Weather Bomb

Posted: February 23, 2017 in nature poems

Tonight at http://dversepoets.com/this-is-us/  is free write .. no prompt. So here’s one about Storm Doris that visited our shores today. ‘Weather Bomb’ seems to be a phrase conjured up by the weather office to make it sound more exciting! 

It goes off before dawn
exploding through woods.
Trees are in a frenzy,
some ripped up in the blast
leaving craters of shattered roots.
Hills heave and pitch
as if rocks were trying
to break free and scatter-shot
through the landscape.
And the river.
It is full of fear,
tearing at itself.
Tries to turn back,
is shredded in the shockwave.
Turns again and races
for its only escape route.

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This is the weather map of the approaching
storm which hit the UK today

Old Town Loses Its Song

Posted: February 21, 2017 in default

Tonight at http://dversepoets.com/this-is-us/     Oloriel is hosting and wants us to write suburban poetry. Of course the suburbs can spawn so many different emotions all over the world!

At Rackenford Meadows
it’s the town’s last stand.
Country tracks are diverted
and the rest of the land
is sinking under a weight
of concrete and bricks.
A pox on the landscape,
a fox moving out
as monotonous houses
thrust through the earth.
Fields ripped up,
lawns to be laid down,
spine road to split.
An avenue here,
a close over there
a drive sweeping round
all garishly lit
and fences
and fences
and fences
and fences
hemming in the dilemmas
of homes, a hundred
small islands living alone.
Battles were lost up Canal
Hill, along Bolham Road
and now the old town
is trapped in suburbia.
Only the river escapes
drumming over the weir
taking with it the song
of a town that lived here.

suburbia_2_60271

Ellis Island

Posted: February 20, 2017 in history and art, thought stream

Margaret at Toads, has us writing about Ellis Island accompanied by some powerful text and photos from which she has asked us to draw on to create a poem – see http://withrealtoads.

Their eyes feed on hope.
Not dulled by what is left behind.

Uprooted. Tossed in the air.
Chaff snatched.
Planted in harshness
that is Ellis Island.
A seed tray but beyond it the place
where eyes are fixed.

They wait.
To be pricked out, repotted.
This multi-culture massing
of a New World.
A Babel-tower crush.
That will grow.
That will not forget its roots.
That will not shut its doors.

img_0951

An Algerian, one of 26m immigrants who arrived at Ellis Island
in America between 1880 and 1924 –
a photo from the island museum’s archives.

Tonight at http://dversepoets.com/this-is-us/     Bjorn is hosting and has us looking at Expressionist art … which has been fun checking out. We’re to pick a painting, write a poem. Here it is

 

Somewhere a rope has snapped.
Control frays
                then
                                breaks
                                                down.
Inside
her screaming separates
from its moorings.
Rage of fear and pain
is not contained.
That propped up ego
is carved to stillness,
watches from behind.
The electric thrill.
She waits
for reaction
from those
who meet her inner being.

See her face, a fading sun
as it sets in final fury,

flaring up
in eyes
on lips.

See her tears fan out
across her chest
running for cover.

See her nature swamped
in its violence.
Undisguised.
No longer a walking lie.

ernst-ludwig-kirchner-franzi-with-a-carved-chair1

‘Franzi with a carved chair’ by Ernst Kirchner

Operating Theatre

Posted: February 14, 2017 in thought stream

Tonight at http://dversepoets.com/this-is-us/    Lillian is hosting and wants us to write poetry about hearts ~ February 14 ~ see what she did there?!

He lays out instruments puts on mask
and goggles. Looks at the patient then
reaches for pitching tool and mallet.
First blow jars his elbow, he braces
and strikes again. Soon there’s a rhythm.

Using masons stroke the sculptor
chips away sweeping across the surface,
shattering resistance. Dust blooms
in the air, seed heads of hope.
Earthquake rubble strewn at his feet.

Now he needs to cut deep. With fishtail
chisel he carves valleys, casting shadows
in shadows. He puts ear to rock,
stethoscopes for sounds. Silence.
He starts again chiselling to the core.

Finally there it is.
Tiny.
Still.
His father’s heart.
He touches gently,
it kick starts.
A faint pulse.
A beating stone.

The Name of the Wind

Posted: February 13, 2017 in nature poems

Tonight at http://dversepoets.com/this-is-us/    Kim is in charge of the Quadrille ~ we are tasked with writing a 44 word poem that includes the word ‘ghost’. A word that shouts ‘cliche’ so avoiding that trap is the REAL challenge! So here’s something a little experimental.

is – Seen in Trees
is – Endless Traveller
is – From Any Direction
is – Unspoken
is – Vehicle for Clouds
is – Bringer of Rain
is – Shape-shifter
is – Disturber of Seas
is – Ghost of Sighs
is – Rustler of Leaves
is – Mover of Shadows
is – Knife for the Cold 

wind-21