Saturday, 9 November 2013
Sunday, 3 November 2013
Resurrection reunion 2 Stanley Spencer 1945
through countless seasons
in dark infinity
a change begins
tendrils stretch out
longing for the light
tell of spring
bring skies of seamless blue
nights of gentle rain
we are reborn.
The miracle of a tiny seed turning into a flower, vegetable, grass or grain never ceases to amaze me.
Go and take a look at the other poets work at Tess Kincaids The Mag.
Sunday, 27 October 2013
le jardin by max ernst
that mean nothing
you claim to know me
but you don't
i hide myself from you
its a game i play
to see how wrong you can get it
my face is a mask
which one day i will let crack
then you will recoil from the truth
The picture prompt is from Tess at The Mag, go and read the other poets work.
Sunday, 13 October 2013
sometimes when i dream of you
you are playing
prancing round the garden like a circus pony
a stick tossed in the air
and caught by those broken old teeth
sometimes i just feel your fur
short white fur
or your velvet brown ears maybe just cocked listening
for the biscuit tin to open.
i remember you as a puppy
and how you ate my shoes. my pants,
well you ate just about anything
how your life was nearly cut short
by the incident we don't mention.....
however you survived and had many more scrapes
with tractors, on roads, other dogs
and your bullying of the cats was legendary.
As the years rolled on you mellowed
into just a fairly bad dog
people gave you a wide berth
frightened by your hardcore looks
you were my protector
my minder, my companion.
Being such a character people still talk about you
and how your antics made them laugh
you are not forgotten.
Written for The Mag go here to see the others work.
Sunday, 29 September 2013
the leaden skies brewing
a maelstrom of clouds
and dust flies into waves
we gather collars close
burying our noses into fusty scarves
buffeted into each other
you catch my waist
before we tumble off the path
you say i look like Rossetti's model
auburn hair cascading into heather
i laugh at your romanticism
i parcel up this moment
to hide it in a black metal chest
along with autumn leaves
pheasant plumage and marsh cotton.
Head over to The Mag and Tess Kincaid for the other poets work on Magpie Tales no. 188!.
Monday, 23 September 2013
Sunday, 15 September 2013
An amber setting sun
casts my shadow westwards
long and brawn
across the hillocks of dunes
I have the sand and grit
under my nails
grating with every depth i delve
my pony waits impatiently
rope tied to a lichened stone lintel
beside the church
he shakes and snorts
pawing the ground into heaps
and snatching at drifts of long grass
now dried to parchment ribbons
panic makes me dig faster
i must away soon
maybe to fight
certainly to defend
my waiting family
strong-held for the moment behind
high stone and prayers
i say a silent curse
to the cur who has led us to this
wrapped in coarse wool
and downy feathers deep
our precious family treasure
covered by shards of shell and pebble
a grassy disguise pulled over
i count steps to remember this place
if god allows our return.
Wish me well.
This is my piece for Tess Kincad and The Mag.
The picture prompt lead me to here and the story of the treasure of St Ninian's and so my inspiration for this poem.