Tag Archives: Poetry

Lazy Poet’s Thursday Poem

poppy

Petals of loss

Have we forgotten?

So it would appear.

One hundred years and no lessons learnt.

How many images of atrocity

must we see before enough is enough?

Mankind has battled since time began,

does that mean we must until the end?

And womankind, we’re not without guilt,

warrior queens were not legend but manifest.

Leave battles to the playground

To the realms of history, herstory,

fiction and myth.

Cease now,

while a poppy still blooms on this earth.

WW Reveal

My Wordless Wednesday this week was an odd looking machine – but all machines are odd to me! For those wondering what it was, here’s the answer!

Hogarth press

The ‘Vita’, was Vita Sackville-West, an English writer, poet and gardener, best known for her affair with Virginia Wolfe and the wonderful garden she created at Sissinghurst, Kent.

Here is the opening section of the poem ‘Sissinghurst’ as in the photo above.

A tired swimmer in the waves of time

I throw my hands up: let the surface close:

Sink down through centuries to another clime,

And buried find the castle and the rose.

Buried in time and sleep,

So drowsy, overgrown.

That here the moss is green upon the stone.

And lichen stains the keep.

I’ve sunk into an image, water-drowned,

Where stirs no wind and penetrates no sound,

Illusive, fragile to a touch, remote,

Foundered within the well of years as deep

As in the waters of a stagnant moat.

Vita Sackville-West 1931

 

bovey3

A Birthday Poem

Today is the day, but as always I plan to have a birthday month, so I spent yesterday walking beside the river Bovey. This is the result.

Rushing Slowly

I contemplate the transience of the River Bovey.

Every molecule of water that flows past my feet

has a destiny, whether it is to evaporate,

to splash onto the shingle that scratches at my soles,

sink into the peaty soil

or connect with the vastness of the sea.

Every leaf, green, frosted or baked dry by the sun

will crumble, flake along the route

or wash up intact on a beach,

ten or ten thousand miles away.

Every little stick tumbles and rolls

between east and west river bank,

to be claimed by a golden retriever

or gathered by a green consumer

to give home a few minutes of warmth.

From its source between Chagford and Shapley commons,

the Bovey glides, swirls and gushes to merge with the Teign

and rush headlong to the sea.

We are as the smallest drops, the most delicate leaves,

chasing through our three score and ten.

Transient beings, swimming, floating,

crashing against the shore of life,

relentlessly struggling to connect

with the vastness of our race.

Work of Art

nature's artwork

Nature’s fair canvas coloured by skilful brush

each billowing cloud unique and fleeting in form hue and shade

each curve and sweep of landscape carved by mystical sculptor

each line of tree planted by a master hand

each blade of myriad green springs forth to reach its zenith

burns dry in heat of summer desiccates

lies  waiting for  the cycle of rebirth

each swell of tide turns ocean brown blue

turquoise and broken by white horses

what greater work of art could this gypsy capture

than nature’s dynamic masterpiece

Michelle W chose the theme for this weeks photo challenge over at the Daily Post, Work of Art. Join in here, http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_photo_challenge/work-of-art/

Morning, for Oloriel

 

 

Oloriel, at We Drink Because We’re Poets gave a simple prompt today, write an ode to the morning. Any morning, in any form and as I love mornings I’m joining in.

Good Morning Devon

The velvet fold of the sky’s gown,

is seal grey and striped with dove.

Light elevates from the eastern horizon

frothy warm candy floss pink,

the lingering mist burns away

and morn’s waking beauty leads me astray.

Silver dew evaporates from verdant fields

where deer startle and go to ground,

in a hedgerow of fragrant hawthorn.

Nettles and fresh cleavers burst forth,

wild garlic a gypsy ransom, red Campion buds

and berries to ripen in season.

Songbirds, whose heavenly chorus sing

a crescendo like a Devon morning in spring,

that is overflowing, ripe with promise

and brim full of joy for each new day.

If you like mornings why not tell Oloriel in verse?

http://wedrinkbecausewerepoets.com/2014/04/28/poetry-prompt-8-morning/

Weekly Photo Challenge: Threshold and Bastets Pixelventures

Krista at the Daily Post has picked the theme of THRESHOLD for the weekly photo challenge this week. She says,

A threshold is a point of entering; that point just before a new beginning — that split-second moment in time, full of anticipation. All the hard work is over; relief is palpable.

I find thresholds exciting, that strange space or feeling when things could be vastly different depending on a choice, so it inspired a poem.

threshold

Threshold

the threshold of disintegration

crumbling shattered overgrown

with vine tendrils both living and lost

where Capulet fingers perhaps lingered

 

flakes of rust eating into metal that

rests precariously no support for any arm

that dares to lean to stretch towards

the golden light still dawning

 

balcony of decay and neglect

standing on pillars of sustenance

destined to fall or rise from

the threshold of disintegration

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/04/04/photo-challenge-threshold/

Bastets pixelventures challenge is looking for pictures that inspire a poem so I’d like to add this post, I think it fits

http://wedrinkbecausewerepoets.com/2014/03/31/bastets-pixelventures-april-1-2014/