Wednesday, 27 April 2016

Napowrimo Day 27 Long Lines

Long Lines on a British Spring

Where has Spring gone on this day of storms and sunshine blowing desperately
                  from the bitter North?
Has he hidden in the forest in the ruddy foxes den with sqealling
                   new born cubs?
Has she hidden amongst the silvery slender beech trees
                   surrounded by the baby soft fresh green leaves?
Is he bubbling under the surface of the wind ruffled pond
                  filled with frogspawn all glistening with a watching black eye.
Is she cocooned in the hedges in the tiny wrens nest, under wing,
                   safe inside a buff speckled egg?
Where has Spring gone on this day of snow and hail and blustery cold
                    that bites at face with Winter's teeth?
Spring is here amongst us now, and she is playing with us,
                    as we poor mortals forget again just how changeable she is.
Welcome Spring!

Napowrimo Day 23-26

Sorry guys, its catch up day again. But I am still struggling on. And I think the standard of my poems might reflect this, but, and it is a good but, I AM still trying. Even if I'm stumbling over sonnets...

Day 23

A sonnet was asked for, a sonnet they got!

There is a point in every poets life
When nothing that she writes, deserves to stay
upon the page, or recorded in a book.
Where words are caught, and trapped for every day.
There is a time in every poets dream
Where, no matter what she does, there is no time.
And nothing that she writes is what it seems
Or stays within the meter of a rhyme.
But who would want this talent to be tamed
As every image lit would sound the same,
And every emotion touched upon, awhile
would only bring a sad and lacking smile.
So I struggle to write until the start of May.
And words appear, poemish each and every day!

27th April 2016

Day 24

Thi is meant to be a mix and match poem with flowery prose and down to earth words. Think I have confused myself.

This last ventricle of a book has bamboozled me.
I wander across the vermillion viaduct,
Blanket tight in sweaty hand
As I try not to take umbrage at my own thoughts.
There is no hook for my turgid brain to hang a thought upon.
Voluptuous, or otherwise.
My breathless utterances rent the sky
with vulcanised swearwords.
But they cannot hold a candle to the pain
my thoughts have wrought.
Metal needles, copper pins,
tin foil sticks and stones.
I devoured them voraciously.
Now, only a random pine-cone rattles lonely
across the finger rough stonework.
And I loiter, inflexible against the wind.

27th April 2016

Day 25

"Cursed be he that moves my bones,
When I am gone!"
But death to him that touches my books,
And replaces them out,of, order,
Upon those sacred shelves.
Pushed in anyhoo.
Ruffled. Ripped and torn,
Corners crumbled and pages stained.
Unalphabetised, and height confused.
Deauthorised.
They are mine, I tell you. MINE!

But worse, if they were broken up
Forgotten, and unloved.
Unwanted on those sacred shelves.
Unread and unenjoyed by any other soul.
Bones are bones.
And curses only work if there is belief.
But books,
They only live when eyes devour the printed page.
Books should be read.
Not left as perfect spines, as dead as I, upon that undusted shelf.
Enjoy my books.
Forget my bones.

27th April 2016
This was the title/line of a poem By Ian Whitely based upon Shakespeare's tombstone. He wrote a great poem. Mine is different.

Day 26

Call and response.

A Beer Drinkers Sea Shanty?

Through storm and sunset we may sail.
Raise a pint of ale, lads.
Beyond the land, our faces pale.
Raise a pint of ale.
But we go on beyond the sea
Raise a pint of ale lads.
To find a fortune, after tea.
Raise a pint of ale.
And dragons foul, and maidens fair.
Raise a pint of ale lads.
What other delights do we find there?
Raise a pint of ale.
Through dragons fair, and maidens foul.
Raise a pint of ale lads.
We shall not throw in the towel.
Raise a pint of ale.
We shall not waver, for blood, or love.
Raise a pint of ale lads
And when all's done, meet down the pub
To raise a pint of ale lads.
To raise a pint of ale.

27th April 2016

Friday, 22 April 2016

Napowrimo Day 22 Earth Day

Giants.

