A mixed bag of poems and other writings.
I feel sorry for the moon,
hearing only beginnings and endings.
As dawn wakes
she strains to linger,
cocking her crescent ear to the chorus.
As the afternoon lullaby fades
into a tantalising flourish of dusk song,
she arrives just that bit too late –
a groupie hoping to catch a glimpse
of her favourite singers.
Real or contrived? I cannot tell.
Questioning all that I now see.
Metaphors dangle overhead –
like a child’s mobile.
My pen reaches up to hook one –
drag it onto the page.
But which?
The soft one, sewn of felt and love,
which shares its yellow glow upon my face?
The tough and weathered one that will survive,
no matter how roughly it is held?
Or,
The brightest one?
Which even if I snipped it free,
will always feel its roots,
as it holds a thousand tiny shields
of beating hearts.
Linking this to The Sunday Muse Blogspot. Carrie has offered an enticing array of sunflower images and reminds us that ‘The sunflower is more than Ukraine’s national flower it has quickly become an international symbol of peace and solidarity for the Ukrainian people since the Russian invasion began.’ Visit the Sunday Muse site: http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/ to enjoy the responses.
The air is ready to burst –
a puffed zeppelin,
its seams stretched to split,
with songs of ‘hear me’, ‘first me’.
Beaks of chirp and flute,
cut into spring,
like scissor tips
snipping through silk habotai.
Pastel notes float down –
flakes of paper confetti.
I am linking this to d’Verse where WhimzyGizmo (aka De jackson) is on Quadrille duty, with the word ‘paper’. For more details visit the d’Verse site at: https://dversepoets.com/2022/03/21/quadrille-148-papered-poems/.
NB: Silk habotai is also known as parachute silk.
Aisle, after aisle,
row upon row of stacked shelves.
Artistic crosses,
and the barest of limbs.
No Yorick here.
No soliloquy opportunity.
We knew them not,
either in jest or fancy.
Why did we come?
Did it scare you son to walk
among the long gone,
the hollowed heads?
Just a lark,
to traipse along the labyrinth,
impress our friends
and pass six million souls.
Peut-être, one could say,
tourism makes voyeurs
of us all,
n’est-ce pas?
Written for the Weekend Writing Prompt, which this week is to use the word ‘Catacomb’, using exactly 77 words, either in prose or a poem. See the link at: https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2022/03/19/weekend-writing-prompt-253-catacomb/
.
Green bedecked,
keeping vigil, waxing needles,
ready to protect.
On the brow,
marooned lighthouse,
shadow throwing.
Constant beauty,
sentinel aside the lane,
where others fall.
Sacrifice,
Sweet scented,
Cut and lit.
I have recently joined a poetry group who share poems every month on a different theme. The current theme is ‘kindness’. It seems to me that nature is always offering, it does not expect thanks …
Hovering hands
Long to clutch,
Feel the fragile,
The heat and throb,
The flutter beneath.
The eyes that lead to the heart know,
The ears that lead there, they know too.
Beauty needs a gentle touch
And
The breathless cannot sing.
Too long –
Wonder and doubt blinked
And she flit.
Leaving
A red throat branded on the retina.
Every month, the lovely people at Visual Verse post an image and ask for submissions written in response that take one hour or less to write, with these words: :The picture is the starting point, the text is up to you’. This is my response, which appears on their site (p. 18), at :https://visualverse.org/
The image is by Susan Fenimore Cooper, (1813-1894) who, Kristen on the VV Team tells us, ‘was a writer, artist, naturalist and humanitarian. Cooper was the first woman to be recognised for nature writing’.
I washed my hat.
As the muggy fumes of soggy wool drifted up from the bathroom sink, I wondered,
Had it ever been washed before?
It didn’t resist – as I plunged it again and again into the greying eddy.
It became a slimy rag. It surrendered to the soap and warm water and gave up its claim to being a hat.
Perhaps I have ruined it?
Perhaps I should have left it?
I treated it to a blue rinse of fabric conditioner.
It is an old hat. It’s the least I can do.
It has kept my head warm for many years.
It is me. I am identifiable by it.
Its black and white stripes are often seen around our local streets.
It drips onto the shower bowl, hanging from the hose, like a massive striped tongue, drooling saliva.
Hangdog. Waiting. Waiting to dry.
Tonight Mish is inviting us to write about hats – metaphorical or physical, or any other form thereof. Read some fascinating hat facts and responses from the d’Verse poets at this link: https://dversepoets.com/2022/03/15/poetics-leave-your-hat-on/. I wrote this a wee while ago.
I’d been away for a few years, its true. So what had I expected on my return? To pick up where I had left off? To see my old haunts unchanged? The burger bar near the station where I first met you, still serving flat, greasy baps of squashed meat and limp lettuce? Or Mr Wilson from the hardware store waving to me from the doorway, his ginger wig askew? I saw nothing and no-one I recognised – it was as if my past had never happened. I wandered lonely as. A cloud picked up pace in the March winds and I watched as it scudded in front of the pink foam of sunset, over the rooftops of a new housing estate. Then, in the distance I caught sight of a figure waving, and I heard a voice calling my name. Your voice.
#d’Verse Prosery Monday.https://dversepoets.com/2022/03/14/winter-be-gone/
I am linking this to d’Verse Prosery Monday challenge from Lillian who has charged us with including the words from William Wordsworth’s famous poem: ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’.
So many words that rhyme this week
with Sammi’s weekend prompt,
purportedly a bit of fun,
write what the deuce you want.
I thought of this, I fought with that,
a sport of words laid claim,
specious in their word combat,
caught in this wordplay game.
I ducked from all the clamouring
of desperate contenders.
Eventually I raised my flag
and signalled my surrender.
This weekend’s prompt from Sammi (https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2022/03/12/weekend-writing-prompt-252-purport/) is to write a piece of prose or poetry using the word ‘purport’ using exactly 64 words. Great fun as always. Thank you Sammi and fellow scribblers.
March tugs and pushes,
impatient child,
howling at will,
tearing at shreds of brown wrapping,
shaking free gifts of green,
flailing its fattening arms
against the reins,
soothed only by a sweet lullaby,
that chatters and trickles
in golden song.
My husband and I were listening to a series of brief lessons on recognising common birdsong earlier this week. I haven’t seen a goldfinch yet this year, but when I do I hope, now, I’ll also recognise its beautiful tinkling gold song.
Writing Whatnots 