The Finch
with red brow and olive wings
presents a pretty picture
Upon its chosen perch
it even makes the invasive thistle look good
With pleasure I spy
scenery I would rather deny
My furrowed brow
Reply
Tag Archives: verse
True love
When I took your hand
much smaller hand
much softer hand
much braver hand
when you took my hand
much larger hand
much harder hand
much lonelier hand
we readied two individuals
for joint lives
never known
alone
We took on each life
hard life
sad life
brave life
we rescued each other
one became both
more than both
more than we
imagined
we shone
we continue to shine
we sparkled
we spark in ways divine
we learnt about love
we learned to love it is sublime
true love
We can dance
We can dance
And lose ourselves in a moment
Because that is what dancing is for
We can sway
Holding each other tightly
To confirm our love once more
We can be melody
As music inhabits us
We let our emotions go
We can swing
Together to a rhythm
Fierce, suggestive, gentle, slow
We can slink
Sexy, sultry, driven
Gliding across a floor
We can rhumba
To a beat of pure, rollicking fun
Then breathless, cry for more
We can jig
Jumping, clapping, heel toe
Folding, peeling struts our stuff
We can rock
Big, bold and beautiful
Freestyle is enough
We can ballet
Oh glorious presence
Beauty and grace refined
We can improvise
On a living room floor
Every style combined
We can watch
Absorbed in the majesty of human flight
Awash with the joy of life
And you my love
Can dance with me
Dance with me my wife
So, dance with me my partner
Hold me in your arms
And look into my eyes so deeply
You free me from all harm
We can dance
This week dVerse poetics is from Mish, about dance and dance we will. https://dversepoets.com/2024/01/30/poetics-may-i-have-this-dance/
For a long time now
For a long time now
My love and I go walking
As we walk
We find the time for talking
For a long time now
My love and I sit silently
As we sit
Our love strengthens quietly
Watching the moon
Watching the moon, grey dust, hard stone.
Why won’t the moon leave me alone?
I watch to see if the old man there,
will he ever release me from his stare.
I dream the moon will fall to earth,
moon’s death rattle, our deadly curse.
The sun has got to do something about
that moonish sneer on that moon face snout
before kamikaze moon’s suicidal spiral
rings our bells and rattles our bones,
shakes and quakes our earthly home.
Mr Moon up there is become one with hell,
the Devil’s doing, a catastrophic bombshell.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
I watch the moon
I must I must!
Mary, Mary
When Mary was born she put on quite a show
her hair as a floral bouquet did grow
her hands had green fingers covered in earth
her mouth was a rosebud first day of birth
her ears were round spirals just like sea shells
when she laughed she tinkled like joyful small bells
her nose was a Billy Button soft and yellow
her voice was a summer breeze soft and mellow
her toes were soon rooted in the loamy soil of home
and no further than that garden did she ever roam
where at her touch fruit was ready for harvest
at her invitation birds were ready to nest
she ensured vegetables and flowers grew in abundance
she learned all the ways of nature’s fertile dance
she was one pretty maid ready to grow
every kind of plant in a bed or in a row
The dVerse poetics prompt this week comes from Lillian. An interesting one that I found tricky to hook into. Then I thought of my granddaughters and out it came. Find the prompt here https://dversepoets.com/2024/01/23/and-what-were-you-like-before/
Growing old together
Growing old together, our life has indeed got better.
As our bodies steadily decline, get sensitive to the weather.
We find our ways to appreciate the world in which we live,
we try to do some good things, together we try to give.
Our children look as happy, as we can hope they might be.
Our grandchildren delight, us with growth and learning daily.
Our homes are all comfortable, if certainly nothing flash.
We make some time for entertainment and culture, when we have the cash.
Our love is as joyful as ever it was, I hope you will agree,
we take each day on its merits as I grow old with thee.
With hugs to start each day and then to say good night,
there’s something still going on between us, certainly something right.
I still pinch myself when we’re together, to make sure I’m not dreaming.
I don’t wake up because it’s real, no fantasy of dreams and seeming.
We look forward to time together, look after each other, give each other time and space.
A recipe for enduring success, not one you can replace.
Your kisses still sweet, your touch still electric, there’s still more for us to look forward too.
For our remaining time, while I’m still yours and you’re still mine, everything is fine.
Patriots
It’s an old adage I know,
but if everyone declined to go,
if every decision-
maker said no,
if every arms maker built only ploughs,
there would be no seeds of war to sow.
Forget the patriotism of nationalists.
Strike to stop the weapon fashionists.