Giants, are not only tall,
And proud.
Always knowing the weather a second or two before the little folk do.
They are friends.
Giants are not always height challenged.
For they are tall in spirit,
And grow each day in song.
Giants live as if it was forever earth day,
For they know there is only one earth.
Giants know the earth is their foundation,
and it must be strong to stand tall on.
Giants smiles...
Their smiles are wider than the sky,
Because it shines from the depths of their eyes.
Giants are tall.
We are all giants.

For Starbucks Morning Shift 22nd April 2016


Napowrimo Day 19 to 21

It is catch up time again, but I'm still persevering.
First up is a practical poem, on how to procrastinate. I don't need much encouragement...

Day 19

How to...Procrastinate your day away.

Awake, with the sun upon your face.
Already to plan the day.
Watch each moment take shape inside your mind.
Think it through.
Decide exactly what you want to do,
               and when.
Got it?
Fixed it safe in your mind?
Then get up.
Sort out breakfast, and a cup of tea.
Think some more.
Put on the TV just to catch the morning news.
Don't worry if you stray and watch some kids cartoons,
It's only for an hour, or two...
OK
Get dressed.
Is it lunch time already?
Then feed your face.
You cannot concentrate when you're hungry.
Just pop the dishes in the sink 'till later.
Grab a post lunch brew, and chill.
Let digestion take place
And there's a movie on at two.
You've got loads of time
 to do what you planned to do.
At five,
Start the tea.
Don't worry, you've still got the evening free.
It's fine.
A quick catch up on the news,
And a nice bottle of that post holiday booze
Because everyone needs a treat now and then.
It is ten p.m.
The day is done.
Have you done all the things you intended to do?
No?
Nothing that you had planned?
Then join me as I shake your hand.
You have managed to procrastinate your life away.
It is now bed-time.
Just remember.
Tomorrow is another day.
There is always another tomorrow...?

22nd April 2016

Day 20

Kennings (Or riddle poem)

Wonderful word writer.
Funny bone creator,
Where have you gone?

Now real days only exist on goggleboxes in sacred corners of our homes.
Paper pictures of what-should-be.
Not this-is-now.
No this-is-us-with different choices.
Bindweed trapped rather than sunflower grown.

Humble Lady of the truth mirror.
Your creative soul has crumbled into dusk and dust.
But your bright day still filters through.
On moon shaded circles of binary memory
We will exchange jollity again with you.
We will laugh in your name.

(Victoria Wood 1953-2016)
22nd April 2016

Day 21 (Minor figure in myth/fable)

The Magic Porridge Pot

Fire blackened iron am I
round and empty
waiting to be filled with soups
and stews.
As I hang contented above the fireplace.

I wanted for nothing
I knew nothing.
I was nothing but earth smelted iron and blacksmiths skill.
Then into a story I was flung.
Imbued with magic.
With an awareness this container did not know how to contain.
Now my only purpose
to supply you with endless porridge.
You, who did not understand the words
"Stop, porridge pot, stop."
So I supplied you with porridge till it filled me up.
Swelled over my sides,
Bubbled over the fire
Spread across the floor
And out the door to the great beyond.
I could not stop it.
You could, but chose to fling your skirts above your head and run away.
I wanted to scream and rage at you,
I, who had no voice but the bubble of a stew.
I could do nothing.
Then she came.
And with the words stopped porridge brewing.
But I cannot stop thinking.
Magic has gifted me awareness this container should never have had to contain.
I stay here, hanging
filled with soup, or stew (up to you)
Iron cast, soot stained porridge pot I may be.
Now, I am watching you.

22nd April 2016



Tuesday, 19 April 2016

Napowrimo day 15 to 18?

OK I have missed a couple of days. I normally struggle to continue at this point and usually give up but I had a hour or so with my notebook yesterday and tried to catch up.

These are my attempts.

Day 15  (Doubles)

I like a cup of tea on a morning.
But I always go home for me tea!
Ham, egg and chips is best.

My mind goes round and round in endless thought.
But when it's my round,
I pay up like a shot!

I often state through glass, at the moving world outside.
And always raise a glass to absent friends.

I can see no schooners going out to sea,
But I can drink one!

