Casualty of War

Verdun, 1917 by Felix Vallotton

Her token
lavender and lace
disguised
a life lived
in quiet contemplation
of a secret admirer.

His bouquets
once used the language
of flowers
to declare,
by their bashful eloquence,
his love and admiration.

But the war
stole his life from him
and left her
with nothing
but memories, as fragile
and elusive as perfume...

Written for The Mag 143, with thanks to Tess.

Icon for 2012

Like a study for a stained glass window
she sits in passive stillness, watching him
take her photograph, this prying artist
who unthinkingly captures her spirit.

She lacks energy to protest. Instead,
she has withdrawn into a time and a place
where she can ignore his reality.

We are left to wonder what she might say
if her image could come to life and speak.

Once again, Thanks to Tess for her Mag 142, which sets our creative juices flowing.

Brolly Folly?

Who cares if it rains?
The warmth of a goodnight kiss
can feel like sunshine!



A Mag 141 prompt which might have been made for us Brits. Thanks, Tess for the inspiration.

Keep It Short

140 characters are all Grandma's Goulash asks for to encapsulate the picture she has chosen today, a good test of the grey cells. Of course, if you are feeling verbose, she will allow you to use 140 words instead.

Something fishy is going on around here! Guy's aren't conforming to the school uniform. They'll end up in hot water, if they aren't careful.

Remembering

He had done the painting of their new home soon after they married. It was to be her birthday gift; a gift that would acquire more importance as their time together stretched into the future, strengthening bonds.
She adored it, hung it in pride of place over the mantel. A day never passed without her smiling as she glanced towards the familiar image and remembered...

Now, she remembers when he was alive, and as shadows dim sunlight, so her face loses all brightness as the first tear falls.

For Mag 139, thanks to Tess and Curtis Wilson Cost who painted the original image.

I jest, I jest!

I start to think of  fifty five

and  know I’m glad to be alive

this Friday evening, for it’s time

to pen G-Man a little rhyme.

He writes ‘em quirky, fun or rude –

so  I guess he must be some cool dude

who never lets his knickers twist –

Could that be ‘cause he’s somewhat p****d?

In view of your illustration this week, G-Man, I hope you'll forgive my flight of fancy, and not take it to heart? LOL.  If you've written a Flash Fiction, do let Mr Knowitall know.

Sans Everthing

For this week's Mag 137, Tess gave us a picture by Francesca Woodman. For some strange reason the shadowed face brought to mind a quote from William Shakespeare's As You Like It - to wit "sans hair, sans teeth, sans taste, sans everything"- and by the time I'd 'played' with the image, these words became even more relevant.

With apologies to Tess, Francesca and William, here is my take on the theme.

Mere shadows of our former selves, we cry,
pleading for more attention. Will we die
unshriven, shrivelled up and forgotten?
As weary flesh and bones crumble, rotten,
past repair, will they remember times when
we would feast on love, feast on it again,
until replete? Who could be berated
for wishing time would halt? We are fated
to be at its mercy, no turning back
to seek love's sustenance which we now lack.

Sauce For The Goose

What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander...
The twirl in Salle's picture made me start to wonder.
I twirled it yet more, then cropped to reveal
a negative whirlpool which had more appeal,
at least, to my eyes...And now it is changed
I find it more pleasing with things rearranged.
I prefer these cool blues, with their watery theme,
to his brick red assemblage on which I'm less keen.
But one lesson I've learned, as I've slowly grown older,
that beauty resides in the eye of Beholder!

Another offering for Mag 136, inspired by Tess and David Salle.

The Buccaneer

He'd sailed all seven seas, but never found
one who could run his wave-locked keel aground
on the shores of passion.  Until they'd met
and touched lips. Their breath and heart beats mingled,
and she was singled out to be his love, 
to dance throughout eternal swathes of Time.

Undercurrents of blue ocean swells
formed the bed on which fair Venus lay
to entertain her valiant pirate lover...

With thanks to Tess, whose Salvador Dali illustration on the Mag 135 inspired this blogpost..

