine through?
Why do some people win, while others lose heart, in the scramble for gold?
Tell me, and while you do, remind me. Why don’t you say you love me too?

Been one of those days. Lots of conflicts. Too many ups and downs. Highs and lows. Tonight, in my despair, in the absence of anything sensible to eat in the fridge - cockup on the catering front! - I ate a huge slab of Christmas cake. The icing was oozing with brandy and it was screaming 'eat me!' - helping a friend out, you understand. And I washed it down with copious amounts of white wine. So much for the diet. What did I really want? Not to be alone. Not to be apart.

Measuring intimacy  

Measuring intimacy
Where does it start?
Shared smile, a touch, a hug
Not wanting to be apart

A part of each other’s day
Rolling into night, beneath the moon
Synchronised stroking, sucking on air
Sharing dawns that come too soon

And where does it stop?
Separate suitcases?
Sleeping back to back
Living in separate spaces?

To see other poems, visit my website: annerainbow.me.uk

Confession time. At my age, living on my own most of the time, I often talk to myself. What's worse, when writing poems I ask a question in one poem and then answer it - or try to anyway. Here's an answer to yesterday's poem.

What’s missing?

What’s missing? At long last I know
It’s hearing you calling us ‘we’
Your body lying next to me
In a shared bed

What’s missing? Well, I now can tell
Our eyes locked and lips hard pressing
Your loving hands, me caressing
My mind, my heart

What’s missing? Do you want to hear?
My head, your chest, rising, falling
Your pulse beating, and mine stalling
Drowning in air

What’s missing? Can you bear the truth?
Your being there, and half asleep
A waking memory I keep
And would rekindle

What’s missing? On Valentine’s day
It’s what we had that I’m missing
Your hand reaching for me, kissing
And your touch, love.  

To see other poems, visit my website: annerainbow.me.uk

I have started a new (part-time) teaching job and today will be my second session with a great bunch of kids. We are 'doing reflections' ...

Seeing something from the other side, from someone else's point of view - can be a rewarding experience. When writing my poems I try to present the good side of a person; sometimes, I illuminate the worst. The 'other woman' is usually the villain of a piece, but I think - in some circumstances - she has a valuable role to play.

What’s missing?  

What tempts her
To lead him astray,
To lift the sheet
And slip under,
To cuddle close
And rest her head?
What prompts this type of plunder?
Eh? What’s missing?

Is it his fingers
Dancing along her arm,
Or his tongue
Quoting Shakespeare’s saw?
His smile and his carefully planted kisses
Or not knowing what’s coming before?
Who knows what’s missing?

Is it his energy?
His need for control?
The firm pressure of thumb on arched back?
Or the pursuit of giving pleasure
That she needs to keep track?
No! Think on. What’s missing?

And what tempts him
To cross that line?
What makes his hand
Slide along her hip?
Is it her hands so soft
Or her feet that matter most?
Her almost being there?
Abandoned, untamed, indeed
The whole woman in his arms
Succumbing, becoming
Unapologetically his
Is that what’s missing?

Why the hesitation? Why the chill?
They both know what they desire
They both know how to thrill
And can – and do, too
But what’s missing?

Back where he belongs
He plucks a stray hair
Checks for traces of lipstick
From his mouth
Utters words with special care
Being there
For the one who loves him
Robbed by these distant reveries
Still, nothing is missing?

And she retreats
Alone, replete
Having notched up
One more conquest
Not quite done
Not yet complete
She has passed no test
But may be closer to knowing
What’s missing. 

And sometimes she needs sympathy ... What do you think?

To see other poems, visit my website: annerainbow.me.uk

I like the begnning of the day best. When I first wake, my world, before anyone makes their entrance, is silent. Hopefully, it is very early, before dawn. And I am either alone or the person next to me is still asleep. I don't open my eyes straight away. Instead, I savour the images that rush into my head. And I enjoy the silence.

I’m saying nothing

Silence is the most powerful tool
Wounding by slow suffocation
Any pleasure seeking fool
Its deathly deep blackness
Engulfs even the insensitive few
And leaves unspoken criticism to fester anew

Silence multiplies tenfold over time
And thickens the skin of the gagged
It forms a scab that itches and burns
Depresses the tongue and seals the lips
And then smoulders, ready to burst into flames
As soon as the first explosive circuit trips

Silence jumps the gap between yes and no
Presents false messages and smoke signals flow
Conveys your acceptance of the status quo
It misinforms even the most wondrously wise
Keeps everyone guessing and asking why though
And what do those closed eyes actually know

But silence can heal e’en the saddest of my scars
A squeezed hand, or unspoken offer of a shoulder
Can smooth away the unmentionable pain and fear
Can blow dry the tears before they leak from wet eyes
’Fore they stain my cheeks or I grow any older
’Cos your deep well of silence says all I need to hear

Sometimes, though, it's the snoring that wakes me ...

To see other poems, visit my website: annerainbow.me.uk

The office blocks may be devoid of suited and booted folk, but tucked away in their homes, freelancers - and perhaps those who are wedded to their work - are beavering away. Me included. Deadline to hit before the commissioning editor reaches her desk tomorrow morning ...

But there was time for lunch in the pub next door! And a poem?

Redemption of sorrow

Remember the deal: his heart, your soul
Each time he utters soft words of love
Demanding the ransom: pounding flesh

Every contour of your misery
Melts as his moist lips brush past your skin
Penetrating your aura of fear

Take off your cloak of raw reluctance
In your nakedness admit some hope
Of a bed-shared fun-filled tomorrow

Nigh time, for redemption of sorrow

Actually, it's an acrostic ...

To see other poems, visit my website: annerainbow.me.uk

I write mostly about sex and suicide, rarely with humour. That's how it is, but occasionally a funny one slips out.

Late one Saturday night, and on WritersDock (www.writersdock.co.uk), Rosie was moaning about having no inspiration. Weaver set her the challenge of writing a poem about 'fish and chips'. Silly, but I joined in and wrote my first 'funny' poem. Course, it still had an element of sex ...

Large cod and small fries

It were in the chip shop queue
Late on Saturday night
That I first clapped eyes on you
’N’ thought he’s a bit of alright

Large cod and small fries you bought
Without looking at me
How big a portion I thought
And could I bring you to your knees

Vinegar? I smiled at you
Oh yes, you said and grinned
Two quid I said, and I knew
Right then, right there, your heart I’d winned

Tomorrow. I'll choose a very sad one - or a very sexy one. Or one that combines both.

Meanwhile, to see other poems, visit my website: annerainbow.me.uk

Hardly any sleep and yet I woke ahead of the alarm - an hour ahead - which gives me time to do all the things I needed to do, and more, before setting off for Newbury, to a writer's workshop, no less. I'll be exhausted by the time I return but, right now, my mind is flying.

Today's poem? Has to be this one.

On waking
I wake, but resist the temptation to open my eyes
As ever, you are tangled in the folds of my duvet
Embodied in the bulk of my second pillow
And my skin is alive to your touch
I stretch slowly and smile and reach for you
You curl around me, keeping me safe
You stroke my face, push back a hair
Plant a kiss on my nose and hug me tight

I doze and put off the day for a while
Then, when the heat of the sun warms my face
My eyes remain shut, but still I can see you
I feel you, smell your nearness, hear your breath
And as I lean against your steadying strength
Slowly, I let in the day, accepting the stillness around me
I watch as you go back to my world of dreams
And gaze at the shaft of rainbows that light my life. 

There were no rainbows on my bedroom wall this morning, most probably because it was still pitch dark outside ...

To see other poems, especially ones I wrote about how I feel 'on waking', visit my website: annerainbow.me.uk