At dverse tonight Mish wants us to find a special memento and write a poem
At point of detonation
the dandelion clock is
bubble locked.
A frozen moment.
A break for freedom eternalised.
You gave me
this snow storm of seeds,
a snapshot of an explosion
that became us.
Today it’s Quadrille time again at dverse. Hosted by De we have to write a 44-word poem that includes the word giggle.
Panic struck, a pigeon
shotguns out of trees
leaving a giggle of feathers
spiralling in air.
Following its trajectory
an echoing bang
chases across fields.
Fades through woods.
The bird touches down again,
eyes wild,
heart drumming
in the engine room of its fear.
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.
This is the weather map of the approaching
storm which hit the UK today
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.
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.
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.
‘Franzi with a carved chair’ by Ernst Kirchner
welshstream 