Dance Through Time

And spheres within spheres
circle time
whose grains seep through history,
with the wisdom of fools
building volumes of posterity's future.
The blank pages
and spaces between words
allow alternative realities to creep in;
a dreamworld
hovers beyond awareness,
waiting for a turn of the glass,
waiting for a new beginning
which is only an action replay of the past.


Written for IGWRT's Sunday Challenge, with thanks to Margaret for her picture.

Sound Waves

Melodies
fill my heart with joy.
Their rhythms
resonate
to plucked strings of memories
I hold in my mind,
and I feel
sound waves wrap me round
as I drift
with the tide
which carries me on currents
of swirling music.


Inspired by Tess and Fernand Leger
on the Mag 134.

Rhythm, not blues...

Thoughts took wing,
soared with the primal
music's beat.
In their minds
the dancers travelled
through the night;
wonderland
lay before their eyes
in bright dreams.



Inspired by Tess and her Mag 133

Comparison

The artist featured by Tess on her Mag 131 had a name unusual enough to make me want to know more, and what I found HERE set me thinking - a fatal occupation for any Sunday afternoon!
But eventually, the thoughts condensed into this set of shadormas, a form which, for me, allows thoughts to crystallize before my very eyes.

From two paintings by Adolphe Valette

A figure
stands in the foreground -
but without
any means
of identifying him,
he's an enigma.

Self portrait
by the same artist,
unfinished
and muted,
shows intense concentration,
but hides the real man.

Together,
two paintings capture
a story
still untold,
which our eyes will come to read
in their own fashion.

Superimposed Story

   Part the First

Fluted shell
contains the true spark
of all life.

Safe haven
of encircling arm
guards its fate.


   Part the Second

In shadow,
the fledgling awaits
time to fly

Beat of wings
will echo heartbeats
of success.

A surreal image by Francesca Woodman, which Tess chose for he Mag 130 this week, set me on a similar path. My thanks go to both of them for the inspiration I found in this detail.
But I was also tempted by the following version of the original image...I may write something for it later in the week, who knows?

And now I have - here are a scant 55 words, worthy of G-man...

 Heavy matter drawn into the whirl of lavender light, we have to move into the vortex. Strapped to a Spaceboard designed to sustain life, there is no time to wonder ‘What Next?’ This mission to explore the outer limits of our universe is leading us further than we dared hope, but where will it end?

Dinner At Eight ?

Detail from a painting by John Singer Sargent

A goblet
graces the table;
fresh flowers
add perfume
sweeter than the fragrant wine
which will fill its curves.

Waiting guests'
nostrils, each piqued by
aromas
from the food
soon to be set before them,
quiver and widen.

The key is
anticipation.
It will turn
this evening's
whole dining experience
into something grand.

It may be
stored in memory.
For lean times,
should they come,
will make this night of plenty
something to savour.

Written for Mag #129  and posted on Monday at IGWRT, too...

Confused? What, Me?

 After a frustrating morning when email problems caused hassles I would rather forget, I happened to see that Theme Thursday had the word 'Confusion' for this week, to set everybody thinking - me, included. But that was fatal, for as you will see, my thoughts were what became confused, and this was the result. Be thankful if yours never treat you in the same fashion... 

Bats in the belfry, perhaps... 

If down was up and up was down,
how would we all get around?
Would we tiptoe on our ears,
use our feet to change the gears
of daily living?

Hands would be like stabilizers,
soles would be the supervisors
over paths that lay ahead
of our upside-downside heads.
Luscious locks would sweep the floor,
but baldies crowns might cry "No more!
I cannot stand this rough terrain!
Put me right side up again!"

You see, my thoughts are in confusion
when lunacy makes an intrusion
to my any-which-way head.
I think I should have stayed in bed -
for horizontal gives the lie
to up or down.

Now, I must fly...

Goodbye!