Vote out war mongering communists and capitalists.
None of it is worth the risk.
To the battlefield fallen, most unknown,
dead eyes to the sky, ground to the bone,
lost to family, lost to home,
forgotten souls of false hopes grown,
ploughed into fields of woe and sighs,
lost to memory, without good byes.
Soon out of sight, out of mind.
Innocent victims of war’s relentless grind.
Pay some mind,
pay some mind.
Blue
Blue peaked hat
Blue lens
Blue jacket
Then blue again
Blue pants
blue socks
blue runners
blue locks
blue eyes
blue stare
blue ties
blue bag
blue tags
blue everywhere
blue disposition
the man i see
blue composition
Getting things done
There are no noble people,
only those who get things done.
Wherever, whatever their reason.
Mapped, planned or on the run.
So many times we make decisions,
given credit for inclusive premeditation.
So often it’s just recidivism,
fear, or creative explanation.
Where lies self interest I ask?
There will be an individual voice,
at the heart of every task,
at the heart of every choice.
Let’s hear no more of altruism.
Human nature drives what’s best.
For all, let’s take it as a given
We act selfishly unless
there’s benefit from the rest.
The right way to write
I have never thought about how I write
with stealth or do I attack the page
sometimes I think I write in fright
sometimes I write to release my rage
but overall I’m a a reflective fellow
like a wombat I trundle about
I like to write thoughtful and mellow
until an issue makes me want to shout
and then I am as useful as a thylacine
the stripes on my back for all to see
extinct barking creature of a bygone time
a target for the crack guns to eradicate me
so, now I practice being an observer
like an owl watching and waiting in a tree
one with much less shout and more murmur
I learn more about the world to better understand me
This early 2024 dVerse challenge was a thought provoking one from Dora, to create an animal metaphor for how we write. https://dversepoets.com
At one
I drink of life’s cup.
I adore its open doors.
Anticipation is best
when one thinks upon - there’s more!
As I pass on through,
into new areas to explore,
I reap the harvest of experience
for my keepsake drawer.
I find myself in other places
where nature’s spell is spun,
where my fears and failings
vanish into none.
I look upon the sky above
a sky will always stun.
I take my pleasure in Mother Earth
being at one under the sun.
My boat
My boat afloat
upon the wavering sea
did accomplish its purpose
most buoyantly
my boat cast
upon any stoney shore
did rest awaiting my next
adventure with sail and oar
my boat I lost
to a watery grave
holed by a reef, by my being naive
and it still lies awaiting
this next sojourn to end
but alas
I rest there too
a watery spectre
beside my flooded friend
Strathbogie has SPOKEN
The bottomless sea
swimming to the bottom of the bottomless sea
won’t you come and swim with me?
it’s the only place they’ll let us be
when we get to the bottom we’ll be free
just you and me and the bottomless sea
outa her mind
telling stories
of phantom glories
looking over her shoulder
smirking until I cry
beating on the table
playing I Spy
wondering who’s there
saying it’s fine
working in montage
death and decline
definitely hers
probably mine
twitching of the wrist
pumping of the fist
batting of the eyelids
passionate kiss
vicious kick
full cheek lick
what makes her tick
she’s a bomb
A Surrealist Rhyme for Erik
I clipped their wings with shears of grey
The telescope told me I must act Whispering of star falls and moonrise attack I reflected on the power I lacked I must net time and hold it back the home I could lose the ground where I stood solid as rock shapable as wood saw me wretched with fear indecisive and torn was this last of days the final morn? So I took my sharpest pencil my notebook red wrapped my head in wool to drown out the dead in their bottle on the waves above the seabed. I went to the library to learn from the books how to save the moon from destructive skyhooks the learning was crystal clear as a diamond shards came together for this ignorant vagabond I knew what to do I knew it was right to save moon and world I had to take flight I set my glider to fly from an open window when the sun’s mellow light fades to soft evening glow I leapt on board to find rising fresh air but all that I found was a down draft there and I fell to the earth as so many more I resolved to try again but not like before. A path to nearby mountains was a long weary trek if I ramped it straight upward I could launch like a jet but the weight of the world again dragged me down into glass houses I crashed with a moan so I built giant steps on which I climbed high to take the moon down from the sky. As I ascended clouds hid the way I clipped their wings with shears of grey the stars came to guide me as I climbed and climbed pushing ever upward was all on my mind until the way was clear the view up ahead was one of the moon on a black velvet bed a moon barely rising still held in sleep’s sway a moon reluctant to hear my story let us say so I sweet talked that moon with promises and bribes offering pleasurable time on earth in which to imbibe the moon gave a yawn looked up and looked down asked if I was prophet, conman or clown? requested some proof what I had to say was true for it could hear only nonsense hard to construe so I pointed to the black heavens where no starlight glowed the moon was astonished then concerned and then bowed I will go with you to spend time on earth while threats to the skies are beaten and dispersed I will rise again when the stars once more burn to light the night sky with starlight returned. Moon sank into the ocean for a seaside holiday destruction avoided with the moon at play the culprits attacked night to find nothing but vacuum and the cow in the sky scooped them up with a spoon. This week Mish asked we poets to write from a gallery of surrealist photographer Erik Johansson’s images. Find the prompt here:
https://dversepoets.com/2023/05/09/poetics-slipping-into-surrealism-with-erik-johansson/
Roderick
Roderick was into sleeping.
