Trinity of suns.
Morning, afternoon and eve.
Each cast their light
Fanning their own shades of brightness
Spanning our hours, our fathers' hours,
Our children's hours.
There is comfort here, now, in the solid stone,
The unadorned simplicity.
And , if we pause a while,
We realise that
Time is our only constant.

Linking to Sunday Muse Blogspot. Thank you Carrie - your images continue to inspire.  http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/


And Zeus Quakes.

Suzanne VanBebber
Dusk peels into night.
Gold brush strokes
spread, diffuse
and Nyx emerges
through the skin of day
to share her moonlit face.

Linking to K. Hartless's Petite Pen (https://khartless.com/2022/09/20/its-permanence-that-petrifies-her/) which features this wonderful image from Suzanne VanBebber. (Nyx is the  Greek goddess of the night. The only goddess Zeus was truly afraid of).

Every Season Has Its Time

Photo by Amar Saleem on Pexels.com
The season's hands now point to three p.m.,
as autumn's air subdues our summer sighs,
when one o'clock burnt like a fiery gem
and we were pressed by heavy, humid skies.
By six, the trees will shiver, bare and leafless -
the hands, set far and wide across the face,
will slowly scrape through winter's torment darkness,
as spring waits patient in its quartile space.

Linking to this week's W3  Weave prompt on The Skeptic's Kaddish, where Val , aka Murisopsis, invites us to write a Dizain from the perspective of someone who has synaesthesia. (https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/09/21/w3-prompt-21-weave-written-weekly/).  I have always seen the seasons in my mind as a clock face, which I believe may be a kind of spatial synaesthesia. Summer is at mid-day and winter at six o'clock.

Feeling the heat

It was a slap, more than a punch.
A Spanish back of the hand,
more than a puñetazo.
No warning.
No leading up to the main course
with some pequeños platos
to help acclimatise,
to give one a taste of what was to come.

Coming to the end of our visit to Cordoba, in Andalusia, South Spain, where it has been scorching. The heat really hits you! Linking this to d’Verse poets and this week’s Monday Quadrille which is brought to us by Whimsygizmo aka De Jackson who asks us to write 44 words of poetry which include the word ‘punch’ or variation thereof. https://dversepoets.com/2022/09/19/quadrille-160-poems-that-pack-a-punch/

Is this a pout I see before me?

She only came third
Even though she had heard
Her ideas were one in a million.
So what was the deal,
No reward for her zeal –
Her head-dress was pure vaudevillian.

Its an asp, not a hen,
She complained to the men,
Who had said they were looking for class.
But I’m queen of the nile,
Egyptian desire,
I should have come first, damn and blast.

Perhaps if you’d tried
An attempt at a smile
You would have been in with a shot.
But wearing a pout
Ain’t what it’s about
And impresses us diddly squat.


Linking this silly nonsense to The Sunday Blogspot. (See link above). Thank you Carrie for another deck of great images.

All Sense Evades

Myriad fragments glisten.
In the bare glare of bleached
sunlight flutters, my heart listens
for a meaning that cannot be reached.

In the bare glare of bleached
thoughts, wrung out like tea towels
for a meaning that cannot be reached,
I seek to add colour to their swells.

Thoughts, wrung out like tea towels,
Notions caught in the breeze – billowed.
I seek to add colour to their swells.
But all sense evades my pillow.

Notions caught in the breeze – billowed
sunlight flutters, my heart listens.
But all sense evades my pillow.
Myriad fragments glisten.

Linking to this week’s W3 Weave prompt on The Skeptic’s Kaddish (https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/09/14/w3-prompt-20-weave-written-weekly/). The poet of the week is Aditi Sharma, who has asked us to write a Pantoum poem;
The theme should be: Anything dreamy, something non-existent in the real world, or just about your real-life dreams.
The Pantoum seems a perfect form for playing over the undecipherable images and thoughts that come to us in sleep. Thank you Aditi for the challenge.

What Can Dreams Tell Us?


Illusion or solid?
Droplets begin their tap dance.
On my window,
Or on the lode?
Flatlands of sleep,
Or marshes of the East?

I have goose bumps of premonition
As finally I shake the dust
Of a dream riddle
And wonder –
Has the journey started
Or reached its end?

Linking this to d’Verse poets and Sarah’s invitation to write an ekphrastic poem to a selection of artwork by Lee Madgwick. See Link below:


The chest of drawers has something to say.
I can feel its practical, sturdy reliance.
He’s coming back, it tells me.
Look, he’s left some clothes in here, and that photo he loves.
The wardrobe wants to chip in with similar reassurances,
but it lacks the gravitas required.
Who could take anything painted that bright green seriously?
The wood on the chest top shines like tempered chocolate caramel,
and the drawer fronts are scuffed around the knobs from years
of rushed dressing for school, college, and work.
My eyes are sore and gritty. From this untimely bug, or my crying,
or both.
It will pass.
The chest understands.
It has witnessed much.
It remembers the feeling of being emptied.

Writing and reading posts has taken a back seat for the past week. I have been distracted with an impending trip, preparing to embark on a Masters, a horrible bug and, most significant of all, my youngest beginning his own adventure in Canada. We waved him off at the airport on Sunday.

Keep the Noise Down


Work complete as day turns night,
Deities play with giant dice,
Rumble rock cubes in the sky,
Clash their jugs of mythic wine,
Sparking jolts of metalled white,
Whilst mothers bolt the windows tight,
Worried bairns would wake affright
As the thunderous clouds ignite.

Linking this to d’Verse Poets where Lisa was serving at the bar last night, inviting us to write a Quadrille using the word ‘work’ . (We had a hum-dinger of a thunder storm last night. Awesome lightning illuminated the garden as the thunder clashed above the house. )