# 21

Haiku Sample

Get your free hugs here!
My special offers are shipped
twenty four seven.

I was sent a request  for one of these via a comment on this post ... No sooner said than done!

Another number 20

Plat Du Jour

Saturday special?
My granddaughters are coming;
favourite menu.

# 20

A.M.

It's half past one.
Rest will not come
until my skin
has cooled. My shins
burn
while I yearn
for slumber.

A number
of factors
have caused reactors
in my being
to send fleeing
any chance of sleep.

So I creep
downstairs,
where
a screen
will seem
friendly as I type
this night,
for it 'hears' my words...

But that's absurd...
it has no ears.

Yet it appears
to wait for each
new character to reach
into its mind-set
on this page which lets
me speak,
as I seek...
communication?
Or commiseration?

# 19

NaPoRiMo Dilemma

The weekend is coming,

there’s no mistaking that.

Can I pull another ditty

from my thinking cap?

Will Friday be the full stop

where inspiration fails?

If I can’t squeeze another drop,

I might go off the rails

by talking rot, or double dutch

or causing a to-do?

I will not like me very much

and nor, I’m sure will you!

I have my 'silly' head on 

and all it does is play

while all my funny words have gone-

ones like Calloo Callay -

and someone else invented those...

can I invent some more? Who knows!

# 18

Voyage - or Cinquains Float My Boat

Writing
poetry is
miserable sometimes
when new ideas refuse to come
on board.
Your boat
loses the wind
from its sails as doldrums
strike, and only the anchor stops you
drifting
away
on a new tack,
carried by a current,
with no control over the course
that's set
by the
hidden tideways
deep beneath your vessel.
It's time to whistle down the wind
perhaps.

IGWRT's  Toads are asking for ideas on encouragement today - so my tip is 'Whistle down the wind and set sail for a brighter future!'
And here's one I wrote a while back for the kiddywinks... Seemed a good idea to pop it in here, too.

Face Front

Let's face it, life is funny.
On your face a nose that's runny
can be nasty, it is true.
and all that you can do
is blow it.

But if your face is sunny,
giving smiles that cost no money,
don't keep it to yourself
stuck indoors upon a shelf,
go show it.

Turn into happy bunny
and, like buzzy bees make honey,
life will suddenly be sweeter
for such a meet-and-greeter!
I know it.

# 17

Imagination comes in handy when the 'Spring' remains elusive - only a word we remember from last year, but which we begin to doubt will ever apply to this year!
So I've been sitting thinking wistfully of what might be on offer, in a perfect world...

Sun

Now flowers flaunt their gowns in bright array
to welcome in the harbingers of spring:
the swelling buds: the trees with new display
of leaves, which hide the small birds as they sing.
Who would not want to smile on such a day
when sunshine warms the heart of everything
on Earth? Like gossamer it wraps our world -
fine threads of happiness by Sun unfurled.

# 16

I thought it about time a Triolet was added to the mix - eight lines of iambic rhythm, with a rhyme scheme of ABaAabAB. First, fourth and seventh lines are a repeated refrain, as are lines two and eight.

Half Way

The half way marker now is past,
soon April's poems will be done
defying winter's dying blast.
The half way marker now is past -
it seemed to come and go so fast!
Although we've all had lots of fun,
the half way marker now is past;
soon April's poems will be done.

# 15

It's Monday;
not the most fun day
of the week
for workers.
But those past retirement age
have no such worries.

As long as
creaking bones will let
them arise,
(no surprise)
they are perfectly happy
just to be alive!

They have learnt
to live day by day.
In this way
life can be
an ongoing adventure,
whatever happens.

Hehehe! A NaPoRiMo Monday special, using the shadorma form, and linked to IGWRT's

# 14

Depending on Tess Magpie who flies in way past noon,
a number 14 poem may appear here soon...
so watch this space
'tis no disgrace...

See you this afternoon?

 

Afternoon is here, and so am I again! With thanks to Tess and the artist Kuzma Petrov-Vodin at The Mag. And here is an etheree for the real #14 of NaPoRiMo.


