The Twelfth Day Of Christmas

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On the twelfth day of Christmas,

My husband gave to me,

Twelve headache helpers,

Eleven buzzers buzzing,

Ten children screeching,

Nine glasses braking,

Eight lights a-fusing

Seven crackers snapping,

Six oldies napping,

Five ———-broken ———nails,

Four smoking pans,

Three bottles drank,

Two laddered tights,

And a paper crown slipping off my head.


The Instruction Book


If love had a handbook,

Or instructions to follow,

Would the order affect,

The coming tomorrow.

Would a step from the norm,

Restructure the whole,

Would the world still revolve,

Or embrace the free form.


If I knew when to stop,

When to stand back and wait,

Would I learn to accept,

An evolving dictate.

Would I banish my fears,

Of a love that’s free falling,

And welcome the freedom,

That stalled the fate’s calling.


If I went with plan B,

Instead of plan A,

Would I drown in the glory,

Of every new day,

Would I feed on the essence,

Of a love more divine,

And drink from a fountain,

More heady than wine.


If only the handbook,

Was a little bit clearer.

Now You See Me, Now You Don’t

I so look forward to Wednesdays. Time again for Friday Fictioneers. A wonderfully addictive 100 word photo prompt from the fabulous Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. I’d recommend everyone to join the merry little band of 100+ equally addicted participants.


Copyright : Adam Ickes

His eyes watched the smoke rising from the pit. Shapes formed, hesitated and then re-grouped. The elders crouched, motionless. Faces blank, pupils wide; white tipped flames reflected in translucent ebony. A slow building hum seemed to wrap around him. He thought of the fame, the notoriety – “UNKNOWN TRIBE DISCOVERED”. His wasn’t the first expedition, but the others never returned; blamed on poor preparation, fever, animal attacks. He looked down, feeling almost invisible against the rising hum. Then realisation dawned, as his body slowly faded into the ether. A sardonic smiling villager threw another pair of boots into the pile.


What if, in some parallel universe, objects were the lives and things, like us, were the mere objects?

Prompt: Your goal this week is to practice personification.  Speak from the standpoint of an object.  It can be any object you desire, whether it be a storm, or a box or a speck of dust or what have you.  What does that object feel?  Can it be subjected to the realm of human experience?  Can it make any sense?  Can we, as human beings, somehow relate?

Written for We Drink Inspiration – Poetry Prompt #004: Personification


As dust I am a subtle trace,

Upon the surface layer,

A veil across the outer shell,

That hides the past purveyor,

I am a speck so intricate,

The naked eye can miss,

The delicacy of symmetry,

Upon a ghost breaths kiss,

A trailing tease of finger tips,

That score across my form,

With no escape from emptiness,

That’s born of neglect and scorn,

For I mark the time that passes,

As an echo within the grain,

Just memories and shadows,

That leave a dappled stain.

Call Out My Name


Call out my name,

And I’ll follow you forever,

Whispering gently,

A breeze through a feather,


Hold out your hand,

And I’ll know when to follow,

Leading intently,

The fledgling and swallow.


Lay a kiss on my lips,

And I’ll love only you,

Burning eruption,

Like a fire born anew.


Lay with me softly,

And I’ll promise you more,

Ardently breaking,

Like waves on the shore.


Look at me now,

And I’ll know we’re the same,

Cautiously pleading,

You’ll call out my name.

Christmas Time

Fireside Christmas 3D Screensaver

Frosty tinted winter nights,

Where snowflakes fall,

And eyes are bright,

Noses tipped with redden glow,

Mittened hands,

And cheeks aglow.


Chestnuts roasting on the fire,

Where stories read,

Can never tire,

Ears awash with tales of old,

Looks of awe,

As dreams unfold.


Songs are sung by candlelight,

With voices raised,

In wild delight,

Songs that sing of peace and joy,

Of Silentnight,

And Drummer Boy.


Santa comes when all is still,

When all have crept,

Up slumbers hill,

He checks his list not once but twice,

Are you naughty,

Are you nice.


Families gather one and all,

To forgive the slights,

That we recall,

For Christmas hopes are not mistaken,

Feuds are left,

And hate’s forsaken.

Warning Sign

Time again for the highly compulsive Friday Fictioneers. A 100 word photo prompt from the ever creative Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Have a look at the other 100 or so addicted creations offered up each week.


Some memories linger; leaving a taste, a scent or a trace of something more. Others fade into the ether, tiny particles of nothing that float in the air. It was easy to forget the nights they ate tapas or the charm of the old quarter. The feel of warm sand that glistened under-foot or the balmy scented moonlight that promised so much more. It was harder to forget the tears and recriminations, the gunshot that pierced his chest, the sirens, the headlines and the jury of twelve. If only he’d seen the sign hanging across her cold blackened heart – No Trespassing.



I sleep every night,

And dream you are there,

A taste, a touch, a scent in the air.

I reach out my hand,

To brush at your face,

Fingertip teasing a tentative trace,

Your arms wrap around me,

And you pull me in close,

The essence of you is all my heart knows.


I wake up each morning,

And I know you are gone.

A feeling, a sense, an unwelcome dawn.

I wait for the sunlight,

To cast out the past,

Flickering echoes, they never last.

The dream of you now,

Is no more than a shadow,

Fading away on each new tomorrow.

Written for WDBWP –

We Drink Inspiration – Poetry Prompt #003: Dream States