This is what it feels like…

Cheer up! They said

When the clouds drew near

But whizz not want not

They stalk my sky.

 

Set goals! Be SMART!

On days when minutes

Morph into lead-drops

Shower a move too far.

 

Change your pattern!

But in this kaleidoscope

Glass beads jangle and jar

To delay any recognition

 

And the voice drones, not bitter,

That high-pitched old jingle:

How many ways can we fail today?

Water patterns panorama by Bonnie Bruno, from fineartamerica.com

 

Inspiration Is a Capricious Guest

The poet of this afternoon died suddenly at end of night,

jostling to pen a word, yawning bile in the long

run-up to the creep of dawn pebble-dashing the curtains.

Knuckled under weight of forms, proof of income, applications

flung in free tote bags he cannot begin to classify,

he’d like to burn but who has fireplaces nowadays, so instead

he snatches at garbled predictive jottings made in ghostly glow,

leave no strand untwisted, no word untravelled,

no innocence.

Divine dictations long since ceased, words do not meet the ear

ready-formed like birdsong. It’s digging in the garden,

toiling in manure for a speck of solid rock.

 

Linking this up to my favourite poetic forum on the internet the dVerse Poets Pub, with their fortnightly Open Link Night.

Manoeuvres in the Dark

General Downer ordered Captain Pain to wake me up early,

each nail driven flush, head screwed on backwards.

Lieutenant Doubt brought in wedges, Sergeant Fear drilled the holes

in a blancmange of self-esteem curdled by HMV (Her Mother’s Voice).

If Admiral Alcohol could float all our boats,

if Rear-Vice-Sub-Private would only obey,

if Colonel Attitude would finally kick in

to set fire to boot camps, clear the fog

of bullying tactics, stomp on officers’ messes.

 

Meander, sweet nothings, refuse to cower, shouted at,

moved like chess pieces on an invisible board.

Raise your meek bosoms in the rousing language

of nineteenth century phrasing, triumphant with Verdi,

gallant with Radetzky, drunk with Turkish lore.

Military Manoeuvres by Jan Hoynck van Papendrecht, from Artnet.

Season of Bounty

On this first day of summer, I decided to write a poem about the first day of autumn. Don’t ask me why… I usually love summer. All the seasons, in fact. I am linking this up to dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night #197, where all styles of poems welcome on this occasion.

Ardent berries she folds over

For birds to peck, hedgerows to trim.

A casual fling of hoary mantle

Is all she needs to silence doubters.

Pyres of leaves burnt in her honour,

Lawns raked neat, while woodland damp

Moves in shrubbery unnoticed.

Two mushrooms sulk in rotten greys.

The toad’s eyes wary as in the brambles

A hedgehog sinks in compost nest.

Times of plenty breed unlikely allies.

Someday you and I might still be friends.

Time for a little poetry: Playing Tiddlywinks

I see two girls, now women, who smile at others

Never at me

Who sour with life’s quick cherry passing

Go off like milk in my refrigerator door

One drip in my tea, no guests to pour out for.

 

They reverberate like echoes in the stillness of my parlour.

This is a neighbourhood of cats, no barking

No worries about leaving us alone all day

Often all night too

In hungry expectation.

 

They bring up corpses and track invitations

In the name of reciprocity

Accountancy, curation, careful recitation of moments and pictures

Togetherness invited

Competition launched, jaws that bite

 

Claws that snatch

Rewrite my story, meekness a grievous flaw,

Passivity, worse – stupidity,

Made to pay,

Trampled to shame

With a flick of a finger.

Free picture courtesy of Pixabay.

Definitions

Love is…

Reading each other newspaper tidbits until noon

Lingering over fresh-baked bread you did not have to fetch yourself

Making fresh coffee just the way you like it

Stretch and laugh, share opinions,

Sometimes crisscross, spar, advance, retreat,

But never interrupt

Or hold forth counter-Napoleon.

Then we clean up the table, go back to our work,

Maybe a spot of gardening, jam-preserving,

Equally well a poem might get written

A picture or photo now framed.

Having drunk from our wells of separate being

We can meet again for a walk on the hills

Gathering mushrooms or stopping to exclaim

Over wildlife hoofmarks

Or cloud patterns and airplane trails

As we shuffle on

Hand in hand towards

The welcoming, song-filled forest.