And to cause more of the same, Mrsupole's  linky list will not appear until later this week - but here I am now. How far will the confusion spread in the interim?
And  today, Friday, I've just re-discovered a poem I wrote two years ago on this same subject, so thought I'd add it here as a late edition extra.


Confused? Let me help you!

It doesn't take much to make confusion reign,
for my brain has a habit of leaping
much faster to an end result
than the brain of the one who is speaking.

Now, sometimes that's me- more often another-
as an answer does tend to evolve
in less than a twinkling, as often as not,
to any old question we're trying to solve.

Then I see by the mystified look on their face
that my pal's in the dark, not the dawn,
whilst I have already completed the race
and am standing about with a yawn

till they reach a conclusion that's similar to mine,
though I've already got there in half of the time!

Time To Count 140

Here are one hundred and forty telling characters for Grandma's Goulash:-

Today, this picture made me ponder, people. I know the road to hell is paved with good intentions; I'd say the stairway to heaven is longer.

A Grand Entrance

Mr Bond beside the Queen
in a copter?  What a scene!
British humour at its best
is always better than the rest,
never mind ‘who gets what’ gold,
when a story need be told
our G.B. is right in line
to tell a cracker, every time-
cinema, literature, theatre too-
We’re a very arty crew.

A 55 for G-Man - late, but worth it!

In Philosophical Mood...

Energy,
seeking direction,
falls to earth
from heaven.
Will mankind harness power
for the good of all?

Thanks to Tess and her Mag 127 image by Franz Kline. I've also shared this with The Poetry Pantry.

Noonday

Summer heat
swirls round field and hill;
contours burn.

Siesta
holds an arid land
in stasis.

Words and picture inspired by Tess and Thomas Hart Benton at Mag 125

The Diva

The heart of the Diva with the ruby earring

would sing

long after she had left

the stage. Her audience, feeling bereft,

demanded  an encore,

but "Less is more"

was her motto; though I must mention

how much their attention

had pleased her,

filled her

secret self with  joy.

A table at the Savoy

had been booked by the young man who'd sent

the present,

with a note inviting her to dine

after the show. "Divine!"

was the word which escaped her lips.

Nothing could eclipse

her delight  as she entered his carriage,

one thought in her mind - marriage!

This may be where you all begin to sing"Do not trust him, gently maiden!" But we will assume all is well, and simply say 'Thank you' to Tess and Odilion Redon at Mag 124, where you can see how others interpreted the prompt. 
Also posted to Poetry Pantry 105

Ice Man?

An avalanche shroud;
protruding from frozen ground,
frost blackened fingers.

Mag 123 gave us a black and white image full of menace...Thanks, Tess!
This is my interpretation...

The Joke's On Me

This is my version
of an imaginary person.
I will call her Jinx.
The name stinks,
for it reeks of pranks -
the kind folks murmur "No thanks!"
to; folks on whom tricks,
like a ton of bricks,
fall flat.
Splat!
Ones who missed out on the gene
for humour. Know what I mean?
Jinx, on the other hand,
can understand
how a quick quip
can nip
into a conversation
like a well placed decoration,
cause a smile or a giggle
without causing a wriggle
of unease.
She likes to please,
make the world a better place
by bringing a smile to its face!

Fireblossom, at IGWRT asked for a newly written poem about someone who inspires us. Hehehe! So here you are... sort of...

Swansong?

If life were a film, our mistakes
could be out-takes.
Bloopers?  Cut!
What a mutt!
Did I fall into the trap
of meeting the wrong chap
in my teens,
saying goodby to dreams?
But times change.
We re-arrange
expectations and realise,
to our surprise,
life lead to 'now'!
Wow!
Beyond Mother Hen days, life starts again.
The feathered nest with no rest
transmutes to a time when 'us' and 'we'
shrinks to 'me', and I may at last fly...

Finally written today in response to Poetry Jam,  but with IGWRT in mind, all along!

No Message In A Bottle!

 

For all my Blogpals, everywhere, a little thought that was inspired by Tess and her prompt picture by Jean François de Le Motte, at Mag 121.

