At dusk the dying day
descends to decay.
The spirit droops away
devoid of conscious thought
in sleep, dreams pulse in sequence
Sleight of heavenly hand
brings a raw new day,
reflected light to wake the spirit,
re-start the cycle
until the dying day
descends once more into decay.
for a wordle prompt at Red Wolf Poems. I managed all but two: parasites and
One of my smaller poems apppears today in the first edition of the new literary e-zine Gnarled Oak
image from BBC News
Flames roaring through the roof
cut to interior shot of rubble.
The most iconic landmark
in a lifetime of icons –
a tragic end.
A fag-end on the lunchtime news
overheard today appalled me.
I thought it today’s news.
Still tragic, but I found
destruction of this
Forensic archaeologists called in,
sadness turns to anger
that no sprinklers
were in place.
Margo Roby gave us an intriguing prompt today: Choose an event, or a setting. I want your narrator to consider the chosen item from a specific place. You need to let us know, without shoving it in our faces, where the place is in terms of its relationship to what the narrator is going to talk about, or describe.
Change the narrator’s view. Alter the angle or the distance and have your narrator discover something they hadn’t seen or known before about what it is they are describing.Is there a significance, or an epiphany, with the new perspective?
In case you’re wondering, the building was the Glasgow School of Art, designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh.
The meal that’s better than sex
lingers long on the palate,
with hints of seafood
mixed with toast.
Body and soul are refreshed,
Hunger appeased yields to
subtle aroma of yesterday
which tends to impinge
on a foretaste of tomorrow
mixed with today.
Photograph by weirdcombinations.com
When I saw today’s Wordle words I thought Hooray, nothing could be simpler. Not so – it’s taken me all day to come up with this paltry poem. I’m sure there will be much better ones to read at Brenda’s Sunday Whirl
I’ve never seen so much gore
as there was in the Pierce Brosnan film November Man. Not usually my cup of tea, but the film was so exciting that my horror receded! Produced by Brosnan, the film could have been a James Bond by any other name – the plot was convoluted spy stuff, well worked out to a satisfying conclusion in Belgrade, with beautiful girls, lots of chases on foot and by car, naughty bits and a plethora of bodies.
We took our neighbour from Cerisy, who comes to us for English conversation lessons, and she said it was “her sort of film”.
The Cinema de la Plage at Hauteville sur Mer is small, modern, and very comfortable. Once a month they put on films in VO (original language with French subtitles) largely for the Brits living in the region. The showing concludes with a free cup of tea or coffee and chocolate biscuits in the lobby. We don’t go out a lot, but we’ve seen some terrific films there – Calendar Girls, Ladies in Lavender, Billy Elliott, Skyfall. Next month we are promised the award-winning Mister Turner, with Timothy Spall. Not to be missed.
On the surface all is beauty,
but the first picture is blurry,
fuzzy with imprecision.
The lines are not clear -
it could be anything or nothing,~
treachery is merely implied.
The next is surreal as Dali.
Thoughts fly above the subject’s head
in distorted profusion, but clear
in intention. This man emanates evil.
A landscape follows, calm, serene
concealing the world of the wild
where all is predator or prey.
Art is not reality, paint is not truth.
Victoria’s prompt at dVerse intrigued me, it asks for art as metaphor. As you know, metaphor is not in my armoury, so I may have got this entirely wrong.
At the crossroads one night
with the moon shining bright -
what dreadful doggerel I write -
darn it, I’ve lost the thread
of the story I had in my head.
I’ll start it all over again.
No I won’t – too mundane -
I’ll try and think of another.
Birds flew overhead.
From the grave of the dead
came a spine-chilling howl.
Was it an owl?
No, ‘twas a vole in the mud,
despatched in cold blood
by that raptor,
who rose triumphant
while the moon was refulgent.
Oh dear, I’ve done it again.
to eat or be eaten -
the law of the wild wood
destroys childhood illusion -
to end this effusion -
a foregone conclusion.
You stand a chance of reading better poetry at Brenda’s Sunday Whirl
At Mind love Miserys menagerie, we’re given two forms as a prompt: the Shadorma (six lines of 3/5/3/3/7/5 syllables) or to write a poem in Trochaic metre.
I didn’t set out to be bolshie: I really tried to follow the instructions, but somehow it all went against the grain.
Okey Dokey That’s the way
to write in trochee.
But I can’t think what to write on
that will bounce like Hiawatha.
was a lover -
he who didn’t know
when to stop.
was fair game
counting is a bore -
it is not
get a rhythm going with
no way to hear stress.
We’ve already received a Christmas Card
Too soon. I can’t think about Christmas yet.
A quiet week, mostly spent quilting. With some pleasant walks, between showers. The wind forecast by this mackerel sky was a bit of a damp squib. There are still plenty of leaves on the trees.
All the fun of the fair
the noise, the smells, the spills
the fear – that wheel soars high,
but I want to go there.
Clanking dodgems crash
and grind, provoking squeals
from inept drivers
Candy floss beards
sticky little hands
roll pennies down a slot to lose
and tears roll down cheeks.
Swaggering beer-fuelled boastful blokes
pick up lethal weapons
to fire at and miss the targets,
failing to win the teddy bear.
Games of chance and games of skill
carousel horses and what you will
mud and squalor but beauty still -
that’s the fun of the fair.
A rather uimaginative contribution to Gay Reiser Cannon’s delicious prompt for dVerse Meeting the Bar. Some poets have come out of the two months of poem a day challenges writing out of their skins. I am not one of them.
Posted in free verse
Creative Bloomings gives us a new poetic form, the Hadron, which consists of just twelve words. Brevity is key. It offers two random glimpses at complementary thoughts.
LINE 1: Use two words to set the subject.
LINE 2: Three words that relate directly to subject of LINE 1
LINE 3: two words completing the thought begun on LINE 2, describing it.
The next three lines convey a new thought related to the first in an abstract way:
LINE 4: Two descriptive rhyming words
LINE 5: One word setting up the action conveyed in
LINE 6. Two words
I was blown away by the name of the form, hence:
incomprehensible research project
After two months of poem-a-day challenges, I am reverting to quilting while the creative juices re-generate. I started making “something, I don’t know what” with three lovely fat quarters. Like Topsy, it just growed. The central block was too big for a table mat, and too small for a lap rug, so I decided to turn it into a medallion quilt by adding borders.
I didn’t have any quilt batting, so I pulled a “freebie” fleece quilt out of the bathroom cupboard, layered the top with it and am now hand quilting. Because the middle layer is puffy, I’ve kept the quilting quite sparse
and it is keeping me warm like an eiderdown as I quilt.
with the way
the first glimpse of
sun, the first sparkle,
the first slash of sunburn
dispels the cold gray
jaded spirit of
More Sunday wordlers congregate here
A perfect week: summer still here
My walk around the village yesterday morning was delightful
I was waylaid twice by witches and ghosts on my way to the shop for sweeties to give out to trick or treaters, and had to ask them to call again later. Later turned out to be a constant stream of costumed creatures carrying buckets, all accompanied by embarrassed mothers. Jock had to go for more supplies!