Yellow-green gold, Euonymus leaves shine,
basking in their own beauty. Day uncurls
towards noon and flowers unfurl petals,
yawning, blinking into startled life. Birds
serenade Spring, composing symphonies
no pen could capture within black barred lines
of manuscript, perches only for notes
which can never be caged. And Easter-time
echos a message of hope around the world.
Beyond the plantation, a mysterious glow lit the horizon. It seemed to creep closer, until it had outlined both young and old, and its energy drew them inexorably towards the source.
Indistinct bell-tones echoed through the crisp air, strands of notes swirling like garlands, to drape tree branches and shoulders alike.
There was a feeling of calm, and a great sense of homecoming as the people quickened their steps, eager to the reach their destination and begin a new life.
Written for The Mag Thanks to Tess for the prompt, and to George F. Mobley, from whose photo 'Finland 1968' I chose this detail to play with.
Terri Daktill was a bird
without much wing or feather.
But in his mind he was quite sure
he was the best bird ever.
He strutted across desert plains
defying wind and weather.
But now his bones are fossilised
until the twelfth of never.
For he fell into a weed strewn pond
which had a muddy bottom,
and over time this mud ensured
he'd never be forgotten.
Terri is secure at last
thanks to primordial slime;
an image from our ancient past
he's a relic fused in time.
Earlier in the week I watched a great BBC program about a world heritage site in Messel, Germany, which has produced a wealth of fantastic fossils. I am indebted to that for my inspiration, as well as Tess and her Mag picture by Balthus, from which I produced this image.
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
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.
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.
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...
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!
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.
'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 :-)
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.
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!"
