Writing prompt 4: buildings

Taken in Seville a couple of years ago…. here’s today’s prompt… Post your poems below. In May selected poems from these prompts will be published on The Poetry Shed… happy writing…


3 thoughts on “Writing prompt 4: buildings”

  1. writing prompt 4:

    The Mushroom

    From nowhere to a palace-size parasol overnight –
    I will dine out all day on this creamy platter of fast food,
    sip a café au lait mid-morning beneath its milky swirls.

    At eleven I return to discover the slugs got there first –
    garden mushroom turned into a broken bus shelter,
    glistening graffiti sprayed in slime over sun-warmed walls.

    At lunch bugs and the sun have really gone to town –
    interior girders falling down, eaves nibbled away
    white walls awash with brown mould, stink of rot.

    By evening, the mushroom is a tumbledown shack
    shrouded in leaves. My daughter calls from the kitchen;
    I am giddy with the fear of losing everything.

  2. Cityscape

    All summer, falling in love with the city
    as if it were dying…

    Autumn, and you have slept
    through the echo of sirens

    half-aware of buildings hundreds of years old,
    of vaulted stone, cathedrals breathing,

    reflections in shop windows, of him
    threading his way through your skin.

    Bucks Fizz for breakfast, thick pile carpet
    between your toes, before

    lunch at The Ivy, passing by empty
    coffee cups held out for coins.

    Your secrets left in the bedroom,
    climbing to the moon,

    the muffled rush of traffic, Westminster Abbey,
    royalty beneath flagstones,

    the shift of populations – their story
    plays, until the needle hits the label, scrapes.

  3. 13th April 2020

    Writing Prompt 4


    Lying in this old house,
    Floorboards creaking under my feet,
    So polished, I leave footprints wherever I walk.
    Knowing no-one, recognising nothing,
    Seeing only rows of beds drowsing in moonlight
    Falling from ancient windows distorting centuries.
    I am certain ghosts live here,
    At home in dark corners, waiting in sly cupboards.

    Soldiers came first to this house of wood and stone,
    Helped through oak doors big as cathedrals.
    Rooms long enough and wide enough
    To keep injured men and woeful children
    Treading quietly to giant fireplaces,
    To stare up those vast chimneys and dream
    Of freedom in woods alive with birdsong,
    Of grass buttoned down with daisies.

    No-one said anything about the dead ladies
    Drifting up and down the shining staircase,
    Shimmering in their lovely dresses.
    Haughty dead forever scowling at the living
    Until their skulls split wide open.

    I just want to go home.
    Leave this requisitioned old house behind me.

    ©2020 Gwen Grant

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