Every morning, regular as clockwork.
He marches past my sash window.
Determination in every step.
Full head of grey hair, eyes fixed four paces in front.
Every morning, whatever the weather.
Today it just sits there,
waiting for the conductor to wave her baton,
drumming up wind, sun, rain
or whatever else is written
on the meteorological score.
For now the iron black branches
just beyond St Andrews house are still.
And here he is. Marching back again.
The Guardian tucked hard under his right arm.
The same paper each day.
The same navy blue jumper.
Regular as clockwork.
I watch him.
Every morning, regular as clockwork.
Tonight at dVerse we are looking at love poetry without using ‘that’ word! Sometimes love needs no words at all ~ just being together is enough.
Snow suffocates the shuffling of nature.
No longer can wind worry at autumn’s leafy remnants.
All loose ends are tied up,
neatly buried in a new world that’s stealthed
in under cover of darkness.
In this wire taut quiet
my hearing is keening at the silence.
Just your steady breathing
breaching my ears.
Tonight we are gathering at dVerse pub for poets and having fun writing poems. Here is one written after the recent birth of my first grandchild
Gulls bent like bars
fight into the storm-wind.
Its music is harsh;
thrashing through the birch trees,
whip-cracking across roof tops.
Even the Exe struggles to make progress,
white-capping towards the weir.
Iron hard rain beats down Angel Hill.
There’s not many out in this.
Just a few hurriedly slanting up the street.
Rolling in day after day from the Atlantic.
There are big things going on.
The weakened Polar Vortex.
The misplaced Jet Stream.
Its even freezing in Hawaii.
But all this does not bother Harrison.
He just needs to eat and sleep.
His point of focus.
What’s going on out there
is of no consequence to him just now.
At http://poetryjaam.blogspot.co.uk/ we are prompted to write about lightning ~ let’s go surfing in the sky!
Here they come.
Just beginning to seep in at the edges.
Spoilers of a cerulean canvas that has lain bare
Clouds staining autumn’s sky,
ink flooding in from one corner.
Not flaky snowy puff balls,
but vanguards of a blue-grey
Unruly. Cresting the ridge.
It’s time to go. At last.
Being grounded for so long has made me edgy.
a twisting flick of the ankles and I’m up.
Catching those leading smoky tendrils
creeping into the valley.
Now I flow above the river,
matching its twists and turns
Then cutting back into the storm heart
I pick out a thunderhead.
Ride this boiling wildling.
It roars at the retreating sun.
That’s the signal.
A symphony of anger unleashed.
Booming and pounding roils through the sky.
The perfect moment is coming.
Static crackles around me.
Flickering. Power surging.
And there it is. In a flash
I ride a bright sabre as it jags clear
to connect storm and earth.
It’s Kellie Elmore’s Free Write Friday http://kellieelmore.com/2013/10/18/fwf-free-write-friday-image-prompt-with-guest-host-mark-schutter/ and todays prompt is this photo of an October Hunter’s Moon (also known as a Blood moon), taken in Paris.
Eclipsing stars and the dust of galaxies,
this blood-soaked globe hangs there,
a Cyclops with its black-veined edges.
It pierces the raven night, pinning
down summer’s last throw of the dice.
Daring woodlands to drift through madrugada
and into a new day without surrendering
to autumnal pressure. Under this intense
bloody glare the courage of trees fail,
they bleed chlorophyll into the ground
and as the sun rises their leaves
reflect back that pale yellow stare.
This poem is so far out on the edge, it’s practically gone over it! Tonight at dVerse we’re tackling the Beat Generation. That culture of the late Fifties revolved around rejection of received standards, experimentation in drugs and alternative sexuality and rejection of materialism among other things. It was a powerful force for liberalisation that spawned non-conformity and spontaneous creativity among writers, poets and artists. Go and check us out to see what we’re up to!
Up there, beyond this detritus embracing us, stars wink on.
Planets, moons, suns feel the gravitational suck of each other and
this universal whirr and click is shot through with a nebula that blooms
like flooding paint in your eyes. A thousand dyes of reds and yellows
punctured by meteors that rocket through your vision completely blinding you.
Just this solar kaleidoscope filling your brain as you fold up the pain,
and lock it away. So while you drift in your own personal space,
bankers in counting houses,
the regiments of hawks,
those greeders and feeders,
I put both hands to my temple
and through finger tips feel the rhythmic
beat of the heart in my head. It’s the
pulse of all thoughts searching for words.
Those shapers of style,
the sowers of fear (this will give you cancer, that will shorten your life),
the sowers of hope (buy this and you’ll look that thin, do this and you’ll live forever),
all those who try to control
get swallowed up into that black hole created by the force
of your indifference. Later back in the coffee shop at our favourite table
we sit once again and waste everyone else’s day watching their worlds go by.