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 …



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).

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/).

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 (https://murisopsis.wordpress.com/) to either write an Irregular Ode or a poem to include the words ‘spy’ and ‘deep’. I have opted for the latter.

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, ( https://murisopsis.wordpress.com/) 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.

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 (https://murisopsis.wordpress.com/2022/03/30/looking-forward-to-poetry-month/) – 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 (https://murisopsis.wordpress.com/2022/03/30/looking-forward-to-poetry-month/) 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 …)