Refuge

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

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.

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.