I've nailed my colours to the mast; 
so this note will reach you fast.
It sails across the sea to say 
"I hope you have a happy day!"

The Green Man

In realms of myth and fantasy the Green Man has survived.
From far away as pagan times I think he's lived and thrived
within the minds of country folk, through good times, or through bad,
and this kind of longevity is anything but sad.
Fruitful gifts of mother earth have morphed into a man
in this, my painted image - ignore him if you can!

Thanks to Tess at Mag 120 and Klaus Enrique Gerdes, whose image below sparked all of the above!

Light V. Dark

A blind, half pulled down, curtains, 
half drawn, maintain privacy
but let outsiders see the light
which, by night, stems lunacy.

For darkness encourages
many stages of madness;
wild imaginings which seem
to tinge dreams with their sadness

as daylight fades from the sky
and we humans shy away
from phantoms and other shades
which we may ignore by day.

Detail from a painting by Edward Hopper, which featured in Mag 119 thanks to Tess. I've tried to follow a rhyme scheme used in Welsh poetry, which was first brought to my notice on Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.

Allez-oop!

Their nerves have been conquered, the battle is won;
two barefoot artistes are finally done.
Now, these high-wire acrobats bow to the crowd
who clap and applaud them. The music sings loud
from brassy gold instruments glinting in lights
of the circus Big Tent, this Saturday night.

Children and parents on ranged tiers of seats
anticipate multiple breathtaking feats
thanks to animal trainers, to jugglers, to clowns,
to spangle-clothed ladies who jump up, then down
from galloping horses which race round and round
while the ringmaster's whip cracks its pistol shot sound.

The colour and movement both serve to enhance
the skill of performers who thrill and entrance
every new audience, day after day,
till it's time for the circus to be on its way.
Then the tents and the caravans all disappear -
and folks are heard shouting "Come back next year!"



Words and picture inspired by Mag #118, thanks to Tess and Marc Chagall.

Fire! Fire!

In 1079, William the Conqueror designated the New Forest, in Hampshire, as a royal forest and hunting ground., and you can read more about its history if you click HERE.

I found many photos on the web, including this free one... But idyllic as it seems, there is a darker side to this well known beauty spot, where life sometimes hangs in the balance, and this is what prompted me to write a series of shadormas for Poetry Jam today.

For any who have yet to encounter one of these, let me explain. It is a six line, unrhymed 'verse'  whose syllable count follows this pattern: 3/5/3/3/7/5.

And the second photo tells its own story...

Ponies graze;
the forest is theirs
and freedom
to wander
has been an unquestioned right
for centuries past.

Dry summer
is an enemy;
potential
to kill lurks
among fronds of dead bracken's 
natural tinder.

Unwary,
unthinking humans
cause chaos,
their litter
ready to spark disaster,
and let loose fire...

It's A Hard Life

Like steam
from the soup bowl,
their anticipation
had risen at the approach of
meal time.

But they
were left hungry;
one bowl between many
only served to tantalise them
further.

Empty
days and stomachs
were all they could expect
poverty and deprivation
to bring.

Words and picture inspired  by Mag #117, with its image of an original  painting by Paul Gaugin.

Blind Spot

I have a blind spot.
It's not
the usual kind
that you might find
anywhere..
But there,
where my seeing fails,
wind taken from my sails,
I've lost sight of love.
Has push come to shove?
Has the cost
of loving lost
allure?
I'm not sure...
But still I must
trust
love exists.
It would be missed
by more than I,
if it should die.. 

Poetry Jam asked us to consider the word  'blind' - and this is my interpretation.

At The Going Down Of The Sun

Molten gold
burnishes tree tops,
old day dies.


Inspired by Mag #116, where Tess chose an original image by 
R. A. D. Stainforth.

And this morning, Wednesday, I've written and created a different offering for this prompt, over on In Tandem.

