Last week, in order to continue pushing and motivating Myself, The Writer, I downloaded an app called ‘Daily Prompt’ which sends a writing suggestion every day to be completed within 24 hours. The basic app is free - of course, you are nudged to ‘upgrade’ in order to reveal the full glories the app has to offer, but I am more than happy with the freebie version. Once you’ve completed a writing prompt task - up to 500 words - you can upload it, share it, and it can be read and commented upon by other app users. Early days, but promising thus far. There are also little competitions to enter. The prizes are in U.S dollars so I am guessing the app is American. No matter.
Today was Day 5 for me. So far I have completed four 500 word mini stories. I set myself an hour to write them, and a couple of them have been a close run panic to meet that deadline, but I don’t want to spend more than an hour a day on this kind of exercise, and if I take a fancy to something I write, I can always return to expand on it in my own time, can’t I? Day 5 today, and cor blimey if it isn’t...
I’m afraid my poetry attempts are the sort of stuff you find in sentimental birthday cards. All ‘tum-te-tum-te-tum’ kind of stuff. I don’t think I have the depth of soul to write what I call ‘proper’ poetry. I like a bit of poetry, don’t get me wrong, and I’ve certainly taught enough of the stuff over the years to understand the processes, techniques and procedures, but ultimately I am a novelist and script writer, not a poet.
Anyway, today’s prompt was: ‘Write a poem about a place which makes you feel nostalgic.’ Well! I almost fell at the first hurdle there and then because I’m not hugely into nostalgia either. If I come over all nostalgic it is usually a sign I am feeling miserable, so I do my darnedest to knock that on the head P.D.Q.
However, after a little thought and a kick up the creative arse by my creative guardian angel, I came up with this. I couldn’t think of a suitably witty title. It is called, simply, ‘With Gran and Grandad
Gran is making pies.
I’m sitting in their garden
Spotting cloud shapes in the skies.
The borders of their garden
Are rose-filled, scented sweet.
Privet hedges neatly clipped,
Lush grass beneath my feet.
Grandad tends chrysanthemums,
Gran’s collecting eggs.
I’m running with their poodle
Getting sun upon my legs.
The poodle’s name is Ringo,
Eyes are button bright.
Coat all curls and fluffiness,
Black as darkest night.
Outhouse room is dark and cool,
Harvest to be stored.
Spending time in this place
I’m never, ever bored.
In the van with Grandad,
Delivering fruit and veg
Out and around the country lanes
And fields all edged with hedge.
I’m standing side by side now,
I’m baking cakes with Gran!
Tarts and scones and fruit loaves,
Victoria sponge with jam.
Grandad chats with customers
In the farm yard shop.
Gran cooks up some beetroot
And sells it piping hot!
Always time and patience.
Always peace and calm.
Always happy memories
On Gran and Grandad’s farm.
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