Under The Spell

Image courtesy of Pixabay.

We sat quietly, expectantly.
Grey hair, white hair, sparse hair.
Shoulders rounded with weight and years.
He walked onto the dais, guitar in hand.
Black hair, white shirt, blue jeans.
Neat beard, easy smile.

What must he think, I thought.
Row upon row of old people,
in between elevenses and lunch,
tummies gurgling with custard creams and
weak coffee.

A wan June sun flickered some colour
onto the stained window,
behind the rood screen,
and he began.

It was a gentle, intricate journey.
A journey of butterflies,
dances, faith and death.

The melodies lifted into the air
with an almost subdued passion,
and we were riding on the strings,
the chords, the tremolos,
under the spell of his hands.

And as he played The Death of an Angel,
we tangoed with him,
up, into the vault.

Yesterday we attended a concert and listened to an hour of wonderful Latin American guitar music played by Morgan Szymanski. His home town is Valle de Bravo, in the State of Mexico, where the lake, rivers and waterfalls attract the migration of the Monarch butterfly, (according to some the origin for the Day of the Dead festival).

I Speaka The Italian

I say ‘dine al fresco’,
but you say ‘fuori’.
I order a latte,
but taste milk on my lips.
I ask ‘coulda my pizza
hava mora pepperoni’,
you spread my hot meat feast
with sweet pepper strips.

You talk about shooting,
so I think you’re sporty,
and talk about golf,
or the little I know.
Then you get out your camera,
a Nikon a-forty,
and ask me to take off my sweater,
real slow.

It turns out that waving
my hands while I’m speaking,
or shouting,
or adding an a to each word,
won’t work on a date
when it’s romance I’m seeking,
its ridiculosa
and simply absurd.

Linking this piece of nonsense to The Sunday Muse http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/

NB: Il golf in Italian means jumper or sweater, lo shooting means photoshoot.

Play It Again

https://www.pexels.com/@antonh/

Drop the diamond, gently, gently,
Groovy vinyl, dusty turns.
Air is filled with lusty, husky –
Kindling an itching burn.

Smoochy up close shiffle-shuffle,
Feel the rhythm, feel the curves.
Fill the space ‘tween chin and shoulder,
Tingling breathing and tingling nerves.

Thirty-three slow revs per minute,
Time is ticking, trickling by.
Soft as feathers, sweet as honey,
Never let this memory die.

Linking this to this week’s w3 prompt on the Skeptics Kaddish ( https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/06/22/w3-prompt-8-weave-written-weekly/). This week we are responding to Kunjal’s poem ‘Rain’ with a poem of no more than 16 lines which includes the word ‘groovy’.

Dip That Arrow

“Three Young Farmers” of August Sander, 1914

The Almanac Brothers
Looking for love:

If you have experience in

  • Neck wringing
  • Hooch production
  • Sunday starching
  • Men of few words
    Then one of these lads could be for you.
    Apply in the usual manner (one apple pie per applicant – traditional or upside-down, dollop of cream on the side).

Linking this to The Sunday Muse, and Carrie’s Father’s Day inspired images!http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/

Snagged

Image courtesy of Pixabay

Inertia weighs thick around me as I stare through the window.
Pink papery faces, saucers of white, buttery clumps,
nod at my stasis.

I think of a monotony of blue resting on white foam infinity,
untouchable for a few airborne hours,

and recall the rushing smears and smudges of
greens, browns, yellows,
seen through train smutted glass.

I try to explore a thread between colour and movement,
but it snags and knots and will not be unravelled.

I am linking this to David’s W3 Prompt on The Skeptic’s Kaddish (https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/06/15/w3-prompt-7-weave-written-weekly/). Sarah David is this week’s poet, and her poem ‘Work in Progress’ can be found on the link above. Sarah has asked for responses of 12 lines or less, which include a contrast of images or ideas.

I’m going back to bed.

image from :unsplash,felipepelaquim

Cardboard scabs, a sea of silk,
Or some such imagery of that ilk.
The box implies a fruity touch
Transforms it from this tasteless mulch.
A muffled hammer in my head
Reminds me of a fitful bed.
The mirror says, ‘go get some rest,’
‘cos I’m not looking picturesque.

Linking this to Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompts. This week’s word is ‘picturesque’, to be used in poetry or prose of exactly 54 words (mine includes the title). (https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2022/06/18/weekend-writing-prompt-264-picturesque/). Struggled to find time to write this week, and this silly rhyme pretty much summed up how I felt when I first got out of bed!

Worthless Words

Lustred jewels and promises draw our eye,
Halt us in our tracks. Spellstopt by words
we foolishly took for wisdom.
They’re no more than paste baubles.
A cheap trick. Yank on the
fraying string and watch
them skittering
down the path
one by
one.

Linking this to The Sunday Muse Blogspot http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/ with Carrie’s smoking selection of images and also to d’Verse Poets https://dversepoets.com/2022/06/13/quadrille-154-casting-a-poetic-spell/ where Sanaa is serving tonight’s quadrille challenge to write a poem of exactly 44 words using the word (or form thereof) ‘Spell’.