April
Had a few drinks,
Then she had a few more,
Then she went and had a few more.
Ouchie.
© Carl Burkitt 2017
This poem is part of a challenge for National Poetry Writing Month 2017 – a different style of poem each day about a woman called April.
April was seduced by Tommy’s song,
Its bouncy rhythm and length so long.
Every whistle her hairs did bristle
Teasing her to go and do something wrong.
© Carl Burkitt 2017
This poem is part of a challenge for National Poetry Writing Month 2017 – a different style of poem each day about a woman called April.
I make £130K a year, yet I’m barely making ends meet.
I have a tough mother-in-law who interrogates me a lot. What should I do?
If you die with your eyes open, can you still see?
I don’t like what I named my son anymore. He’s about to be two.
When a child dies, do the parents become closer?
What is it too late for at the age of 20?
Does shooting from under your chin kill without hurting you?
What makes you want to give up on humanity?
© Carl Burkitt 2017
This poem is part of a challenge for National Poetry Writing Month 2017 – a different style of poem each day about a woman called April. This is made up from forum titles in an email I received from question and answer site Quora Digest.
April was having a tough day. An
awful day, if you like. She saw an ant
walking on her cereal, broke
her favourite mug and then all
of her guinea pigs dropped dead from the
deafening sound of the shelf carrying
her books falling on to her Dad’s old records.
That was only the morning. Just
as she got to work her boss called to
say she needed a word with her. “Give
your goodbyes, you’re fired April.” An
awful, awful day. She had no idea
what to do. So she did what most
would do. She got drunk and squashed some ants.
The destruction was horrendous. I can’t
quite describe. Blood. Screams. She went to carry
on when she heard a faint cry: “Too much!
Too much! We can’t take any more!”
The little ant pleaded. “Rather than
take your bad day out on us, go for a
a walk. I know things might look shit,
but it will get better. Piece by piece.
You now have an opportunity of
moving on with life, turning a new leaf.
What do you say?” April thought hard about this…
“Fuck off, you little anty cunt,”
she screamed and grabbed the largest rock she could
hold and proceeded to carry
it over to the remaining ants, where a
bigger squashing massacre took place. With only two
tiny bastards left, she poured a litre
of petrol on them, shoved a flaming rag in a bottle
smashed that right down on top of
them and celebrated with a calming cider.
© Carl Burkitt 2017
This poem is part of a challenge for National Poetry Writing Month 2017 – a different style of poem each day about a woman called April. The final word on each line making Tim Key’s ‘The Main Ant’ poem.
When the day ended
April yawned
and polished her knife.
© Carl Burkitt 2017
This poem is part of a challenge for National Poetry Writing Month 2017 – a different style of poem each day about a woman called April.
April fell
from the tree up high
and landed
on the ground
just like her father had done
many years before.
The dead grass
and the dry, cracked earth
welcomed her
with such force
just like her father had done
many years before.
© Carl Burkitt 2017
This poem is part of a challenge for National Poetry Writing Month 2017 – a different style of poem each day about a woman called April.
April never understood what to do.
Be it nurture, nature or
Confusion between the two,
Deep down she felt helpless.
Every day she’d wake,
Feed herself,
Get dressed,
Head out of the house and
Insist she
Just wasn’t like everyone else.
Kindness felt difficult.
Love impossible.
Movement came slowly,
Numbly,
Or downright painfully.
Pain like no other.
Quiet screams
Raced through her veins,
Smiling at the sensation.
Time after time:
Unrelenting disappointment,
Vexing inconsistencies,
Warning signs repeated,
Xeroxed life,
Ye with little faith,
Zealously moving forward.
© Carl Burkitt 2017
This poem is part of a challenge for National Poetry Writing Month 2017 – a different style of poem each day about a woman called April.
Moist
Grass.
Smiling
Sun. April
Had a lovely day.
She was sad she had to wake up.
© Carl Burkitt 2017
This poem is part of a challenge for National Poetry Writing Month 2017 – a different style of poem each day about a woman called April.
April had an itch.
She flung her arm back to reach,
but hit something else…
Her boyfriend died instantly,
the itch now finally scratched.
© Carl Burkitt 2017
This poem is part of a challenge for National Poetry Writing Month 2017 – a different style of poem each day about a woman called April.
April
couldn’t lie,
but loved to.
© Carl Burkitt 2017
This poem is part of a challenge for National Poetry Writing Month 2017 – a different style of poem each day about a woman called April.
Carl tells tales 