# 27

Before The Front Door

A living carpet overspills this path.
Leaves speckled like a thrush's breast:
flowers - pink, to blue, to shades of purple  -
grace each stem: Pulmonaria.

Its common name of lungwart dis-enchants
me. But the humble beauty of this plant's
soft, multi-coloured shades is paramount,
this lazy, sun-filled afternoon in April.

Making a scalloped edge to the old bricks,
it provides a guard of honour for people
approaching the stained-glass panelled door
of this elegant, Victorian house.

Inside, a welcome will await those visitors
who pass the flowers by, unseeing...

# 26

Slugs V. Daffs

When slick-faced, coal-pit slugs abound
using instinct's guile to nibble
and to help create the daffodils' demise,  
inhale with sadness fragrances
left scenting springtime air,
and store them in your memory,
a treasured, silent prayer.                    

Though yellow petals lose their fight,
with buds and blooms destroyed,
green leaves will feed the swelling bulbs,
their energies employed in conservation   
till next Spring, when flower blooms
will live again, a second generation...

# 25

What A Carry On

The thirty days in April
must have gone to all our heads -
"Go write a poem every day!"
was what somebody said.
But I wish I'd added on this thought
"What could we do instead?"

"Most anything" did someone say?
Yet here we are, day after day
churning out poetic verse -

what a carry on!

For some, it's gone from bad to worse
but at least we'll soon be done.
So in the meantime, I will say
"Come on folks. Carry on!"

Although I had already scheduled a post for this morning, an unexpected discovery of the words 'Carry on' at Poetry Jam, had me rushing to slot in this early morning offering - no offense meant, fellow NaPoRiMo fanatics! LOL

# 24

Hope

Realisation
that nothing lasts for ever;
goodbye to childhood.
But in welcoming changes
all things become possible.

A  Tanka written for IGWRT's prompter today, Susan.

# 23

I spotted a prompt at We Write Poems, thanks to a link in Viv In France's blog, and as they were asking for something silly - well - 'nuff said...

 A Kind Of Iffy Poem

If I were silver, and so was my tree,
I'd be a bell bird - also silver you see...
My sonorous notes would daintily ring
as tumbling carillons I'd choose to sing
to welcome each new day and say 'Hello, Sun'
then I'd croon him a lullaby when day was done.

With a ting and a ling, or a ding and a dong
my bell chords would echo and sound all day long,
'til the people who lived in the house on the hill
would shout out, quite rudely 'Please shut your bill!
From inside, our ears are now ringing as well -
can't you be quiet and give us a spell
of silence, all golden? We humbly request
that you tuck your head under your wing for a rest.'

And now what do I find, but an IGWRT's prompt for a poem to celebrate The Bard! So I've done an additional write this afternoon, just for him - and them! Sorry, Will!

Forsooth!

In memory of Shakespeare, here are lines

the like of which his quill pen never wrote.

For now, a fearsome black and plastic board

provides a bard with characters to press

with tender fingertips, no more nor less.

And so come words intended to impress

a modern audience -  a  Blogland crowd,

reliant on technology, and such things

as monitors, plus much beyond the ken

of simple womenfolk , as many men may

state in chauvinistic mode! However,

be that as it may, this tribute in the month

when William breathed his first or last

poetic gasp, I humbly  lay before you.

I implore you to look kindly on my work –

written while more serious employment

I do shirk, forsooth. Impetuous youth!

I jest, of course, for me, a second childhood

is closer to the part of life I live today!

# 22

Thanks to Kerry, and IGWRT's plea that we all work towards a greener and cleaner Earth - this being World Earth Day, apparently- my quirky humour immediately took it the wrong way, and with the help of a wonderful photo by pk-photography.blogspot.com, it gave me the excuse to write a sad apology of a haiku...

Clean and Green, you say.
Perhaps, after a rainstorm,
a caterpillar?

# 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...