Icenic queen of fearsome deeds or fabled king of graffiti. A sword and spear to slay the foe, or satire sprayed by cool Samo. One sought freedom from oppression, one sought freedom of expression.
Crowns are there to be followed, worn to be seen.
Whimsygizmo at d’Verse Poets (https://dversepoets.com/) has posted this week’s quadrille challenge, to write a poem of exactly 44 words including the word ‘crown’. I am rather late to the party, and became totally distracted reading about Boudica (Iceni queen who led a revolt against the Romans in Britain approx 60/61 AD) and the American graffiti artist Jean-Michel Basquiat (who used the symbol of a crown extensively in his work). And the art which accompanies this quadrille is a bit random, but quite honestly I couldn’t find anything which fitted, so I opted for colourful abstract!
Inspired by recent poems posted by David Bogomolny on The Skeptic’s Kaddish, (https://skepticskaddish.com/) I thought I would try a Cleave poem. To read it you should read the left hand poem as a first discrete poem, then the right hand poem as a discrete poem, then both poems together as a whole poem.
Lines, which were so perfect in my waking head are lost to sleepy drift. Despite attempts to sift through flakes of words and shape them into verse, I’m left with trickling melts which gently seep into unconsciousness before they fade and die.
A Reversed Etheree seems an appropriate form to shape my poem of evaporating thoughts 😊.
Colour ebbing, yet beauty still to see. Waves of rich ochre. Fades of green wired brush adorn unleafed trees. Sculptured shadows sweep and shape, picture forge. An overwhelming sense of place and peace.
Colour ebbing, another orbit round. Celts, Romans, Saxons, stood where I stand now. Seas of grass and hill, valley from the past, bowl of history, where time has stood and time will never cease.
We had a truly awesome walk in the Dorset countryside today, discovering yet another route that took us through some stunning landscapes. I don’t think my photo does it anything like justice. At one point we were in a bowl of hills, with the Roman fort of Waddon Hill on one side, sheltered from wind and standing in total silence. It is so rare to find a spot where there is no sound at all. We pondered that the landscape was probably unchanged for millennia. Our legs ached when we got home, but it was so worth it. I thought I’d try another duodora – I do so like this form.
Waiting in the dark undercroft at a steady fifty-five degrees. A slow match to light the way. A ticking piece to mark time.
Precious barrels ready to decant, set tongues loose and divide the body. No flavours from a foreign shore, just grapes grown on sour soil.
Counting friends on one hand, remembering a toast of faith, as plans are stemmed by a firm hold and crimson stains the new-sawn wood.
Glass crunches ‘neath the feet, as children run around his chair, singing songs of broken necks, and men cheer long into the night.
Carrie at The Sunday Muse Blogspot (http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/) has supplied us with another tempting prompt. My offering is Guy Fawkes-inspired, as we remember, remember the 5th of November, gunpowder, treason and plot!
I saw a ghost on the path, my shadow in the low autumn light resurrecting his long, lean frame.
Later, when the radio played ‘Where Sheep May Safely Graze’ the melody tugged a dusty drape aside. His chosen farewell. I tried to learn it, years later, in my brief attempt to master scales and ivory.
I hear his voice, that way he said my name, in three distinct syllables, as if he were working his mouth around each vowel.
I used to wear his old elbow-patched jumper for gardening, but somewhere along the after years it has fallen into the realm of lost things and old memories, waiting to be unearthed.
His pitch never changed. Once he’d tilted some Dutch courage, careening nerves stemmed, he’d make his move. His chin wobbling, he’d laugh and roll his faithful dice, rocking the beer-soaked table, and with a subtle shift of tone he’d start to reel them in.