Snozmole Wump

Beware the sleejus Snozmole Wump!
He's gloochier than a heffalump,
though somewhat of fraptode chump.
(Don't tell him!)

He snortles around rocks and stones
and loves to grind up brittle bones
of those who sit and kronk alone
to fell him...

He snortles over hill and dale
while gruttling for a fructus bale
of weedpoke stems, or bragmus tails
with lemin.

He snortles up the stairs at night
to give all babtot kips a fright
by smogrifying all the light,
and yellin'!

Best clup your eyes and huj your snout
whenever Snozmole Wump's about... 
Oh, no! My fribble friends, lookout!
He's comin'!

With thanks to Tess and apologies to Kelsey Hannah for this flight of fancy for The Mag 214.

Tired?

Moonlight seeks the satin sheets
but that bed is not inviting.
Both it and rubbish strewn around
shrink from such floodlighting.

Moonbeams say " We will not sleep,
but stay awake all night,
search-lighting through the blue-black sky
though trying not to weep.
We cannot find a place to rest
so have to do what we do best -
play evening peek a boo with stars
round Earth and Venus!"  Even Mars
cheers on their games,
" Go to it, children!" he declaims.
"Forget the bed and let it lie
and hide its face in shame,
while you skip round the whole night long
'til sun-flares fling their flames."


Written for The Mag, with thanks to Tess and Tracey Emin

Celandines

Five celandines lifted sunshine faces
to me, beaming from the grass by my door.

" Good morning, m'am, and how are you today?"

Their silent voices curtsied old fashioned
greetings across time.
                                        Once, the countryside
was called 'home' by many people - the towns
a farm-cart ride away, beyond blue hills -
and flowers like these would have been well known
to everybody... unremarkable.

But the gloss on the golden petals here
resembles plastic-coated packaging,
as though they have been factory processed
until all their natural beauty has been
overlaid with advertising slogans.

Only expectations and perspectives
have changed since the world was a simpler place,
but those changes have tarnished our vision,
until reality has dimmed, perhaps,
and our yardstick for measuring happiness
has changed too, beyond all recognition.



Linked to IGWRT's open Link Monday

Visitor

With elbows on the window sill,
dreaming at the moon,
I heard a lady humming
and I recognised the tune
as one my Daddy used to sing
sometimes - as tender-sweet
and soothing as a lullaby -
while he cuddled me to sleep.

I turned, and bright as moonlight,
she was sitting by my bed
quieting her baby...
Then she bent to kiss its head.

"I cannot stay my darling,
but when you hear this song
you'll always know that I'm nearby.
Be happy, and be strong;
my love will wrap around you
no matter where you are,
and I'll be watching over you
from up among the stars."

I never knew my Mammy
but last evening, I'd have sworn
I saw her for the first time,
though... she'd died when I was born.

Linked to Imaginary Garden with Real Toads's Open Link Monday

Predator

Big cats stalked
through childhood dreams;
they gave chase,
and I...
ran to climb trees.

My adult mind sneers.
"Lions? Imagination!"

Fearsome beasts hunt me still,
through those nights
when sleep is so unkind
as to leave me conscious
while being eaten.


Written for The Mag With thanks to Tess and Henri Rousseau.

Time to Dream

Alphabets
cushion the sleeper
as the books'
lullabies
sing their notes into his dreams
and birth new poems.




Inspired by The Mag and the original image called Poet's Sleep, 1989, by Chang Houg Ahn
Thanks Tess for choosing it...

Newness

Every second's new;
each tick of a tocking clock
offers its own unique chance
for us to ensure the next
will be better than the last...

Thoughts inspired by Poets United, and their mid-week prompt. 

All Seeing, I

A camera tells
much about people who fall
under the gaze of its eye,
but he who clicks the shutter
offers his dreams to the world.

Written for The Mag, where Tess gave us a self portrait of Francis Bacon to play with. I chose to zoom in for this close up...

TongueTied

Words in a tangle

dangle ideas before me.

See them dance?

Askance, I follow their lead,

need to catch them,

stem the flow -

Woah!

Go slow!

Show  me a kaleidoscope

hope of understanding

landing on new ground…

Sounds of words spill

till my ears’

fears of them being mocked

shocks me again into silence…

This has been waiting around for an ending some time  - I think the latest edit works. What do you think? I'll link to IGWRT's for an answer or two! LOL. And by a mere fluke, it has 55 words, which will come in handy for G-Man on Friday...

Fast Food?

When Alfred Hitchcock filmed 'The Birds'
he never guessed just how absurd
this flock of hungry gulls would be;
they left the fishes in the sea
and smacked their noisy, beaky lips
as fingers offered chip-shop chips!



Thanks to Tess and The Guardian for today's Mag.

Should've Gone To Specsavers?

