Tag Archives: Poetry

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/

Rapunzel Retired

up

Rapunzel retired

She scrambles through the memory door,

with care for the height ascending

heavenwards through the Majorelle sky,

to sit, watching from her balcony,

from her sun-dazzled rooftop seat.

A spectator of unfolding beach drama,

and the tides that turn on loving couples,

with swift momentum on the old.

Hair chopped, scrolled, bleached white

her Rapunzel days are over,

no handsome prince will rise to rescue

his dragon heart fell cold.

This post is for  http://wedrinkbecausewerepoets.com/2014/03/25/bastets-pixelventures-march-25-2014/ challenge this week which is UP.

International Women’s Day, Going to Extremes

She has a £300 head of woven on Russian hair

She has her head shaven in mourning

Her clothes are designer disposed of when the colour is last seasons

Her clothes are shabby raggy charity shop rejects

She steps out in killer heels feet pampered pedicured and painted

She has heels and soles like elephant hide hardened from a shoeless life

Her house has six air conditioned bedrooms one for each child and three spare

Her six children sleep on the grass covered mud floor

She luxuriates in a bath tub fragranced with jasmine

She walks three miles at dawn to carry home cloudy water

Her family lunch at pizza palace leaving the excess food grabbed in greed

Her children wait twelve hours to share the same maize pap as breakfast

She drives to the shops in a gas guzzling monster

The cost of which would build a clinic and school

She labours in scorched fields ravaged by war and rife with danger

For a dollar day if she’s spared

Just a little piece to mark International Women’s Day.

Estuary

estuary

Estuary

a liminal waterscape endlessly dynamic

with the twice daily ebb and flow of the tide

where sometimes a lost soul will wash up

or a golden coin from five centuries past

a giant seed pod carried by the Gulf Stream

from five thousand miles away

the bones of a fish sucked white by an albatross

or thrashed by the brutal oceans swell

human detritus of sanitary wear

once flushed through some distant drain

tangled in plastic that surrounded well water

bottled in Delhi sold to an unsuspecting

ill prepared golden triangle tourist

tide so low that the other side may be walked to

if only you’re aware of bottomless mud sink

if not cursed to be the next being

nibbled by crabs, inhabited by barnacles

and gowned in kelp to wash up like a lost soul

Lazy Poets Thursday Poem

Gorse

Fickle Gold

You may wonder why you’re carried

 to a distant tropical shore

by fragrance like sweet coconut

rising golden over moors

from January til December

turn a woodland path

 and you’ll know its kissing season

as you’re sure to see some gorse

but be careful where you romance

because if you are untrue

her flowers hide a secret

the most capricious thorns

Signs of Spring

It’s been hard to go and take photos recently. Relentless rain and gales, flooded roads, high tides and fallen trees have kept the gypsy indoors. Yesterday lunchtime at work the sun came out, so I grabbed my coat and went to feel it on my face!

Even so, signs of spring were hard to find.

Signs of Spring

A thousand buds are waiting

to burst with golden pride

beneath tender hawthorn

it’s zenith months away

but first to bloom are snowdrops

a promise rising from the underworld

but now stop wait

don’t miss Mahonia’s fragrance

it will make your senses sway

This post is for Bastet’s ‘Signs of Spring’ challenge, perhaps you ‘d like to join in? http://wedrinkbecausewerepoets.com/2014/02/17/bastets-pixelventures-february-18th-2014/

Ghana 1

Lazy Poets Thursday Haibun

Ghana 1

Along the Tamale Road

She’d packed her shop up for the day, all hope of sales abandoned. Resigned to eating the hard boiled eggs herself, with the plantain that no-one wanted either. All morning she’d snacked on the pastries she baked before dawn. Once upon a time she couldn’t make enough of them, they sold like hot cakes. A tourist asked if her canopy was for sale, she’d said no – how would she have shade without it? Perhaps . . . perhaps she could try making some small ones to sell.

What’s this? A tourist jeep stopping, she gathered her wares in her apron and ran. ‘Fresh eggs, tomato, banana, what will you buy?’

 

Travellers lunch break

a bargain fresh as the day

benefits for all