Remember to breathe...
I’m a writer and a poet originally from York, however I’ve spent much of my time twinkle trotting amongst the Sherwood Forest trees, where I want to preach and teach poetry about the high seas. I use my friends and family for inspiration, where I do my best to toast but never boast at the Vale of Belvoir Writer’s club which is a sweet treat. I have a tendency to break into rhyme most of the time. I have an upcoming poetic fantasy book and I’ve a killer swift writer’s hook…
Dear Reader, stand fast upon the HMS Journey mast, and don’t you ever let go, this turbulent ship sets sail back and forth in time as we to and fro. Through the clouds across the fabled land of Sylamb into Harfleur, where the locals say bonjour, madame and monsieur.
Remember to breathe, and there are wizards up this writers clubs sleeve
by William John Mclaughlin
Feathered quill, ink to spill from my blot pot with a juicy plot.
Yet if this owl doesn’t fly the nest I’m afraid my brain may rot.
But my character Nelly is off the latch “Will if you want fresh cookies just make a batch? Then in the fountain I’ll thrash and splash to make you cash!”
That’s great Nelly but I’m lost in a writer’s reader nook and I need to escape this book, time for sticky buttered bangers and mash, and to make a back door exit dash.
Down to the Old Parish School, where my voice is my best tool.
Hearing an Aussie twang, I sprang, to see who was perched on her stool.
I haven’t spoken to you since I was six.
Now you’re teaching me brand new tricks.
24 years ago, your hot tip, was getting me to practice my pen grip, now let’s flip, Nelly leaps out and dances with his fabulous floral flamingo hip, time to hit the electric switch (blip), I’m talking too fast, I’ve taken a sour sip, am I having a malfunctioning trip?
“Will you just need to read slower. Remember when you were a kid we used to do those exercises at the start of class, hook your arms up to your chest, remember to do your best, cross your ankles and remember to breathe.”
I’m so thankful you traded the land where kangaroo’s leap, for our isle with our white fluffy clouded sheep.
A blast from the past, there are wondrous wizards up this writers clubs sleeve.
Yet sometimes I like to get rid of the comma, there’s just no time to breathe.
Sometimes I love slick quick liquid lightning pace lips splutter as I float and flutter with a dream to chase you taught whilst I drew and I’d chew my neat sweet strawberry lace.
Next time I’ll bring flowers and remind her how she’s helped with her new powers. Maybe next time she’ll tell me about her book where she finds joy, or maybe she can tell me a story when I was happy as a boy. Like a giggling inky squid, I laughed and my spider scrawled hand writing I hid.
She reminded me to breathe and that I’m a starry poetic prancer
Time to slide away listening to Cosmic Dancer…
“Well well well, William’s wish wellingtons were twinkling tonight now weren’t they. Weren’t we fabulous on our tip toes.”
“Nelly you were there prancing and dancing, doing a pirouette on your toes to melt our waxed woes. I think I used to be too shy to advertise my ballet, and on my feet I froze. You were always right; it was never because I was scared of stubbing my toes.”
“Not tonight though Will. We slip space soared through the stars, with super speed cars, the destination was beyond mars. Wow like Tris’s sci-fi story, also maybe the three of us could hit the bars!”
“Maybe…”
“Also, how good was Adele who had her wonderful cover story to tell, and thank goodness for Cat when she talks about her crime thriller, when she speaks it’s never ever vanilla.”
“Oh, those owls flew fabulously Nelly.”
“Right, time to get back to dreaming of the lady who talks about the fabric and the stitching, how it just has her itching, you and her both have dull jobs that need ditching.”
“Okay that’s enough Nelly, I’m never telling you again about the lady with strawberry blonde hair that will swish. But oh how I wish, I wish… yet I’m the poor cat and she’s stuck in the tank, she’s a silly slippery star fish.”
“Maybe you’ll be in the tank one day, her gorgeous face, chewing a sweet strawberry ‘blonde’ lace, dream to chase…”
“Maybe, anyway… she dances with daises in her hair, I see visions of her singing in the swinging chair, our blue bloods bubble boil, no fairytale nor toil? Is there still a saucy sausage in some foil? I was dancing when I was eight, is it strange to dance so late?”
“You’re tired William. Anyway, let’s get some fresh air or pub grub, oh how I love splashing and thrashing at your writers club.”
Image: "誰知道甚麼才是真 哪邊才是假 換個角度 一切也變得不一樣 . Credit to Quill Hon" by popopokokoko is licensed under CC BY 2.0 
