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
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,
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.
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.
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.
At five blackbird
At six the sun
Seldom the joy
Occasionally an interstitial twinge
Sometimes a cat’s twitch
And always the hooded faceless
This intriguing image created by Catalin Zima at catalinzima.com
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
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.
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.