He went to bed because in his head
he was boring.
No one noticed his time asleep.
He’d been gone a year and week,
which suggests he was quite boring.
He’d been lying in bed day after day,
when someone wondered, then went on to say,
“Where’s Roderick?”
They found him asleep and snoring.
Then they said how long it took
to find him in his tiny nook.
He quietly stated that he mistook
the year and week for one nice long sleep
convinced it was just the next morning.
Only getting up to go to the toilet,
his face was pale, eyes crusty and set.
At some time his beard he’d wrapped into
a bun, his idea of having a small bit of fun
to deal with the cold and no nightcap instead
he wrapped it around his balding head.
They all said how odd he looked.
He replied it was heat restoring.
With no one to talk to and no tv,
Roderick had slept all of that time restfully.
In his small dark room where day remained night
where awake was tedious and without delight.
When Roderick woke to that knock on the door,
a voice had asked, “Roderick, would you like to sleep more?”
Roderick never felt better than when he was sleeping
so to sleep again he went as night came creeping.
Never was he or others so content
than when Roderick slept and time simply went
another year until Roderick’s next dawning.
I did it for my babies
I sobbed while I banged my head on the dock
I lit the fuse tick tock tick rock
With nowhere to go I ran amok
because I knew no one gave a fuck
and my children died inside the conflagration
while outside I died as a witness stationed
to watch this act as the ultimate martyr
from lover to mother to miserable failure
now my babies don’t suffer anymore don’t you see?
their loss was my hope for my babies three
their release from torment my relief and my grief
I their life giver corrupter and thief
I scratched at the doors where help is the word
I pleaded for help and not one cry was heard
I make no further excuses for this desperate crime
judge me oh judge me and I’ll do my time
but I urge you who judge to stop and reflect
on the festering harm of abuse and neglect
on how absence of care equals opportunity cost
from pitiful existence my babies were lost
Bruised
I’m feeling a little bruised
a little rushed a little used
when you turn your whip like tongue on me
a little crushed and very confused
when you say that I’m not worth it
yet you keep on coming back
I decide that I’ll stick with it
and then you call me slack
yes I’m a sucker for punishment
my friends all tell me that
but really I’m a sucker for nourishment
I pray for it after every spat
I hate you and I love you
I tell you and relent
then you diss me and you kiss me
never knowing what each one meant
you don’t hit me or spit on me
you don’t go out with another
you just discard me like a soiled rag
whenever you think I’m a bother
then you take me back when it suits
knowing you'll always have the boots
to stand over me til I breakdown
to abuse me when I meltdown
I crave to be better, yet I'm a weak nag
always with one hand reaching for an escape bag
but I turn back from every open door
I pathetically keep coming back for more
then as I slide down every jamb
lamb to slaughter, slaughtered lamb
self esteem slides with me, to the floor we sag
and I gag and I gag and I gag
I see myself for what I have become
I know I'm not the only one
It isn't something helpful to know
others also powerless if they stay, powerless to go
August
the long grass dead brown
the short grass stunted green
faded blue skies
with no summer bright sheen
grey come the clouds
hanging low overhead
heavy with moisture
that will drop like lead
the air has a bite
bitter snaps each night
and each day frosted crisp
icy as any day has been
the cold sodden earth
awaits its rebirth
fresh food supplies
border on lean
as breath mists the air
those rugged up don't care
but the strugglers
blanch at the scene
winter cold eats budgets
of those who can’t afford it
where constant warmth
is but a seasonal dream
homeless under bridges
in doorways and niches
families living in cars
huddle away unseen
as others drive over bridges
secure in their riches
to homes warm inner glow
where no want has been
The dVerse prompt today came from Sanaa. She asked we poets to recognise August. We in the southern hemisphere may see it in a different seasonal light to that which Sanaa had in mind. However, one sad thing we do have in common around the world is the widening gap between the haves and have nots.