Walking Out on Sunday Afternoon

Prim,
proper,
the courting
couple's meeting
is awkward. They sit
apart, each self contained;
she, gazing way off yonder;
he, leaning sideways, studying
the composition of her profile...
both feeling on top of the world today.

# 13

This time, I've decided to write in a form which I believe is described as a 'crown cinquaine' -  in other words, a linked series of cinquaines which, if looked at sideways (!) would create the points on a crown...

How Inspiration Works

Words come;
drift into view
on the screen in my mind.
Then pictures overlay their shapes,
and shine
as pen
turns characters
into graphic designs
of poetic typography
to share.
When ink
covers paper,
my ideas come to life,
colouring scenes inside my head
until -
reading
aloud adds new
dimensions to the piece,
as musical rhythm combines
with sound.


Also linked to Poetry Pantry

# 12

 In  Ballad Form

At the edge of the forest something stirred
and through the dark trees came
a figure cloaked and wrapped about
with a flash of lightening flames.

It muttered spells beneath its breath
and mists rose from the lake
where some poor maid had met her death
when bitten by a snake.

Rosamunda was her name
and beautiful was she,
but the poisoned bite had made her lame
and unable to flee

the cruel huntsman and his bow
who wanted his revenge
for vows she'd taken long ago
on the altar at Stonehenge.

She'd said that she would rather die
than ever be his bride,
so he let his angry arrows fly
to pierce her in her side...

The ancient crone, a witch, in truth
had spied the young girl bleed,
and taken by the fair maid's youth
swore to undo the deed.

" By fire and water, earth and air
you'll not meet your demise!
By all the powers good and fair,
I bid thee maid, arise!"

And slowly from her watery grave
Rosamunda stepped at last
rejoicing as she realised
her troubles all were past,

for the crone had sent the huntsman forth
with promise of reward
if he remained far from this land, OR
his head would meet death's sword!

Today's NaPoRiMo was inspired by IGWRT's challenge. With thanks to Chelsea and her Mum.

# 11

I've recently been introduced to the Sapphic Stanza, which was explained to me thus:-

A sapphic stanza is composed of 4 lines:

a) 3 hendecasyllabic lines - a line with 11 syllables
b) with a fourth line that consists of 5 syllables

There is also meter within each line too.

Line 1: trochee, trochee, dactyl, trochee, trochee
Line 2: trochee, trochee, dactyl, trochee, trochee
Line 3: trochee, trochee, dactyl, trochee, trochee
Line 4: dactyl, trochee

In honour of day number eleven and the wonderful word 'hendecasyllable', here's a piece I've worked on, using this form.


Follow!

Nights when moonlight's silvery beams come calling,
restful sleep's impossible; bed, a playground -
faerie dusted, glistening like an ocean
swelling with ripples.

Shadows' edges waver and mesmerise us;
objects lose their usual silhouettes and
phantom shapes arise in a grotesque fashion,
beckoning shyly.

"Come and follow! Into the realms of magic
let us go together and dance till daylight
dawns anew and wakes all the world from slumber.
Come now and follow!"


My silver-tinted poem is linked to Poets United, who chose colour as a prompt on Wednesday,  and to IGWRT's one, asking for a sense of place, and dialogue.

# 10

A third of the way through the NaPoRiMo month, and for the past few days, the news has been all about the demise of our first woman Prime Minister. I've gone into serious mode, to produce a bit of blank verse, after a fashion, to mark the occasion in my own way.

In Memoriam

The name of Margaret Thatcher hit the news
again, not due to governmental coup
or parliamentary problem, simply death -
her own - not those of troops in Falkland's war.
Some mourn and some rejoice that she is gone,
but chroniclers will none the less record
her place in British history as the first
woman elected to head our Ministers.
A prime position, in name as well as fact,
despite the humble start she had in life.
Now, at its end, what higher tribute 
could be paid, than that the Queen herself
attend her funeral service, with respect?

