A Comfy Kind Of Restless

Hi!

From textfixer

So today’s words looked ok, but it took me a long time to work them all in. I had one minute thirteen seconds left at the end of my scribbling! 

The speaker shares with me a loathing of the spaces spiders may lurk, but it sounds as though her kid is quite a bit older than my two.

Garage   Abnormally   Ginger   Patient   Clam   Amnesiac   Sound   Favour  Choker

I ducked into the garage

And an abnormally large spider

Dangled, menacingly.

The ginger cat, from across the road,

Looked at me with

Something approaching glee;

As it stalked onto my grass

To poop.

I’m never the most patient person,

And I don’t relish

Doing other people’s jobs.

I grabbed the offending bike

And thrust it at his waiting pal,

(Before I got an arachnid fascinator

Or oil on my shoes)

The guy didn’t look grateful.

I brought it up (loudly)

At the dinner table.

Dear Son did his usual thing:

Clam up and act like some amnesiac

At the sound of her raised voice.

To curry favour later,

He cleaned all the dishes, and

Complimented me on my choker.

Unwise move:

It reminded me who needed throttled…

Pencil-crazed notebook page

She doesn’t sound happy, does she?!  She was even nippier in my head, be thankful she didn’t wander into yours, first…

I was reading this post yesterday, and it interested me as I have been pondering where my poetry comes from quite a bit on here.  I thought this writer had an interesting take on it all. 

My characters are pretty impatient with me, they act out what they want me to know, and bark at me when I don’t keep up (or leave them on shelves, which I’m sure I’ve mentioned before). 

I can’t work out whether just getting them down on paper would actually be less hassle than them bullying me? 

Then again, the housework gets neglected too much as it is, what with me trying to get my brain around website building etc. (I am definitely a digital immigrant!)

Oh, and I have to fit sleep in sometime. 

Unfortunately, I doubt they’ll all agree to keep it to a dull roar until the kids have grown…

There is a poem I should put up that I wrote in October, about my imagined muse being upset with me.  (It was a non-timed one, without random word inspiration, cos I hadn’t started that yet)

It would be so nice if I could get a definitive answer about where all this head buzz comes from.

But…maybe it wouldn’t.

Maybe I like having belief in some force greater than the some of my parts, and that’s why I’ve never quite given up on the idea of being a writer; and have had the drive to finally do something proactive.

Maybe…

😉

One spooky thing I noticed, after I wrote the above poem, was that by the fifth line of each of the longer verses, I had 36 syllables altogether.  It ends up 51, 61 and 59 by the end of the eighth line, but why the fifth line pattern?!  I counted no syllables while writing it.  So who (or what) was governing that?

*Twilight Zone theme to fade*

[Photo credit: Pixabay]

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