mother mosquito

When bedtime arrives,
and the last candle snuffed,
there is without failure
a mother mosquito
who
in the sudden swap to darkness
lost her only born son.
devistated, she cries
and calls. cries and calls
cries and cries and cries
wails and moans and cries.
searching the highs
wails and cries
searching the lows
wails and cries
she races to me
and takes my hand
'have you seen my son
have you seen him?!'
she wails and cries
and calls and moans
rushes off before any answer
she has lost her mind
her heart
her will
she wails and cries
until she dies.

the wet patch on my dress

It is that time again, for the second time, to emit poetic works on the 21st day of the month. Utterly delightful.


It is wet
It is a patch
It dosen't dry
in the hot hot sun
Where did you come from
Little wet patch?
Why are you wet?
Why won't you dry?

the bloomsbury dictionary of word origins

like ants
we did not wear pyjamas
keeping warm instead
by nesting in books


(the 21st day of every month seemed like a good time to contribute poetry)