Violets

Kim, with Real Toad's mini Sunday prompt shot me back to my earliest days, and thanks to an eBay photo, I've even been able to show you the kind of thing that caught my attention, in my Aunty's bedroom way back when...

A flower decked flask prompted me
to ask " Auntie Glad, what's in there?"
and she placed it in my hands, saying
 " Pull out the stopper, and see.
But take care!" 

Around it, bands of green and brown
topped painted flowers and leaves,
and I opened it and breathed in the scent
of Devon Violets for the first time.
I wished it had been mine!  But from that day,
the perfume and colour found its way into my soul.

Unfinished

Voyage of Discovery

Bare bones lightning sketch,
tree branch arms;
face in focus.

Sky eats hair,
devours softer beauty,
leaves stark silhouette unsexed.

Result?

Uncomfortable wake of abandonment
follows artist on imagination's ocean
as her ship sails.

When I saw this Mary Cassatt's painting which Tess chose for her Mag 167 I was  overwhelmed by a sense of 'something not quite real' - possibly created in part by the title.  If it had been called 'Le Spectre de la Rose' after the ballet by that name, it would have caused me no problem. But 'Young Woman Picking The Fruit Of Knowledge'? That disturbed me. Hence my strange, not-quite-real-non-poem, poem for today.

 

A Fond Farewell

"Goodbye" to April - soon "Hello" to May!
We've come to the end of a poem a day -
that NaPo - type madness which kept us at work
with imperative dictates we didn't dare shirk.

Some followed prompts found in Blogland at large;
some allowed random ideas to take charge.
But whatever the source, the outcome was plain,
a poem's a poem, some kind of word game.

A writer will play it with ardour and zest
till he finds that one word which surely is best
to convey his intention, pass on his thoughts
to the reader whose kind approbation is sought.

Though that's not the whole reason we pick up a pen,
or dash to a keyboard to pound it again;
when our inspiration comes from the muse
who prods us to action, we've no time to lose.

We have to obey such a summons, 'tis true -
what else could a dyed-in-the-wool poet do?

# 29

Before The Future

Poets were called to arms;
NaPoRiMo beckoned them on April Fool's Day.
Tomorrow pens will run dry.

An exceedingly apt prompt over on Haiku Heights was too good to pass by this morning! We've nearly made it, folks!

# 28

Kerry of Real Toad's fame, set us searching for our favourite quote from Harper Lee's wonderful book "To Kill a Mockingbird." For added inspiration, she include a still from the film, and how could I resist an excuse to look at Atticus Finch again? :) This was my choice:-

 “People generally see what they look for, and hear what they listen for.”

The day is dull and overcast;

rainclouds fight the sun.
But I look and see a rainbow -
aren't I the lucky one?

The traffic thunders on the road -
but is that all I hear?
No! Close by a blackbird trills
its song that I hold dear.

It's all about perception;
this point of view we choose,
and if we seek the positive,
what do we have to lose?

Why, just the stress and anguish
that pessimism brings
to you, or me - or even
to 'cabbages and kings!'

With thanks also to the Walrus and the Carpenter, to whom Lewis Carroll gave a wonderful perception all their own. :)

And NaPoRiMo has definitely got me going, for there's a second write for today here!

# 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.