Whatever you do, don’t panic. (A Rant Poem).


A space upon the shelf.
We stare and sigh, and rummage pointlessly in the vicinity.
But we know, we knew before we came,
there would be none to find.
We knew when we heard the news,
our helpful media made sure of that with their wilful mischief.
Don’t tell me they didn’t know that all it would take
were four small words:
‘No need to panic’.
A stampede of the desperate.
A frenzied footfall filling up their trolleys.
Their greedy stash packed smugly in cupboards and lofts and garages,
leaving nary a single one for the rest of us.
And one wonders, if news of a shortage produces such hysteria,
how will we cope when the shit really hits the fan?

This is the last prompt (No 13) for Muri’s Poetry Scavenger Hunt. A Rant Poem. There are so many subjects to choose from, but panic buying is with us again. I don’t know who’s worse – the media for fanning the flames in the first place, or us for over-reacting and panic buying. Just how many toilet rolls can one family use? How much pasta can they eat? How much sunflower oil do they really need? I despair at how selfish we in the West have become – thinking of ourselves first, ignoring how our actions deny others. So, rant over. I guess I’m just going to have to fry everything in butter instead!


Life Itself.


Their feet step and slide gently as the
Weaves its strands and chords around them
Like a
Soft caress of cashmere pulsing with a
Heart beat
And slowly they sway in its folds feeling its
Murmur, come closer, touch me
With love.

This is a Waltmarie (Prompt No 12 for Muri’s Poetry Scavenger Hunt). The Waltmarie form requires that the even lines are two syllables only, and when all the even lines are read together they form their own micro poem!



I once thought the world was a limitless sphere.
Beyond the forests, the oceans, the land
Infinite space would duly appear,
Vast meadows of grass, wide beaches of sand.
Its not just the rockets and bombs that I fear,
It’s the spite and hate I don’t understand.
For what can survive ‘gainst this type of rain?
There’s not enough room in this world for such pain.

Linking this to Muri’s Poetry Scavenger Hunt, (https://murisopsis.wordpress.com/2022/03/30/looking-forward-to-poetry-month/) Prompt No 11, to write an Ottava Rima. The title refers to the diameter of the world (in miles). Not sure how I feel about this poem – it has been bumbling in my head for a while, but perhaps the form is not the best one for the message. Oh well, in for a penny, as they say …

Act of Belief


Choices glint in the streaky, clouded light,
tossing, twirling,
inviting your performance.
Candy floss sticks to your lips,
manure and straw to your feet,
while skin tight promises of fame and fortune
give the illusion of a star ready to explode.

As you flex, limber and leap
the audience are enrapt,
believing that
they have seen you fly.

Check out the latest issue of Visual Verse (https://visualverse.org/). (My little poem is on page 43).

The tongue is a dangerous weapon.


The only truth, you are not what you seem.
Imagined motives of malignity.
Picking and nicking at a loose-sewn seam,
unravelling doubt and uncertainty.

Your emerald eyes dream a monstrous birth,
your innards gnawing with a spiteful lust.
You weigh each moment for its evil worth,
And squirm your way into others’ trust.

Who dost thou echo, but your own black heart?
Does it give you wonder, great content
as the fates of others are torn apart?
Your poison supped ‘til honest lives are spent?

Oh Iago, Iago, just what do we know?
‘Cept that jealousy is a deadly foe.

Linking this to d’Verse Poets and Ingrid’s invitation to be inspired by one of a selection of Shakespeare’s plays: (https://dversepoets.com/2022/04/26/poetics-homage-to-the-bard).

I have chosen Othello – one of my favourites. I particularly enjoyed the production with Tim McInnerny as Iago performed at The Globe in 2007.



Turn at twenty degrees – so precise.
Like scrawny jointed chicken legs
being barbecued. Now the
other side. Making sure
I’m done all over.
Not a pretty
picture. Just
an X-

Linking this to Muri’s Poetry Scavenger Hunt Prompt No 10. (https://murisopsis.wordpress.com/2022/03/30/looking-forward-to-poetry-month/comment-page-5/) Write a Nonet or a poem to include the words joint and bent. So I have opted for a personally topical Nonet, having just had an x-ray today, where I was indeed required to turn at twenty degrees (and I included one of the selected words too).

Feeling the Dance.


The room is dark, it suits your mood,
your heart is broke, your soul is sore.
A sudden shout, across the floor –
a woman stands, a hush ensues.

No need for granadillo wood,
her hands will be her castanets,
her feet will tap in rhythmic steps.
Her song, so rich, so deep, so dark.
Duende swirls its magic art,
its spirits help you to forget.

(Granadillo wood is used by professional castanets makers, a dying art. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XxTmv7EAtgU).

Duende ‘can only be experienced in certain surroundings like an intimate flamenco session where a singer will be possessed by the dark tones of the song and the spirit will enter the mind and soul of anyone who opens up to it.’ (https://www.andalucia.com/flamenco/history.htm).)

Linking this to Muri’s Poetry Scavenger Hunt Prompt No 9, to write an Espinela (or a poem on the theme of passion).

Provocat(iv)e or Provocate?


I thought you looked sexy, lying there, vulnerable,
the sheet rising, almost imperceptibly,
the monitor, dancing its red pulse across the screen,
bleeping in time with your heart,
whilst mine was racing.
But then, without warning, your eyes snapped open.
You looked at me, then at the tube attached to your arm,
and with an angry cry ripped out the iv line.

Linking this to Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt (https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2022/04/23/weekend-writing-prompt-256-provocative/). to use the word ‘provocative’ in prose or poetry using 62 words exactly. (I have cheated a bit by putting the word in the title, which is not included in the 62 words).

Lightly Crumbled

Photo by Caroline Attwood, Unsplash

The scraps of friends’ mid-morning chats,
when we’ve had time to chew the fat,
what someone loves, what someone hates,
lie lightly crumbled on my plate.

Unfinished tasty anecdotes,
a tarty zest that someone spoke –
the leftovers of what we ate,
lie lightly crumbled on my plate.

A grain of sweetness softly said,
a crust of proven friendship bread,
a shard of worries halved in weight,
lie lightly crumbled on my plate.

Dried remnants of these thoughts for food
which raise our spirits, help the mood,
(it seems we need these more of late),
lie lightly crumbled on my plate.

This is a Kyrielle, ( http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/kyrielle.html)which I am linking to Muri’s Poetry Scavenger Hunt prompt no 8. (https://murisopsis.wordpress.com/2022/03/30/looking-forward-to-poetry-month/).