A restless night had me looking out of the bedroom window – and for once I am grateful I couldn’t sleep. The spring full moon was near its end, and was a spectacular sight. The light was diffused through a foggy air and the effect was beautiful. I wish I had taken a photo, but didn’t want to disturb anyone in the house by hunting for my phone. So all I have to show for it are my tanka thoughts 🌝.
A new landscape, hills not seen before, swathes of open unexpected sky, houses stoned in unfamiliar saffron, concrete blocks of stain and oil with wire barbed to scratch.
Swathes of open unexpected sky, unknown streams that turn and tumble with nibbling ducks, or rusting tins of special brew.
Houses stoned in unfamiliar saffron, lanes of tasteful postcard thatch and dry stone walls, or saddened streets that slouch and scowl.
Concrete blocks of stain and oil with wire barbed to scratch. Yet hear the curtain of bright song as birds keep faith – Untroubled by the view.
Whilst visiting Wiltshire we have walked around pretty thatched cottage-filled villages with idyllic gardens and quiet grassy banks, and also found ourselves in weed-guttered roads, lined with depressing flat-faced buildings and ugly factories. Yet, everywhere the constant sound of birdsong – a bush is a bush, a tree is a tree, life is life.
Grace is on duty at the dVerse Poets Pub and has invited us to try our hands at a Trimeric:
The rules are pretty simple:
Trimeric has 4 stanzas
The first stanza has 4 lines
The other three stanzas have 3 lines each
The first line of each stanza is a refrain of the corresponding line in the first stanza (so 2nd stanza starts with the second line, third stanza starts with the third line, etc.).
The sequence of lines, then, is abcd, b – -, c – -, d – -.
Note: No other rules on line length, meter, or rhyme.
Egg and bacon plant – Butterflies’ tasty breakfast. June fries her bounty.
Early summer’s shade, Trees hold hands above my head. Dappled path to peace.
Terraced tumulus, Rumpled velvet richly strewn. Steps to simpler times
Had a wonderful walk this week, to the north of Devizes, Wiltshire. We were aiming for Roundway Down Iron Age Hill Fort, but somehow found ourselves on another tumulus. It was covered with wild flowers and quite lovely. Took lots of snaps on my phone – these three brought the haiku out in me 📝
A dusted smudge – the moth has left its mark on the smooth painted plaster where I struck it, petulantly, with a rolled up newspaper. It flaps uselessly, its body too cumbersome, a primitive concept. A dying form. The moth or the newspaper you ask?
Mish is hosting at dVerse Poets Pub for Quadrille Monday, using the word ‘smudge’. See details at this link:https://dversepoets.com/2021/06/14/quadrille/ and read some great responses.
After nearly twenty-two years, we are going to decorate the hallway and landing. They last saw new paint in August 1999 when the UK experienced its last total eclipse of the sun. (Not an event one could forget).
The old worn carpet has been pulled up and the stairs are as naked as the day they were built. I look at the bare boards and I step carefully to avoid spiky gripper nails and attend to my rise and descent with extra care and concentration, my hand gripping the flaking painted bannister.
An arduous mountain face, rugged duvet-ridden slide, steps up to the land of nod, squealing escape from the monster, or at times heroic path to the monster, the stairs have supported our tread for many years. We have carried newborns up them, and held our breath after a tumble down them.
Morning light has crept briefly through the landing window for over ninety years and fallen humbly, dusting useful illumination on them -no spotlights ,the stairs wouldn’t want a fuss. They would say: ‘We are just stairs, nothing special, just doing our job.’
I still like sitting on the top step, before the half-landing, surveying the realm of hall below. Just as I still like curling my legs under me on a chair. But my step is a bit slower and heavier these days – I rarely jog upstairs. A bungalow I suppose is the eventual sensible option. But the thought of a barrack road of low-rooves and shingled gardens depresses me. Besides, I’m not sure I can live without stairs.
I am kicked in the back, pounded and shaken. My head feels as if it is bursting with blood, my heart is thudding painfully hard within my suit. An invisible body crushes me. I don’t think I can take much more. The pressure is unbearable.
Then, in an instant of magical release, it vanishes. Weightlessness descends, or does it ascend? The contrast forces a gasp of wonder. I knew it would happen, but I am still taken aback. Relief injects its calm serum and I begin to focus.
Earth’s horizon curves beneath a thin glowing line of blue. Above the line is the never-ending black of infinity and below a globe of such beauty that, as I look out of the space rocket’s window, I am overwhelmed. Now I understand that crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end.
Merril at dVerse Poets is hosting for tonight’s pub visit with the invitation to write exactly 144 words of prose using the words ‘“Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end.” taken from the poem ‘Map Next to the World’ by Joy Harjo. See the full details plus some great responses at: https://dversepoets.com/2021/06/07/prosery-finding-your-way/
Writing Whatnots 