Another Number 9

Keeping To The Plan - sort of

When I woke this morning
the rain was pouring down
to give the world a shower -
no sign of April's crown
of sunshine.

So although I wrote a poem
on day eight, for number nine
of NaPoRiMo writer's count,
here's another one of mine
this morning.

It may not be the greatest -
'tis but of little note -
but at least it shows you all
a set of words I wrote
today,

not yesterday...

# 9

Thanks to Tess  and Degas at Mag 163 
also for NaPoRiMo

Jinks Thinks

Once I had a washroom
with enamel bath, so small,
that to fit the feet in
was difficult, for tall
or long legged people...

Now, I've a shower stall,
a cabinet of glass and chrome
with inbuilt waterfall
to beautify my stately home.
It suits folk large or small.

So these days I don't notice
there is no bath at all
in the room I call a bathroom -
isn't that silly?

# 8

End Versus Beginning

When day
has gone to rest
my thinking's not its best,
as twilight falls, because, you see,
bed calls!

I wrote
these words last night -
not by this morning's light,
but please forgive me. They are for
day eight!

Of April, and NaPoRiMo, naturally. :)

# 7

Wrong Ticket?

I missed the boat.
The plethora of words I wrote
as I travelled life,
caused me no strife.
My early written thoughts
were not fraught 
with blood money of angst and history.
Those remained a mystery.

My days
went by in quiet ways
of family repeats -  Mum, Dad and Kids.
This usual recipe kept the lid
on any ambition to write full time.
Their well being drew the line
for me to toe.

And so -

and so; there you go.

Now, here I am. Me. Older,
at last, and bolder,
letting words rule the roost
to give retirement's boat a boost
of self esteem, perhaps,
before I lapse
into senility,
or before increasing fragility
forces me to drop the pen,
to stop surfing the keyboard, and then -

and then...

and then...

Who knows? The voyage continues...

# 6

And a re-work of yesterday's sonnet...but in 55 words, including title, just for G-Man.

In The Stillness

Only cloud reflections ripple to the music of the water -

until...

a sudden starling flock 

erupts

to mimic their movements -

flickering

shifting

splitting

covering the twilight canopy in monochrome lace...

short, lissome lines of birds

swirling

twisting

curling

then billowing into shapes like balloons inflating;

they fill our bemused vision.

N.B. The poetry groups I joined have been making me think about the placing of words on the page. Hoping to make it easier for any readers, when speaking the lines aloud, to  say the words as intended, I've played around with spacings, etc, but kept to my original idea of yesterday, but sadly, Blogger has its own idea of where some lines will be placed, and veto'd my spacings- but I'm trying again to insert them...

#5

To see what this is all about, watch this video first

Murmuration

The twilight clouds reflect on rippled water
‘til, speckle-flecked across the sky’s pale dome,
birds’ ink spot bodies form a flowing river
of dense-packed, flickering shapes in monochrome.

Amoebic like they split and shift formation,
dancing to instinctive music scores
in lissome, ribbon lines of short duration,
each line more graceful than the one before…

The darkness of their fluid movement fades
in swirling skeins and nets of twisting forms;
with every limpid shape their skill’s displayed
in aerial ballets, sprightly performed.

And so this miracle of night's wild scheme
will live - a half-light's shadow of a waking dream.

And I've linked this to Poets United

A Poem A Day?

Maybe, maybe not...but here's one for now, anyway...
P.S.   And as it turned out, I have been doing at least'one a day' ever since! :) Only three days to left!   27/4/2013.  J.
 

by Jinksy

Think Positive

Above my head are tear-wrapped clouds of grey;
the sky is dull, and stops the sun from beaming.  
It's threatening to wash my house today...

Soon the window panes will all be streaming
with runnels of the saddest, watery hue,
while through the treetops winds will go a-keening...

With playful weather gods, what can one do?
We're grateful for them watering our flowers -
but they drench us humans at the same time, too...

with a cloudburst, not a gentle shower,
until we wish they’d leave with no delay
if rain’s been falling hour after hour…

At least we don't dissolve and wash away
down drains and gutters, on a rainy day!