The art of deception
To be deceived by art Is where the pleasure lies As Oscar Wilde said When the finished work dries Art unexplained Awaits reference in time For art to have context Someone must find An intrinsic meaning An enchantment or spell A hard fact or history That explains it well So ethereal This imaginative bent Where art creates product But may not pay rent The elusive success Of an artist such as me Depends on the work And conveying what we see To be reminded of something That may not be there Is the way we see art Reminiscent or bared The artist displays What the artist portrays The observers creates What the observer says And the feeling is surreal This fraught disconnect Must artists defer To the critics subject Is it in artist’s deceit Where the pleasure lies Taking the work and working it wise Psychological or literal The interpretation applied Is anything worthy In a meaning belied With all the definition in Every artists hand The lines of description Are at critics command The intensity of design Or depicting a glance For artist and critic It’s the art of chance Is ugly ugly Or is it brave and true Is beauty beauty Or a sop to me and you Only the artist knows Where the artist goes But as deception grows Across art shows The artist bows To the stories faux As the critics row And the sponsors crow And the buyers coo Gallery owners woo speculators too Attempt to choose The number 1 pick That makes art slick To turn a buck Art by the truck Instead of art refined As in the artist‘s mind But only the artist knows Where the artist goes
The Gambler
Precedence
is chance
The roll is a fast
chaotic dance
The die is cast
numbers spin
Will luck outlast
the spin I’m in?
The dotted faces
turn and prop
bounce and hop
My future turns
on fortune’s stop
Excitement
Anticipation
Fulfilment
or suffocation
Desperation
Indecision
High risk taking
recidivism
Bound for glory
is my folly
Wracked and ruined
that’s my story
Highs feed lows
on pure vainglory
Today’s dVerse prompt from Ingrid was for a subject of each poet’s choosing. This one came from a draft I had on gambling, a subject I have been trying to get my head around.
Their hands
Their hands when they touch
Flow from rolling of wrists
Each touch is a signal
Each touch is a kiss
Their fingers are folding
On whispers and secrets
Cupped hands are holding
All ahead that will be
Their fingers trace circles
On their palms telling futures
Tender are the touches
Of their hands as their tutors
Their hands rest together
One on top of the other
Their hands mark their measure
Their harmonious hands
Their hands spread out
Open and true
Telling each story
Each soul on view
Hands hold each heart
Supporting each core
Their hands do the learning
Of what more to adore
The extension of hands
The parallel lines
Pads of sensitive fingers
Their dreaming defines
There are fists and shaking
The are dips and rise
There are quivering fingers
Before flickering eyes
When hands arc with arms
To gracious embrace
The lovers say nothing
As hands touch each face
Delicate lines are drawn
Across soft skinned cheeks
Then with touches to lips
Mouths start to seek
Two seeing hands
guide the blind
Sensuous and caressing they massage
to unwind
Four hands synchronise
to breathe in kind
in waves of love
entwined
life is to death as tears are to rain
Bright is the light that shines on me
as I dwell finally
in deathbed reverie
the doctor he talks
and talks and he talks
my wife she weeps
and weeps and she weeps
and time it creeps
and creeps and it creeps
what is this light that shines above
lights pallid face of death
to my love
the darkness it resists
and resists and it resists
in brilliance it glows
and glows and it glows
in radius it grows
and grows and it grows
this light that calls me as my light fades
this light that draws me
to the night of shades
with death it walks
and walks and it walks
my feeble hand I raise and wave
I waver and it waves
faces watch uncertain so grave
grave and so grave
I see my hand stir dust in the air
second last thing I will see anywhere
the dust it wafts
and wafts and it wafts
my brow is mopped
and mopped and is mopped
my hand drops
I drop and it drops
as dust I settle back onto deaths bed
into the pillow sinks my head
life’s weight I shed
I shed and I shed
looking down into the room
I am surprised it is lit
by only gloom
the husk has collapsed
collapsed collapsed
hollowed of life
of life and of life
beside my wife
my wife my beloved wife
the dust dispersed draws my spirit in
and back to dust
I go again
the gift I leave is small but complete
I was loved and I loved
I am replete
Today’s dverse prompt is from Laura, to write words of departure based on your choice from a set of quotes. I chose the quote from a favourite and most remarkable movie – “All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.” Roy Batty, Blade Runner.
poetography.ink 