Big Head

Dessicated, rather than dazzled. We are almost
Anaesthetised by the unrelenting sun,
Zigzagging through the blinds, with the
Zeal of a missile, its burn
Licking the air and hissing in our heads.
Indifferent to our moans and pleads,
No doubt,’ it boasts, ’if I left you would soon
Grizzle until my enigmatic return.’

Linking this to Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: The word this week is ‘Dazzling’ – and the word count is 53 words.(https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2022/08/13/weekend-writing-prompt-272-dazzling/).

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.

Sweet hope

https://unsplash.com/@simonppt
New beginnings - like a swirl of whipped cream,
wrapped in a cone of crisp puff pastry -
beckon with a tasty promise 
of something longed for and now
it lies within your grasp, 
as your hand hovers
over the prize,
you hope it's
meant for
you.

  

Linking this  Reversed Etheree to The Skeptic's Kaddish and David's first W3 prompt  to write a poem in response to his verse that includes the word 'hope' (https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/05/04/w3-prompt-1-weave-written-weekly/).

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/).

Spring brushes softly.

Photo by Jakob Owens, Unsplash.

Through the diamond leading on my windows, past the bare hazel hedge, the mossy roof of my neighbour’s house, the thick gathering arms of a dormant oak, I see a steep ridge of green. In today’s uncertain spring light it is a mucky shade, like the colour on a child’s palette when black, and blue and yellow have slopped together. I have walked up onto that ridge, have felt my heart pound disconcertingly hard, my leg muscles complain, my body sweat. And when I reached the top, I was rewarded with the most wonderful view. All the way back to where I sit now, looking up.Soon the ridge will be hidden from my window view by new growth and colours. But I know it will be waiting to show itself again, once the seasons are spent.

Hills hold memories
Life sleeps and wakes in their arms
Spring brushes softly.

Frank J Tassone is hosting at d’Verse Poets and invites us to write a Haibun, using ‘Cold Mountain’ as our inspiration. https://dversepoets.com/2022/02/28/haibun-monday-2-28-22-cold-mountain/. Okay, I have used a hill, not a mountain. But even a little elevation can be enough to lift the spirits …

A Warning?

I have just had a strange comment link to my latest post from a blog called ‘entertainment9ja.com.ng’ which seems to have copied part of my post onto their site, but with no reference to me. Not sure what is going on, so I have deleted the comment link. I can see the site address is in Nigeria, so I imagine it is a scam of some sort.

Anyway, just wondered if anyone else has had a similar experience, or advise as to any further action I should take?

Thank you,

Marion xx

Winter’s Calling Card

green grass in close up photography
Photo by Brecht Denil, Unsplash

I can taste winter on my tongue.
The cold air rings around me,
And I am caught in the echo of its song.

The soft ice-crush of glittered grass
announces my walk in hushed voice,
as Winter claims my hand
and leads me deep into its shadows.

There’s no mistake this morning, winter’s calling card has arrived.

Can You?

Can you smell that?
Earth’s firedamp lingering.
We need more than flames,
more than metal sieves,
to ward off danger.
Old Humphry swung his lamp in mindless times,
when men were cheap and seams were rich with black.

Can you hear that?
Diminished songs of life.
Yellow feathers float
silent as unsung
nursery rhymes,
and coils of ropes no longer skipped or jumped.
The playground’s empty, save for slurried stacks.

Can you see that?
Where black stones mark the spot?
Illumination
seems a pointless thing
when we close our eyes.
But when the flame expires and all is dark,
What then, my world, will ever bring you back?

Linking this to The Sunday Blog Spot and today’s Sunday Muse photo prompt. ( http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/). Tried an extension of a duodora and went for three verses.

Still shining.

Clouds are not really white, or grey, or pink –
they are a mix of all the light put into them,
(I read somewhere).

I saw a cloud above the bay,
a dazzling iridescence of such brightness
it hurt my eyes to look for long.

I wondered, then, if you were up there,
(the random ’there’ where we put all our loved ones),
because surely only pure light would mark your place.

Perhaps you looked down, at that moment,
and saw your family,
and recognised us despite the years

and shone your message,
onto the pummelled pewter sheet before us
and perhaps you said

look up, at this shining cloud,
and know that I know I was loved
and I would say

how long have I waited for that message?
Three score years is less than
a raindrop in an ocean of loss.

An amble around West Bay the other day with my eldest son and husband found us looking at a striking cloud, shining over the sea. With the sun behind it the cloud was quite dazzling, as was the reflected light on the water below.