I tend towards the stout.
My stout boots will walk me anywhere!

This poem has no hook.
But I can crochet quite well with one.

18th April 2016

Day 16 (A list of questions to be answered either real or imagined. I chose Export)

Export: Dreams

They lay flaccid; And empty.
Awaiting packing, on the dock.
Fragile vessels for our dreams.
Exported around the world
For a very pretty price.
A profitable business
Is the selling of our dreams.
We wait in line to fill them.
Waiting patiently in line
to fill these fragile vessels with our joys, our dreams.
We watch them go.
Sold to the highest bidder.
Useless objects of ornamentation to grace a forgotten shelf.
And we lay down,
flaccid and empty upon the docks.
Awaiting packing of our dreams.

18th April 2016

Day 17 (Specialised dictionary was the prompt. I exaggerated with my knowledge instead.)

Marmite

I don't much like marmite.
But I feel I should
For it comes from the art
that eases my anguish
that lays golden in the glass.
Once the isinglass has done its job.
After the mash tun has turned the wort into liquid bliss.
After cared for yeasts have fermented with bubbling joy.
After Humulus lupulus finest flowers
have added bite and dryness.
After malted barley has
chocolated  the sacred liquid.
And the quart poured
 from the handpull,
to the thirsty throat.
That gluop left in the bottom when all is done.
That is the soul of marmite.
And that is what I don't much like.
But I sort of should.

18th April 2016

Day 18 (sounds from home.)

No slang.
No slurring.
No colloquialisms.
No duck, no love, no pal, no mate.
No off t'school
or down t'shops.
to and the always had to have their rightful place.
Perfect central enunciated english only.
And any slurs, slips, or deliberately shortnin' of words
brought a swift clip round the ear,
And a bright smile, full of love.

18th April 2016

Now, what will Day 19 bring...

Thursday, 14 April 2016

Napowrimo Day 14 Not a san san

Deep in the green.
Deep in the forest between the vast urban sprawl.
Carpeting the leaf scattered floor,
Reaching between tall pillars.
An ancient cathedral of trees.
It grows.
Thick, and rich with memory.
Nurturing, and long lived with mystery
It grows.
Soft, sun tickled, flourishing.
Protecting nature's past.
Hiding humans past.
Preserving all that is past
with its enveloping blanket of verdant green,
Moss slowly grows.

!3th April 2016

The prompt to day was for a san san but my brain hurts so you only get a green poem instead. But I want to remember what it is so I can try when less exhausted.
Why does work always get in the way of words?

"Today’s prompt comes to us from TJ Kearney, who invites us to try a seven-line poem called a san san, which means “three three” in Chinese (It’s also a term of art in the game Go). The san san has some things in common with the tritina, including repetition and rhyme. In particular, the san san repeats, three times, each of three terms or images. The seven lines rhyme in the pattern a-b-c-a-b-d-c-d.
Here’s an example san san from TJ’s blog, Bag of Anything:
Drinking the driven storm, the sturdy apple
Dances, between sky and earth, her spring-young leaves.
Knowing no purpose, knowing only season,
Her spring-young leaves, storm-driven, dapple
Earth and sky; all that my eye perceives
Dances. My eye drinks in the apple’s spring-
Young leaves, her dance that has no reason:
Only the storm, driving each dappled thing.
As you can see, three images or terms are repeated: the driven storm; the spring-young leaves; the dance, and the seven lines rhyme per the pattern given above." (from Napowrimo2016 day 14 prompt)

Napowrimo Day Thirteen No Fortunes

It is on day thirteen,
when truth kicks in.
Nothing is going to save you.

Just cold, hard, slog.
Eating chocolate log with out the cream,
To sustain you,

Tricksy words twist away.
Poems don't want to play,
Though the prompts may entertain you.

Now it's do a poem, or die.
No rhyme, no more pie
While lack of imagination constrains you.

No fortunes.
No fortunes made on day thirteen
Just prose and poems, and odd things inbetween.
The only truth you know today.
It's day fourteen soon, in one more day!

14th April 2014

The prompt from napowrimo was fortune cookies. Think I went off on a tangent somewhat!