Not in the Mood.

Photo by Jonathan Kemper, Unsplash.

I have tripped over a grey unyielding torpor,
stubbing out my mood, like a half-smoked cigarette.
It feels clandestine,
the way it lurked secretly, like a spy,
cleverly unnoticed,
waiting to meet my other self
and knock me out of sorts.

Didn’t I see it this morning?
Was there a hidden pareidolia in my porridge
where the brown sugar
melted and spread?
Perhaps I should have felt something amiss
when I burnt my tongue
on the scalding tea.

Too late now.
So well disguised, artful inveigler,
feigning interest until it caught me off guard,
and threw my enthusiasm into the shed,
along with the lawnmower and secateurs.
The sky turns a deep nearly-night navy
and I just can’t be bothered.

Linking this to Muri’s Poetry Scavenger Hunt, Prompt No 7 ( to either write an Irregular Ode or a poem to include the words ‘spy’ and ‘deep’. I have opted for the latter.


Shore Gazing.

Photo by Chris Ghinda, Unsplash.

The haze holds close the shushing creep onto the shore.
Billowed colours dip and soar.
Baffled crows on sentry duty, caw.
Placid, ruminating blocks of shadow gather on green tufted waves,
as we gaze on chalk-white cheeks,
scored as if by some giant’s claws.

Linking this to d’Verse Poets quadrille which this week has been set by WhimsyGizmo aka De Jackson ( with the invitation to write a poem of exactly 44 words which include the word ‘chalk’. My offering is a re-working of a previous poem I have written about the seaside town of Seaford.

Waiting for May

The oak becomes black filigree
in the white of moonlight.
Its vacant arms,
carved as intricate as a dream,
basking, stretching, reaching,
crawling their distortions,
their altered ebony,
across the path,
the lawn,
the curtained glass and cooling bricks.

At night absence gapes,
where life should be,
where silence roams.

I am suspended, dormant as the oak,
waiting to move, yet not wanting to leave.
The stasis of grief.
I wait for May.

Linking this to the Sunday Muse Blog Spot which this week features Fireblossom/Shay’s Word Garden Word List. ( Easter holds very sad memories for me which sometimes seeps into my poems.

Caution Advised.

Photo by Joshua Hoehne , Unsplash

They lie upon delicate white sheets,
seemingly harmless,
quiet, until undressed,
cleverly catching your eye
with a little extra darkening,
like mascara on come-hither lashes,
and you are lost.

Your fingers feel the fragile silkiness.
Impelled to search further,
your eyes widen in wonder
at the hitherto unknown,
or long-since forgotten,
imagination playing with
each discovery.

You have opened a treasure trove
of beauty and power.
But what will you do with it?
In the wrong hands
It could turn into
a lethal lexicon.

Linking this to Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt to write prose or poetry using the word ‘Lexicon’ and using exactly 85 words. (

Bluesy Fox

Photo by Erik Mclean, Unsplash

Ain’t got nowhere to rest my head.
Ain’t got nowhere to pause for bed.
What’s gonna happen? What’s ahead?

Jus’ chewing my tail on your lawn.
Chancing a quick vulpine yawn,
‘fore moving on, dusk to dawn.

Hear my screams, in dead of night.
Hear my screams, my howling fright.
I’m roamin’ now in broad daylight.

See, my den is dug and gone.
See, my pad’s no place for song.
Covered with tarmac – it’s all wrong.

Them green fields they’re getting small.
Them green trees no longer tall.
Where’s nature gonna live, is all…?

Linking to Muri’s Poetry Scavenger Hunt, ( Prompt No 6, to write a Blues Stanza. Another form I have not tried before. This was written after watching a large, greying fox in my neighbour’s garden, lying on the lawn in the middle of the afternoon. With more development in this area, and the removal of vegetation in gardens, (what is the obsession with removing hedges and trees in gardens – and don’t get me started on artificial grass!) the natural habitat of wildlife is constantly under threat.

The Light of “Vika Muse”

Strong and wide we seek to soar,
like bone and feathers built to sweep
above the labyrinthine deeds
we consign to myth.

What do we dream of for our sons?
That knowledge will be power?
Or that they’ll learn the lessons of before
and become wise?

See the pink that lingers in the sky.
It draws the eye and promises,
to those who’ll see,
a day of blesséd sun is on the way.

Mish is on duty at the d’Verse Poets Pub and has introduced us to the wonderful work of Ukrainian visual artist Vika Muse. ( For more information on Vika read the link to d’Verse Poets, or check out her Instagram account. I have used for inspiration an image Vika posted on Instagram last year- it is from a video clip demonstrating her technique.

Its Just a Phase

Image by Martin Adams at Unsplash

Something wakes me. There is this
scuffle from outside, and being
curious, naturally, I am human
after all, I pull at the curtain to see what is
making such a din and see a
faint moon scold the clouds like an unwelcome guest
as they try to muffle her above my house.

One star, Venus I believe, complains ‘every
night for the past week, up until morning
we’ve had this kerfuffle.’ The other stars wink a
while in agreement: ‘We’re waiting for a new
moon – the old girl’s fighting its arrival‘.

This is my response to Muri’s Poetry Scavenger Hunts Prompt No 5 ( – I have chosen to write a Golden Shovel (my first attempt). I have used the first two lines from ‘The Guest House’ by Rumi (Translated by Colman Barks).

‘This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.’

Beauty to my Beast

A fragile regard,
softening the hard,
sharp tread of my heavy thoughts,
halting the dark stream.
Bending down, it seems
you have netted me, I’m caught.

You flatten and stare
an unspoken dare,
feeling the power released
in your azure eyes,
I am mesmerised.
You are beauty to my beast.

I am linking this to Muri’s Poetry Scavenger Hunt ( and Prompt No 4, to write an Alouette. Thank you Val for another inspiring challenge.

This photo was taken on a walk at the weekend when a Peacock butterfly flew into our path. (In reality, I am happy to say, there were no dark thoughts …)

All Style And No Substance.

You may puff out your chest and mince,
or perhaps its more of a strut.
Your suit has been expertly cut.
Poirot-ish with those bridged pince-nez.
There’s a buzz in the audience.
You thought that today was your day.
Look at you, in your smart array.
The microphone crackles and whines,
though you’ve practised so many times,
you find you have nothing to say.

Linking this to The Sunday Muse Blogspot, and one of a choice of great images from Carrie:, and Muri’s Scavenger Hunt prompt No 3 to write in the form of a Decima: .

We Dream

Photo by Nikola Knezevic, Unsplash

Where my fingers trace the dotted curves
Where coppice checkers in mosaic green
We dream, we dream, we dream.

There the tall ships masts of clacking birch
Gulls taunt us earthlings from the April sky
Where my fingers trace the dotted curves.

There the air creaks like an opening door
Wind envelopes us in its haunting call
Where coppice checkers in mosaic green.

There on the diamonds set above the rise
Where distant silver lies in ocean shine
We dream, we dream, we dream.

This is my second response to Muri’s Poetry Scavenger Hunt ( in the form of a Cascade poem ( This poem was inspired by a wonderful (but extremely windy) walk across the Dorset countryside this morning. (We used an Ordnance Survey map).