forever is just a word

100 words about time passing too fast
photo by swooshed 

tick tock

Sound of the clock.

tick tock tick tock

Seconds flock from future to past, relentless and metronome-steady; you know you won’t last forever but that won’t stop you from trying.

tick tock

Minutes mock by not passing and then – you’re not looking – an hour has gone. But what is one hour?

tick tock tick tock

Days, weeks, months stack up, the beat of the metronome faded to background noise.

tick tock

Years, decades, a lifetime, the tick tock has knocked them out of you second by irreplaceable second.

tick tock tick tock

Sound of the clock.

tick tock


100 words about insomnia
photo by Redd Angelo 

Leap: What you’d do if you had the guts – off the ledge, arms outstretched, looking up so you won’t see you’re about to end in a heap on the asphalt.

Sleep: What you want. Deep, undisturbed, refreshing sleep, not the fitful tossing and turning that ensues if you get anywhere near slumbering at all.

Weep: What you do once your head hits the pillow. Keeping it together during the day is hard work; you don’t know how you manage most of the time. But here, safe underneath the covers, you allow yourself the relief of tears seeping into the linen.

The Magic Mirror is Wasted on Her

100 words about a woman who doesn't listen to the magic mirror
photo by Jill111 

‘Mirror, mirror on the wall,

Who’s the fairest of them all?’

The longer she spends staring at her reflection,

The more she knows her looks need some action.

Her face isn’t pretty; at least she is tall.

Yet a nose like this won’t make her belle of the ball.

Full of self-loathing and full of rejection,

She can’t see the beauty that holds others in thrall.

What the mirror says is met with objection:

Just look at her bust, it is woefully small;

Her forehead could do with another injection.

She needs a plastic surgeon at her beck and call.

Houseboat (this is not a Villanelle)

(it’s meter practice; I went to a poetry workshop at the Dylan Thomas Centre this morning and I’ve got rhymes on my mind; I know I said I shouldn’t rhyme…)

100 words about a haunted houseboatApologies, my home is rocking at all times

Be careful not to trip over those lines.

They move on their own without any warning

And you don’t want to lose your footing.

Once in the water your fate’s out of my hand;

I’ve tried it before, they’ll ignore my demand.

Water’s their domain. It’d be insane

To stand in between them and what they want.

It’s them who rock, it’s them who trip,

It’s them who may well sink this ship.

My home is my castle but I’m not in charge

The ghosts of the drowned keep haunting this barge.

I Miss the Days

I miss the days when I neither knew nor cared what my food contained.

100 words about food; elegyI dream of pizza or pasta and a Becks

or a burrito and an ice-cold Corona.

Sushi’s fine as long as I bring my special soy sauce.

I once loved sashimi and nigiris and makis and edamame beans

But it’s all I eat when I eat out and I’m so bored with raw fish.

I crave peanut butter and apricot jam on toasted wholegrain bread as a comfort on bad days

and lemon drizzle cake most days.

I miss the days before I was diagnosed coeliac.

Faces (a found poem)

100 words about faces; found poem; Tintern Abbey
Tintern Abbey earlier today.
(c) 2015, Sonya

I want to talk to you

But my face… my ugly crying face.

This is how I feel tonight, no joke,

It’s my porcelain doll face,

It’s stuck like this.

I learnt how to make a smiley face on my own, look at this bright beautiful golden tint. That’s what I call talent!

I can’t stop my face from showing what I’m thinking. Pisces cannot hide how they feel. Though they may try, the truth is written all over their face.

Make your expression a welcoming gift: avoid dour ‘screen face’ from staring down at your phone.

Talk to me.


This is a found poem. I tried to do something with the Tintern Abbey leaflets I picked up, but there wasn’t enough stuff in there I could use to cobble together one hundred words. So I went on Twitter instead and searched for face, copied a lot of tweets and then rearranged the words and chopped most of them off.

It’s a weird one, but I like it.

Oh, just so you know, I am in full holiday mode now, so it may take some for me to reply to comments. I’ll get round to it, promise!

An Ode to Ambling

The road to nowhere is paved with good advice from people who don’t understand the joys of losing yourself: To get anywhere, go with your arrival in mind. A target to shoot for. A destination. A to B.

But leaving doesn’t have to mean arriving; meandering, strolling, wandering leads to discovering paths and buildings and histories you never knew existed, you’d never have found if you didn’t let yourself drift.

Leave the map behind and follow your fancy. Leave breadcrumbs to signpost the way back.

Because I want to hear all about your journey to nowhere in particular and everywhere.


Ahem. Is it an ode when you call it one? It’s an ode in essence but maybe not in form but since we all agreed I shouldn’t rhyme yesterday, it’s better this way.


‘You can’t. You won’t.’

She binned her thin-skinned ego and canned her plan to hide in plain sight.

Instead of leggings and oversized t-shirt, she’d wear a dress to impress even when she wasn’t sure she had what it took to pull off the look. Fake it till you feel it, right? She put on a hat for protection against close inspection of her face, just in case. She didn’t want to give any more space to those who thought her place was forever in greyscale, in the shadows, in hiding. Soon, she’d take flight.

She could. And she would.

The Theatre of Love

Smiling like a new moon, eyes sparkling like stars, she refuses to speak her lines and

Turns away from him. Away from the argument. She’s never turned away from an argument. She makes the move so fluidly it looks like she’s rehearsed it.

An eternity of three seconds later, while her scent lingers, she’s exited stage right and he knows, in his bones, she will not come back, not even for a curtain call.

100 words about the end of a relationship
(c) Etol Bagam

Gifts left behind like props that have served their purpose, aided her performance – perfume, scarves, diamond earrings –

Everything he did, discarded, unwanted.

Discarded, unwanted like him.


Is it a story? Is it a poem? Does it matter? Do you like it?