Bottled Up

I'm the Cookie Monster.
I lived inside a jar,
till someone took the lid off -
and well, now, there you are!
Or rather,  that's where I am -
all free and on the loose.
But freedom, I've discovered,
is not a lot of use
when you haven't got a body,
let alone a pair of feet,
and now the jar is empty,
I've nothing left to eat!

Original image by Manu Pombrol used by Tess for Mag #115

The Question Is...

Today,
will the sun shine?
Will rain showers prevail,
or will capricious weather gods
send hail?

The sky 
remains unsure,
with blue and grey patches
fighting for supremacy,
today.

April
enjoys playing
with these variations,
becoming a true turncoat,
taunting!

And it's a good time for me to play with the Cinquain form...

'Dung' Bust It?

My long time Blogpal and verbal fencing partner, Doctor FTSE, has seen fit to write 55 words about **the pros and cons of horses as house pets ! Yes folks!  But remember, his blog name  'Stop!...This is getting very SILLY' does give you fair warning... And Jinksy, or even Jinksie, can rise to that Footsie humorous challenge, like so...

Thanks to indecipherable photographer!

In the question of horses for courses
dear Doc Footsie has plenty to learn.
His idea for changing a light bulb
is one I would certainly spurn.
I ask you, a horse in the house? Man!
Imagine the mess that might cause?
For dirty great dollops of horse dung
are most certainly best left outdoors.

And thanks to G-Man for whom I have penned a Friday ditty in 55 words.

** Click on these words to read all about it.

Late Night Extra : Or now, click on these, to see how Caddoc Trellis has horned in on the act!

Labour Of Love

For this week's Mag #113 prompt Tess gave us a picture by  Marc Chagall, called 'Red Roofs'.
I have taken a detail and adapted it to fit my tale, told in four shadormas - syllabic verses which follow a pattern of 3/5/3/3/7/5, in six lines.

Weary man
wipes perspiration
on his sleeve.
Fixing tiles
is not an occupation
which he can enjoy.

Heat reflects
upwards from the roof.
Summer sun
on his back
burns through the material
of a cotton shirt.

Only fear
of coming winter's
wind and rain
motivates
him to continue labour
with no thought of rest.

But when storms
rage round his homestead,
he'll rejoice
and recall
this day's work with gratitude,
all pain forgotten.

A Collective 2012

For an explanation of the following lines, and why they have been written, you will need to visit Imaginary Garden With Real Toads 

Some claim April rain
brings the blossoms of May,                           Grace O'Malley
but trees here are hasty           

like youth, ardor unrestrained       
eager for spring's first sweet kiss                    Art Happens 365

Sakura blossoms                          
In the arms of old man tree                             Skylover
Drops of moonlit milk

showgirls will perform a dance           
inspired by Moon light’s embrace                  Ella

her graceful waves in                         
a risqué spring ballet, legs                             Laurie Kolp
kick the darkened sky,

stars wink at rainbow feathers            
that tease with each fluttering.                       Susie Clevenger

My full heart flutters,                         
I become dancer and dance                           Other Mary
under April’s moon

and a blossoming cherry
in the sweet, full warmth of May.                 Kay, Alberta, Canada        

And we, resting far                                  
north where snow still flies and melts          Sunflower Shan
await midnight sun.

Polar day will not circle         
on cosmic calliope.                                          Jinksy

Pegasus gallops
to the music of the spheres,                             Caddoc Trellis
while star clusters spin.

The earth spins on its axis,                            
hums its music in B flat.                                  Margo Roby 

Spring pirouettes ice
spun sugar and crystal shards                        Misky
across the cosmos

silver vessel half moon
empties dawn into morning                          Jules

The night bids farewell.
Leaving a trail of stardust                              The Happy Amateur
it flies on its way.

Restored to herself, the earth                        (ditto)
Resumes her orderly spin
  

( Saturday, 8 a.m.. I've been updating to include later entries so far, but it's become too confusing to keep up! The best place to see them will be HERE)

And now, in May , the finished renga may be enjoyed in full, HERE, thanks to the organisational skills of Grace , over at IGWRT.

