Where Crowns Took Me …

Multi Colored Mix Illustration
Photo by Steve Johnson, on Pexels.com

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!

Winter’s Calling Card

green grass in close up photography
Photo by Brecht Denil, Unsplash

I can taste winter on my tongue.
The cold air rings around me,
And I am caught in the echo of its song.

The soft ice-crush of glittered grass
announces my walk in hushed voice,
as Winter claims my hand
and leads me deep into its shadows.

There’s no mistake this morning, winter’s calling card has arrived.

Last Dance.

dancing woman on concrete pavement
photo by Ahmad Odeh at Unsplash

As she drew her comb over her head

preparing for the day, the wind played,

teasing at the thin strands, songs of yesterday,

echoes from the past and dances of life

stepped into her mind, whisked and twirled,

and her feet shuffled as she scattered his ashes

with a parting chasse to the eternal ballroom.

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.

Tainted Taste.

Photo by JEREMIESHUSU on Pixabay

,

Cold tea glugs into
the sink, leaving a dark stain
of distasteful residue.
Your lips have smacked against
my white china for the last time.

Grace at D’Verse Poets has charged us to write a Wayra . The elements of the Wayra are:

1.a pentastich, a poem in 5 lines.
2.syllabic, 5-7-7-6-8
3.unrhymed.

These short forms are always fun to try out. Have a look at some cool responses on :https://dversepoets.com/2021/11/18/poetry-form-the-wayra/

Word Melt

green grass on white snow
Photo by Michaela Murphy, Unsplash.

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 😊.

Walking in Time

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.

Holding On

nest on tree
Photo by Robert Thiemann, Unsplash.

This morning I could not see the hills,
shrouded as they were
in a thick gossamer of mist.

After noon, the sun meagrely peaked,
submitting to pale yellow
and grey white.

Bare elder branches exposed
a small dark nest,
empty and silent.

And so here we are.
Less visible, less vibrant,
and holding onto hearts once full.

Dangerous Vintage

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!

Lean Shadow

Image preview

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.

There is comfort in these moments.

Can you be perswayded?

2 white dices on blue surface
Photo by Edge2Edge Media, Unsplash.

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.

This week’s quadrille challenge has been set by Lillian at d’Verse poets (https://dversepoets.com/2021/11/01/closing-in-on-the-end-of-2021/), and she has asked us to include the word ‘careen’ in our response. I lurched (sorry!) about with this one and came up with a list (sorry again!) of synonyms for the root word.