Is it the glare from the water,
or is it the print's far too small?
I cannot make out what the last line says -
I can hardly see it at all!

I probably need to wear glasses,
but you all know what they say about that*-
and I'd hate to miss out on those passes,
should I find me an elegant chap!



*Men don't make passes
at girls who wear glasses.

Thanks to Tess for choosing this painting by John Singer Sargent for her Mag this week.

Love In Print

The camera clicks,
and a memory is caught,
encapsulated
for ever in a moment
of time that's already passed.

And this photo thrives -
until sunlight fades the print,
turns the edges brown
as a dying rose petal
whose life force has been sucked dry.

But inside our minds,
images remain alive,
secure, unchanging,
and ready to sustain us
when love's hunger overwhelms.

From an original negative by Degas, as chosen by Tess for her Mag 193.

Millinery Madness

'If you want to get ahead, get a hat.'
As a sales pitch, I must agree with that,
but this hat looked rather silly
and quite gave me the willies
till spooky wavy lines had graced this face.
Now weirdo hat is not so out of place!

I give you a snippet from the Mag picture which Tess found this week, and which I had fun 'embroidering' a little, in keeping with the macabre subject :-)

Gardening?

The Seed

Upwards,
ever upwards
I climb towards the light
while my roots delve into the earth.
I seek nourishment to sustain my blooms
which must encounter sun's blessing
to complete the circle
of my journey
upwards.


Here I've used the Rictameter, nine line syllabic form (2/4/6/8/10/8/6/4/2), where each line increases by two syllables, and the first and last lines are the same. For the Mag 191, Tess chose a painting entitled 'Le Jardin' by Max Ernst.

Have a ball, folks!

Mention a ball and my feet will start tapping
as long as there's music - or perhaps some rapping

of words that will set the mind dancing instead -
as long as the language isn't over my head
with modern expressions that don't mean a thing -
and we can carouse till the fat lady sings
an opera aria which will delight
any opera buffs who are with us tonight...

In one corner a Scots man will pipe us a jig,
in another a sailor in full naval rig
will dance us a hornpipe and shiver me timbers
as I ogle his muscles, all salt-flecked and limber
from climbing the ropes of his ship in full sail
as he weathers the storm  in the face of a gale...

Perhaps we'll hear drumming in good Irish style
as we sip on a Guinness and pause for a while
to study the dancers, at this Willow Ball,
whom Tess has cajoled with her ' Come, one and all!'

I've no time for pictures or musical clips
for writing this ditty was enough for my wits
to contend with, this rather grey day in October.
At this part of the evening I'm still fully sober,
but once the old moon stamps its smile on the sky
I'm sure the festivities will make me high!
So raise up your glasses, and let's have a toast -
" To Tess, and her Manor that spreads coat to coast!"

Thanks for the invite, Tess!

Haunting

Menace
personified,
waiting just out of reach
for the time when the barrier
will fall...

In life
our worst mistakes
pile up in serried ranks,
sit behind another fence,
waiting.

They haunt
waking hours
with retrospective shame
until repentant senses crave
pardon.

For the original picture and more poems, go and visit Tess and her Mag 190.

A Taunting Tanka

"Tick tock" the clock mocks,
"another day you've wasted!
Face my displeasure."
And it whirls its hands faster.
"I will show you who's master!"


Tess and her Mag 189 called forth this flight of fancy, with an image by crilleb50 which I adapted to suit a nightmare scenario. :)

The Artist

This night,
the land is bathed
with scent of coming rain,
storm-chased by wild clouds above
the path.

In awe,
the artist stands
transfixed by the beauty
as he wends his way uphill
to home,

his house
a solid shape
beneath the silhouette
of branches dancing in wind's
embrace.

One day,
paint on canvas
will imortalise it,
this fleeting moment in time,
this gift

which he
stores in his mind,
ready to begin work
as soon as daylight calls
"Morning!"

This week, I've used a detail (colour enhanced) from the Mark Haley image which Tess gave us for The Mag prompt today. It reminds me of a Constable painting...

Afterglow

She embraced love's warmth
and bathed in the afterglow
of its radiance.


If you'd like to see the whole picture by Cesar Santos, visit The Mag, and see who else was inspired by this week's prompt from Tess.

Treasure Map?

From the Mag 185

Shall we toe the line?
These, on paper, make a map
with grids overlaid...

whilst others etched in the past

link those far times with today.

Wikimedia Commons

Thanks to Tess,  this week I read some Wiki background on the magical name 'St Ninian's Isle' and discovered photos of hidden, silver treasures that were unearthed in our lifetime. The one I've posted here had such a plethora of curved and straight lines, that I couldn't help but link it to those on the map, so you could see the connection, too. Enjoy!
Please click on the photo to see the true beauty of the silver work. :)