A New Day

The hatchling
danced in the dawn light.
Prying eyes
of the world
could not see her boundless joy
in new found freedom.



Inspired by Tess at Mag #112 and  her original image by djajakarta

Strictly For The Birds

First came the nest.
Then all the rest,
in season.
No further reason
needed for a pair
of birds, except where...
and how many eggs to lay.
One day,
a Mummy duck laid one.
"Way-hey! here I come!"
her duckling peeped
as the water seeped
around him.
"It's grim. I must swim!"
I'm not like that man.
He can
take off his shoes
and choose
to stay nest-bound,
on the ground.
I shall head for the high seas
if it please
me. My brain's not addled."
And off he paddled...

This is the Mag #111 picture by ParkeHarrison, which sent me dashing for my computer wizardry. This happened to give me the gift of duck 'shape', eventually. It set me versifying. April Fool's Day seemed an opportune date for such an offering....

Celebrity Dreams

Tess chose for this week's Mag #110 an image by Duane Michals, and here is my interpretation of a detail from it, together with a shadorma - a poetry form which has six lines of  3/5/3/3/7/5 syllables.

A rock star
shines until burnout
overtakes
the glitter
of footlights; skies cloud over
with disappointment.

 I thought I'd let you see the intermediate stage of the image from which I chose the detail I finally used...

See The Connection?

The one between life and laughter, I mean - though cooking and recipes connect well, too! Poetry Jam is responsible for this mixture.

Cooking is a gentle art –
until one day it falls apart
and best laid plans of recipes
come unstuck, for all to see!
A cake that’s soggy in the middle
will maybe give the cook a giggle,
when he sees the state it’s in,
before he lobs it in the bin!

But one ingredient never mentioned,
even by the well intentioned,
is a special sense of humour.
It’s a fact, not just a rumour,
that laughing at the trials of life
will add a very special spice
to every dish,  both sweet and savoury
and it won’t add a single calorie!

A Happy 55

The saying goes
‘Laugh and grow fat’. 
This jolly fellow
has done just that.
But his belly won’t wobble,
his laugh won’t be heard
He’s a sound proofed  Buddha!
How absurd!
He’ll never utter a single word
for he's made of wood –
though he does look good
with his big grin –
wish I were him!

Go see the G-Man for more 55's.

Save The Muffin Man

Four and twenty blackbirds
got baked inside a pie...
but I'm inside this muffin.
Can you hear me cry?
The steam is rising from the top
and I am nothing if not hot
and wondering just how I got
into the mix.
I'm in a fix.
Help!

Posted for The Mag 108

Surprise

For today's Mag 107, Tess used an image created by Sarolta Bán.  However,  I couldn't resist adding a Jinksy twist to better suit the two limericks I wrote...Apologies all round!

Here's the first:-

There was a young film buff from Towcester**
who fell for the girl on the poster.
"I'm her number one fan.
If I were leading man,
I'd choose her at once for my co-star!"

And here's the second:-

A photographer chap from Kildare
filmed a model who tended to stare,
and her face on his wall
made him feel oh, so small
as her silent eyes shouted "Beware!"

**For my American Blogpals, here's a guide link to pronunciation of this place name!

Where Lies Inspiration?

Start with an image. Choose a portion to zoom and crop, then stop. Contemplate and rotate.

Was this a mistake, or does the image now seem fake? Shelves become partitions in this position. Lines of rolling tins become rolling stock on a conveyor belt of rail or road designed to withstand a heavy load...
It leads the mind in a new direction until it arrives at an interconnection of ideas.
After years of visual surprises, eyes have learned unusual ways of interpreting every day sights. Never mind what the subject might have been at the outset. Once imagination is let loose,  there's no use curbing thought. It does what it aught, and gives us the gift of a poem...

 And this is my gift of a shadorma, for the Mag this week. With thanks to Tess - and Andy Warhol!

Change colour,
create graphic bulge.
A blurred, traffic filled highway
emerges,
its flowing
river-rush of vehicles
morphed from those red tins.